Sunita conducts an experiment. She exchanges clothing with a poor Gypsy girl and sets out to witness discrimination against her people firsthand.

Chapter Eighteen - To Be a Gypsy

I reentered the festival and stepped up to the first booth where shoes lay spread over two tables. The woman vendor noticed me staring at them. The ends of her lips turned down and her eyes filled with suspicion. I didn't try to beg, but decided instead to stand there and let anyone think whatever they wanted about me.

     The woman's face stretched until her eyes appeared as narrow slits. She refused to look away-and so did I. I to tell her through my eyes that I was in poverty, but the more I showed her the Gypsies' plight, the angrier she grew.

     "A pleca," [Ah plek-AH] she snapped, telling me to go away. She pointed to a place along the main street away from everything for sale.

     I couldn't believe what had happened. I did nothing to her yet she ordered me to "go away"-and only because my dress appeared tattered and torn and dirt stained my blouse, skin, and hair. I've seen several Gypsies dart their eyes away and walk off, but I couldn't do that. It must have been the American in me. Having Gypsy blood helped me pass myself off as one, but deep inside the American hatred of discrimination was strong. With this vendor, I met her glare for glare.

     She pointed away from the festival, grabbed a shoe off the table, and drew it back like she meant to throw it. Anger warmed my face. I spit on the ground and stormed off toward the festival.

     Real Gypsies didn't anger so fast. I supposed over the thousand years since leaving northern India they'd gotten used to being the target of discrimination. Not knowing for sure, I only knew I could never get used to it.

     I stopped at a booth after passing several others. Clothing hung from large boards as well as lay spread over the tables. I watched a thirteen-year-old Romanian girl lift the hem of a black and brown Gypsy skirt.

     "Cît?" [keht] the girl asked saying 'How much'.

     The vendor woman gave her a price of 400,000 lei, and the girl walked off.

     A non-Romanian man stepped up and stared at the same skirt. "I'd like to get that for my wife," he said in American English. "How much is it?"

     "Un milion lei," [Oon mee-lee-YOHN lay] the woman said.

     "One million, huh?" the man said, pulling out his wallet and handing over a one million old lei banknote. "I guess thirty dollars isn't bad."

     What cheaters, I thought. And the Romanians accused us of being thieves. "Us." I used "us" as though I was a Gypsy. At last, something important sank in my brain.

     The man walked off with his skirt as happy as could be. I stepped up to another skirt and ran a hand down its length.

     "A pleca," the vendor said, lunging toward me. I stared in her eyes and reached for the skirt again. She snatched it away.

     "Cît?" I asked.

     She said something I didn't understand in a rude voice, and I guessed it to mean the skirt wasn't for sale. My anger nearly exploded, and I stormed away so I wouldn't say something harsh in English.

     I know tată taught me to respect adults, but this woman discriminated against me. It made me think of my school studies of the 1950's and 1960's civil rights movement when black people couldn't eat in "white" restaurants, or were forced to drink from "colored" water fountains and had to sit in the back of city buses. Now, I can see why they rebelled. I just experienced the same ugly discrimination. No one likes to be treated less than human. No one!

     Then I wondered what would have happened had I presented the vendor with money to buy the skirt. I decided to try the idea on another vendor. I walked the length of the remaining booths and collected so many glares along the way I lost count.

     Then a better dressed woman stepped in my way and forced me to stop. She held out a banknote, and I saw the number ten-ten new lei or 100,000 old lei-about $3.00 in American money.

     "Here you are, you poor Gypsy girl. You must be famished. Go buy some food."

     I waved it away. "Never give a Gypsy money," I said in English. "Buy them food because if you give them money, they may be under instructions from a grownup to beg for it so the grown-up can use it to buy alcohol."

     The woman jerked her head back and wrinkled her brow. "You working undercover?" I walked away and heard her say, "Thanks for the tip."

     I wandered around the end of the aisle to a fast-food stand and watched the man at the grill plop fat greasy sausages on it. Only two people waited in the order line. I stepped up behind the man at the end. He turned around, scowled at me, and hurried away. I eased up behind a lady waiting for her order to be delivered.

     Someone got in line behind me. I stretched my neck around to discover a huge man. He glared down at me, but he didn't walk away. I turned around again to see the lady walk away with her order.

     The man taking the orders glanced at me and then up at the huge man behind me. The man barked his order and the order taker stepped over and told the grill man something. The grill man slapped four new sausages on it.

     I raised my hand. "Vă rog, îmi puteţi da nişte carne de porc" [vah rohg, EHM-ee pu-TEH-tsee dah NEESH-teh KARN-uh deh pork], I asked, saying, 'Please, may I have some pork?' (meaning sausage).

     The man stared at me. "A pleca," he snapped.

     I folded my arms and spoke in a stronger voice. "Carne de porc, vă rog."

     The man pointed to his left and glared at me. A woman stepped up beside me and then slid in front. He smiled and asked her what she wanted. "Ce doriţi." [Cheh dor-EETS]

     Before she spoke, I reached into my money pouch and held up a one million old lei banknote. "Carne de porc, va rog."

     The man blinked several times while staring at the banknote. Then he grabbed it. "Cîţi?" [Kehts] he asked.

     I popped up three fingers. "Trei." [Tray]

     The grill man cooked the sausages, and the order man handed them to me. He asked what I wanted to drink.

     "Apă," I said. He reached under the counter and plopped a fresh bottle of spring water on it. The label read "Izvorul Alb", a brand name.

     He handed me change for my million, and I carried my food on a paper plate past several covered tables. Then I sat in the middle of the most crowded one and glanced around at the people eating.

     A lady with a small girl whisked her finger to her left. "A pleca," she said.

     "Nu," I replied, picking up a sausage with my fingers and dipping one end into a pool of mustard on the plate.

     The lady pointed again. "A pleca."

     "Nu," I repeated, and bit into my sausage. I plunked it down, and for effect, I wiped my fingers on my blouse.

     "Da, da," several people around me said at different times.

     A teenage boy sitting to my left shoved me. I jolted upright and glared at him. "Nu, nu," I snapped. I didn't need to pretend to be angry. I could feel the raging fire inside. Tată taught me never to talk back to adults. I may be a child who still needs to respect adults-but discrimination is a whole other thing.

     I jumped up, glared at several of them, and screamed. "Nu! Nu! Lăsă-ma în pace!" [LUH-suh mah ehn PAH-cheh], or "No! No! Leave me alone!"

     Several of them jumped up and marched off to other tables. A few stayed to glare at me. I ate the rest of my sausages, but I swallowed the wonderful taste with the bitterness of all the harsh stares.

     Tears swelled my eyes. At last I had experienced the Gypsy plight. I had tasted the flavor of discrimination, and it sickened me. I bet many of the Romanians leaving my table were shocked that I protested. If they only knew the truth about me-