Mr

9 Pages 2164 Words

I remember it like it was yesterday. It’s 1990. My dad and I are riding in his car. We are on our way to buy groceries at the local Safeway. I am going through this phase, where I am trying to notice things. So, when we pull up to the next stoplight, I start trying to notice the guy on the motorcycle next to us. He apparently doesn’t want to be noticed; especially by a peculiar nine year old, staring at him through the passenger window of a minivan. “What are you looking at?” he sneers at me. I turn around fast, and face the dashboard. “Did he say something to you?,” my dad asks, “What did he say to you?” “Nothing uhhh..he didn’t say anything. It’s fine. Look green light,” I hurriedly reply. “Tell me what he said. What did he say to you?,” my dad grills me on. I stay silent. I think if I tell him what he said, he will get out of the car and kick his ass, which scares me and comforts me too.

You know how those savvy realtors tell us to bake a cake when potential buyers come to see a house up for sale. I remember as a child when my parents were trying to sell our house; and as potential buyers were perusing the rooms looking at my dad’s bang-up ceiling paint job, my mom was grilling onions on the kitchen stove. As a child, this was the type of thing I lived through; I was accustomed to it. When my father ventured out in his long white Afghani robe, I thought the stares he took in were something of bigoted public gawk. The problem being on the other end, not ours.

In a country like the US, where the norm is this celebrated melting pot of great cultures and traditions coming together, my parents were the salad. They wanted to subside in this soup as a salad; perhaps maybe as a head of romaine or as a seasoned crouton. Not wanting to mix, but to keep their own unique flavor. Not till as a recent teenager did I find this at all curious. When I stumbled the blocks, so to speak, and saw upon the...