My Bubblegum Anecdotes
I.
I wasn’t really into chewing gum as a child, maybe because I wasn’t good at blowing the bubbles. Or maybe because, when I was four, I got chewing gum in my hair that necessitated various tortures and then a very bad hair cut. But, one day, when I was around sixteen, my Aunt Sylvia and I drove to her husband’s mechanic shop to pick up some grocery money. For the first time ever in my life, I saw my Uncle Alfred chewing gum. “Whatchoo doin’, hija?” he said to me, like always. Then he blew a bubble, which was the opposite of always.
In the Fiesta meat aisle, I remarked to my aunt on the unusualness of Uncle Alfred chewing gum. For some reason, her reply etched itself into my brain. “He does that when he’s nervous.”
When I became a grown-up, I started buying gum when I was under stress. Now I chew it throughout the work day. Sugar free, of course.
II.
In third grade, we had an uptight math teacher named Mrs. Brown. I didn’t dislike Mrs. Brown, but she didn’t exactly make learning fun, either. Until one day. One day, she hosted the Bubble Gum Olympics. As many of you probably remember, chewing gum in school was an infraction on par with carrying firearms. Of course, the forbidden [Juicy] fruit littered the undersides of our desks in hard stalagmite-esque formations. Or is it stalactite. I get those two confused. I used to have a system for telling them apart, but a system never used is bound to be forgotten.
Anyway. So Mrs. Brown let us chew gum – she provided the gum for us to chew – for one day. We measured the bubbles we blew with it. Then, we took our measurements and put them into all sorts of mathmatical permutations. By the end of the day, we knew the mean, median and mode of our bubble-blowing. We knew its sum and its weight. I learned lots of math that day. I also learned that I wasn’t very good at blowing bubbles.
III.
I don’t blow big bubbles. But people who don’t blow big bubbles can still have fun. This is what I do:
1. Blow a small, thick-membraned bubble.
2. Pull that bubble back into my mouth, careful not to brush it with my lips in the process.
3. Pop that bubble inside my mouth. Implode it between my palate and tongue.
4. Savor the satisfaction of the pop. It’s not a high, spitty Pop!! made by an outside bubble. It’s a low, richer ~pop~. Secret and hidden. And therefore more good.
IV.
A long time ago, I dated a Mexican man. He would talk about the women of Monterrery and their habits. “If you want to look more Mexican, chiquitita, you have to wear tighter pants. That, and chew gum. Mexican girls are always chewing gum,” he’d say with an elegant shudder.
One day I was nervous and he saw me chewing gum.
“I don’t like it when women chew gum,” he said.
I smiled sympathetically, then said, “I don’t care.” He watched me blow my bubble and didn’t say anything else.
V.
A less long time ago, I dated a Puerto Rican. He told me Puerto Rican girls wear tiny bikinis no matter how big their bodies are, and that Puerto Rican men love them for it.
One day I pulled some gum out of my purse and offered this guy a piece.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I don’t like it when women chew gum.”
I put my gum in my mouth, chewed it, and blew and popped a bubble.
“I don’t care,” I said.
And that was that.
