Labels define food ingredients. Not people.
It was a breezy Tuesday night of going out, like many others. Pregame with . Waddle downtown in my 4-inch wedges from Target. Bars for dollar-you-call-its at The Summit. Marco’s Grilled Cheese as insurance for hangover prevention.
As I wait in this unfathomable line for my late night comfort food, I think back on my first time at Marco’s. It was freshman year. As I hiked up my (size too small) skin-tight, black leggings and pulled down my velvety floral crop top over my bloated stomach after a night of drinking, I’m blinded by the light bouncing off the tacky yellow awning of a food stand. Surrounded by a sea of drunken strangers, all stumbling and struggling to form a straight line in front of me.
Located in the center of what was formerly the City Plaza, now known as the Pedestrian Mall (or Ped Mall, to the locals) is the ever alluring mustard yellow and evergreen rusted Marco’s Grilled Cheese stand. Still on the rugged brick pavement it was established on Cinco de Mayo of 2000, the stand has served the majority of the estimated 74,398 Iowa City residents this infamous, greasy treat. While I have budgeted my evening by double-fisting one dollar well-drinks, this late night investment was worth the splurge. Their specialization expands much further than just two slices of cheese and bread from the local Bread Garden market lathered with a buttery glaze, however; This art expands to grilled ham and cheese, and if you’re feeling especially spontaneous, they offer loaded cheese quesadillas for just five dollars (and adding chicken to that is only 50 cents, what a steal!)
Marco’s isn’t the same vintage pub, or hipster restaurant with a strange abundance of Kale on the menu, like the majority of restaurants in Iowa City’s 25.28 square miles. Its prominence in the late night life of the Ped Mall allows strangers, friends, and even foes to enjoy in the same greasy art form.
As the line dwindled and the remaining girls in front of me fumbled through their designer purses, the weight of the quarters suddenly scatter across the uneven pavement. As the long-legged, blonde girls looked in every direction—except the direction in which the coins actually dispersed—I knelt down, muddled for the quarters, and quickly handed them the change.
Lacking any real acknowledgement or even a quick “thanks,” the tallest of the three women whispers to the others, “wait, she’s in Zeta.” At the time, I was not fazed by their comment. After all, they were right, I am in that sorority. With no further interaction, they walked away as their greasy, grilled delicacies soaked through the cheap wax paper and napkins.
I’m finally greeted warmly by the shaggy chef in a sweat stained grey Iowa Alum shirt who begins with, “Well hello darlin’! What can I make for ya? Anything you’d like!”
Panicked, I ordered a chicken quesadilla… from the grilled cheese stand… I felt an internal eye roll overcome my body. He laughed as he saw my frustration and asked if I wanted any sauce on it, free of charge. Drunk and bubbly, I said “Yes, a smiley face of hot sauce should do it!”
The seemingly cold man cracked a wide smile, revealing his coffee and tobacco stained teeth.
As a three and a half year Marco’s veteran, I’ve blown most of my 10.75/hr paychecks as a Photographer of Student life with no shame. So why then, looking back, would I spend roughly $5.50 at least once (or twice) a week on a classic chicken quesadilla with a smiley face of hot sauce? Why was this interaction with the grilled cheese stand man so significant?
As my time as a student at The University of Iowa progressed, I found myself moving past the Freshman year small talk conversation starters from “What dorm are you in” and “what major are you?” to “What sorority are you in?” This question immediately defined each person in terms of their sorority or organization, and no longer as an individual. Is this the label we give ourselves really what that matters? I was subconsciously reinforcing this surface level, label identification with my own personal introductions: Melissa Quaiyoom, 5’1”, Junior, Zeta – not, Melissa Quaiyoom, dog enthusiast, social butterfly, and Iowa Citian (at heart, not by birth.)
Iowan weather permitting, I strut around campus my “power letters” ZTA XL Berry Crunch oversized Comfort Colors pocket t-shirt, running shorts, and Birken-socks (Birkenstocks with calf-high fuzzy socks) to each class. I have blonde hair. I get fake acrylic tips on my nails bi-weekly. I am a proud owner of a Starbucks Gold Member card. I have photoshoots with my sorority sisters if the captivating sunset strikes the Old Capitol building, the symbolic heart of the university, just right – the types that pop up in the first scrolls of “sorority” in Google Images. Are these the things that make me a sorority woman? The things that define me?
On the other hand, I do not have a power letters t-shirt that reads “Pakistani descent.” I do not wear shalwar kameez, a traditional Indian style dress worn in different styles and colors which can be decorated with various types and designs of embroidery. I do not have the lush, black hair you see on the Pakistani women featured on Google Images. Do these make my blood any less Pakistani?
The simple reminder each time my last name appears in a Microsoft Word document that I must “add to dictionary,” as if Quaiyoom is even too foreign for the smartest technologic advancement to comprehend.
“How many vowels are in your last name? It’s too complicated, I just won’t bother.”
“How do you get so tan? You must be super foreign.”
“Wait, so is your grandpa like “red dot” Indian or like “7/11 owning” Indian?”
While I appreciate the effort and curiosity into piecing together which “type” of Indian I am, is it that foreign of a concept to ask about the culture itself? Or ask about my grandfather’s incredible life journeys that led him to eventually move to America, burn his birth certificate for the safety of his family in this new country, and start a successful international chemical company?
Discussing the development of one of the world’s leading suppliers of superior quality water soluble polymers and special chemical products may not be the bubbliest small talk conversation, but it is far more romantic than the blanket “Indian immigrant” label most give to my grandfather.
The Marco’s worker was much more than his unkempt appearance and title of “grilled cheese man.” He was an alum that fell in love with the spirit of Iowa and refused to leave this new found love; He was almost a walking contradictory of the common conception of college – get your degree, go make money, go move somewhere out of the Midwest.
And myself, an active leader on campus, is labeled a typical sorority girl. This may be true, but this is a “typical sorority” girl, a leader on campus.
This is not a ballad about being marginalized for challenging group norms of any kind. This is not a request for any grand gesture of change in the way you talk food stand workers, immigrants, or even sorority women. This is a pleading courtesy reminder to interact people as the individuals they are, and not as the labels you or I have previously affiliated them with.
Marco’s Grilled Cheese worker, tobacco chewer, University of Iowa Alum…
Grandfather, Indian immigrant, Pakistani, entrepreneur…
Iowa City resident, ethnic mutt, grilled cheese aficionado, sorority woman…
These labels are parts of us. They do not define us.