H ran into me at the coffee shop a couple of days ago and said, “The guy who asked about your skin color is slightly nervous. He walked into my office today and asked if I had offended you.” *blank stare* No, I wasn’t offended; that’s why I read him the riot act. Some people, I tell you. “I told him that I know you,” H continued, “and that you probably realize that he was being dumb and not racist.” True dat.
“Why did you say anything back to that guy?” came my mother’s rebuke last night. “When you utter even one word to these people, you stoop to their level. You should have just given him a look and walked away.” What my mother doesn’t realize that only she is the God Empress of the JVR Glareâ„¢ that reduces a person to a smoldering pile of ash before you can say “Death Star.” To this day, my family (extended members included) doesn’t avoid pissing off this woman for nothing.
“But he took my hand, mom,” I protested, “he overstepped a barrier. No one escapes with an uninvited touch.”
“Yes, naanum kanna pinna nu kathirupen, [translates roughly to: I, too, would have screamed bloody murder], but the best response is to give him the icy stare and leave.” Oh, ok, do as I say, not as I do.
My mom cracks me up. When not sending Cyclops-style optic blasts at me, that is.
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P.S. Thomas Dolby’s autographed Sole Inhabitant CD showed up in the mail yesterday, with the best performance of Leipzig Is Calling. Merry Christmas to me!
We have our own little cultural quirks back in the old country. I could knee-cap him for you.
I’m still scared by my mom’s look; I think every effective mom has one.
I was listening to NPR on the way to the airport yesterday, They had an interview with the authors of Avenue Q.
The Broadway show is a grown up Sesame Street, complete with puppets called monsters.
They played a couple of songs from it including “Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist”.