American Micropolis: Monroe, NY

On the Saturday morning that I left Manhattan to travel to upstate New York, my head and body ached from the raucous night past, I stumbled into a small town off of the limited access Southern Tier Expressway Route 17. The name of the town: Monroe, NY, about an hour north of the George Washington Bridge. [And by the way, the cheapest gas I have seen in the last two months in NY, NJ, CT, VT, NH and MA is the first exit southbound over the bridge on 9W going to the Palisades Parkway.] It was a small town with the old brick and stone building façades along a typical main street. I was in the mood for a quick turnover back to the highway so BK was the restaurant I chose to pay for my noontime sustenance.

The Burger King was located on the strip mall route on the road that leads out of town. It was non-descript, no different than any other BK and the employees who I eyed walking in were interchangeable with any BK high school kids working in any fast food joint anywhere. I decided on the grilled chicken sandwich meal and a Value menu Whopper Junior after staring at the menu for a few moments waiting for the couple+1 to order. The two black men in their 30s were paired with a white woman. Both men wore service uniforms at what I guessed was a nearby facility. She seemed to be dating one of them. After ordering from a cashier that did not even look up when I was ordering I walked, receipt in hand, over to the pick-up area and now glanced with keener eyes upon the rest of the dining area. Near the soft drink serving line sat three swarthy latino workers dressed in drab t-shirts stained with grease and sweat, jeans and work boots. One of the three, sitting in a gunfighter’s posture, was intently watching others in the seating area under the cover of his furrowed hat brow, while the other two looked down biting their food quietly and meekly.

Following me into the restaurant was a latino man dressed in urban garb wearing a distinct partial-beard-type-of-facial-hair. His adorable son was running in and out of the line playing like a care-free child. A state of being that any adult with a sense of freedom would admire. “Quieres Chicken Tenders?” he asked his son. I was a little surprised that he was speaking Spanish to his son because his appearance convinced me he was Americanized. I sat down at the far part of the restaurant and the rest of the young man’s family; his wife and mother (in law?) were already sitting at the table adjacent to mine. When he and his son sat at the table, his son turned in his seat and stared at me enjoying my Grilled Chicken sandwich. I looked up and smiled back. He was unmoved. Finally, his grandmother noticed his unmoving gaze and scolded him. That stopped him for a few moments but he continued to stare a moment later. I don’t know if the young man just got promoted or won the lottery, but it seemed him and his family was genuinely content. When I got up to get more ketchup, I was tempted to ask the family (in Spanish) if the boy was being taught English along with Spanish, but decided not to interrupt and possibly ruin what appeared to be a peaceful family lunch.

When I was half-way finished, a young man with pregnant girlfriend (no ring) entered BK. The woman wore oversized faux designer glasses and the man had tattoos and showed them explicitly with a wife-beater. He was concerned about showing of his muscles and the partial-flexing did not go unnoticed as I perceived muffled giggles from the two black guys and girlfriend sitting across the restaurant peering at the man and woman. What a goon I thought to myself. Somehow in cities, losers like that go more unnoticed but in small towns, it is obvious people like that are trying to crave the attention.

When I was devouring off the last of the Whopper Junior and rescuing every last one of the fries hiding behind the wrappers on the tray (I was hungry) and dipping them in the barbecue sauce I got for my grilled chicken because I had run out of ketchup, a sleek silver Audi pulled up in the parking lot outside. A tall well-built black man got out of the driver’s seat and adjusted his straight brimmed baseball hat. It was a black man’s hat; the brow was unbent, the hat stood straight up and was worn at a distinct rakish angle. His turquoise shirt and jeans were stylish but not overstated and he strode towards the entrance with an aura of confidence. The tinted windows hid the presence of his family, which began to stir and follow him into the store. His wife was ordinary and I could not place her if seen today. However, his young son and teenage daughter were exceptional. The daughter did not enter the store, but instead walked towards a shady part of the parking lot with her small dog in hand. Even though she was probably in her late teens, she could have passed for a very beautiful young woman, but her attitude towards the rest of her family was quite adolescent. The son was an energetic kid, exploring the store with more direction than the latino man’s younger son. I was also shocked (from what I admit is ingrained stereotyping) to hear him answer his father’s question with no urban accent. It was truly a beautiful African-American family, just as the Latino-American family was also beautiful.

The union of different identities and cultures on an individual level made this stop at the BK more refreshing than the ice water I drank and more nourishing than the sandwiches I ate. It reaffirms that although we aren’t arm in arm singing “we are the world,” assimilation does occur and it occurs significantly in the most insignificant places. While the BK in Monroe, NY is no United Nations or Senate Chamber, it is one place where the melting pot begins in a time where the melting pot is needed more than ever.