Though media coverage of the ICE raids terrorizing Hispanic communities across OKC has lightened in recent weeks, many people—especially Latinos like me—remain ever vigilant, our eyes always darting to the rearview mirror.
My mother is Latina and my late father was Native, so I look just like the kind of brown man ICE might want to harass. Strike one.
Sometimes I forget that I don’t speak well anymore—in any language—because of my strokes. Strike two. My English and Spanish frequently fuse together in an incomprehensible mess of words and phrases that would confuse a grocery store clerk and alert an ICE agent. There’s no translating for that.
Still, I manage.
Hoping to avoid strike three—unlawful detainment—I made my way into Lagos Market, 4001 NW 10th St., where the language barrier can make people nervous and leave a guy like me looking and feeling suspicious.
As loyal readers know, one of my favorite hobbies is touring the most outré, non-white grocery stores in town. Places like Lagos are, as far as I am concerned, the true microcosms of society at large, where the butcher, the baker, and the Our Lady of Guadalupe statue maker are the true wheels of progress.
Walking into the store and past the clerk behind the counter, on first glance it seemed to be an unassuming, somewhat simple grocery store with enough fresh produce, eggs and cheese, and assorted soda, juices and beers to make a good superette.
But, looking to my immediate right, I noticed the large case of just-made pan dulce surrounded with religious iconography that made this a divine intervention of spiritual tastes. I made it a point to remember this checkpoint before I continued my journey.
Passing a rockero punk looking for the best fruits—specifically plantains, turns out—I noticed a whole other room in the back with graffiti-style text that read “CARNICERIA” and, man, the smells of fried chicharrons took me back to the open kitchens of Matamoros, where the scents lingers and the taste explodes.
A big sack of fried pork skin for dinner? Don’t mind if I do!
As I drooled over the meats, I noticed the carniceria’s butcher watching me take pictures. He asked if I needed help. My bedraggled tongue managed to say, "I’m okay..." as I kept moving to the next aisle.
Looking at the sweet-smelling laundry detergent, the novenas for both Mary and Death, and the coolers with many more sodas and chilled food—taking pictures the whole time—an older man approached me and asked what I was doing.
I told him that I’m a writer and, sad to say, my beat is the Latino grocers in the Sooner State—all in my own broken vernacular. Trying to make out my words, he said it was okay, but he had to be a little suspicious of a guy taking pictures with all the horror that’s been dealt out by the ICE terror-squads in these communities.
This was when I wanted to say something profound and reassuring, telling him he’s the real hero in this dark time in our country, standing up to the jack-booted ICE racists who prowl the streets of OKC in masks, targeting people because of their race.
But I couldn’t express it with my voice. Not anymore, I couldn’t.
As I went to the rack of pan dulce, then back to the counter, the clerk asked who I write for. I said The Lost Ogle, and she said she hadn’t heard of it. That’s okay, I said in my head, it’s thriving amongst the dying breed of true independents... or something to that effect.
I went to the car, fished around in the bag and promptly devoured the pastry, a strawberry masterpiece that rates up there in my book.
Lagos Market is a stellar corner store with all the provisions anyone could need, from a single soda to a whole cut of beef. But, above all that, it’s places like Lagos that deserve your business because, not to be too dramatic, but they are the real resistance in Oklahoma City.
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Follow Louis Fowler on Instagram at @louisfowler78.
