SONIA ALEJANDRA RODRIGUEZ
Pies Are Not WIC Approved
Mami pushes the wobbly shopping cart filled with gallons of milk, blocks of yellow cheese, boxes of no brand cornflakes, and a baby carrier with the new and only son in the family. My younger sister holds the handle while Mami tries to read the English words on the blue, tear-out coupons meant for her and her new baby but really feed all of us since there’s little of anything else. She’s learned about the white stickers with blue letters on the shelves indicating what food is WIC approved. I’ve learned that pies are not WIC approved. I’ve asked, too, because maybe it’s a mistake. Bread is WIC approved and the pies are in the bread section and how can pies not be good for a baby? I help take care of the baby and my younger sister and I would be much happier to do it if I had pie. But pies are not WIC approved. I know, I’ve asked. I waved the blue, tear-out coupons at the white cashier with the missing tooth who said, Nah, baby girl. Pies ain’t for you. And I thought maybe it was because I was too old and maybe I should’ve explained that it was for the baby. The baby was born here. Not like me and my sister who were born over there. But it’s too late. The cashier’s moved on to someone else and I was too embarrassed to explain that the baby was born here, and pies would be good for him. While Mami shops, I visit the pies because maybe I will find a sticker that lets Mami know we can take it home. But that day doesn’t come. I help Mami put the WIC approved food on the conveyor belt, give the coupon to the cashier, who looks at me, looks at Mami, looks at my sister, looks at the baby boy in the baby carrier and says: These Mexicans out here freeloading and I gotta bust my ass in this shithole to make ends meet. She assumes I don’t understand her because she tilts her head and smiles at me. Que dijo? Mami doesn’t know the clunky English words, but she feels what this toothless cashier has said about her. Mami’s smile is a thin polite line across her face because we need the food. I don’t know how to say freeloading in Spanish. Free is gratis. Or is it libre? Loading, to load, cargar, cargando. But what are we carrying for free? Nothing here is free. Firme, is all I can say as I point to the blank line on the WIC blue tear-out coupon where Mami needs to sign. The next time we’re at the grocery store, redeeming another WIC coupon, I go visit the pies. I use my finger to outline the edges of the pie box. The cardboard always softer than I expect. I trace my way up to the plastic window. The blueberries underneath the golden, brown lattice pie crust are gooey and syrupy. I imagine taking my fingernail and pressing down the plastic, until the tension breaks, scooping the sticky purple filling with my fingertip and bringing it to my mouth, tasting the tartness of the blueberries, letting the burst of bittersweet juice rest on my tongue. Even though I was born over there and not here, pies are for me, this I know. I do it, pierce all the plastic films with my fingernails, and bring sweet blueberries, and peaches, and apples to my mouth.
Previously published in No Tender Fences: An Anthology of Immigrant and First-Generation Poetry.
Sonia Alejandra Rodriguez (she/they) is a writer and educator living in Queens, New York. Their stories have been published in Strange Horizons, Acentos Review, Longreads, Okay Donkey, Reckon Review, Mixed Mag, HAD, and elsewhere. Sonia’s writing has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fiction, and Best Microfiction. When they want to avoid working, they make paper flowers.