Haruka is probably right now or about to be on the Shinkansen back to Tochigi to meet with her family after almost 2 years. Mayumi, who was also a volunteer in St. Vincent and her last link here lives in another part of Honshu, which, unlike St. Vincent is a big island. So after almost 2 years those immediate bonds back to this island have dissolved. I wish I was there.

Haruka left today and I don't know what I'll be doing anymore. I'm going to keep doing the same thing I normally do: go to work on the land on Monday, go to the community college on Tuesday, the land on Wednesday and Thursday, meet with the Adolescent Group on Thursday evening, maybe BDO. This coming Friday we have an all Volunteer meeting I'll go to, but that whole in between she won't be here. She won't be here for the rest of my time here. I won't be receiving texts asking me how my day was. I won't be texting her that it was good. I won't ask her how her day was, and she won't tell me that her students we exceptionally good or bad that day. I won't be going to North Union to see her on the weekends anymore. I suppose I could go to her house, but it will be locked, empty, lifeless and bare. We won't be seeing anymore movies we picked out at her office, or any that I picked out at mine. We won't be drinking wine and eating cheese, or drinking beer, or Vodka. She won't lay down on my lap during the movie and insist that she won't fall asleep. I won't periodically look to see if she is indeed awake. She will no longer open her eyes, smile, and insist, "I'm watching." I'll no longer wake her up to tell her to brush her teeth before we go to bed and she'll no longer give me that cute laugh before saying my name the way she always does, "マーコ," before standing up, opening her arms, running into me with a hug and burying her head in my chest. I won't give her a little smack on her booty before she goes. We won't sleep in her bed holding each other before getting a bit uncomfortable and then hold hands while we sleep. We won't wake up and hold each other again. She won't give me those little kisses on my neck before she pats me on the back and says, "make breakfast." I won't repeat to her, "make breakfast." We won't have oatmeal, or pancakes and a cup of tea. We won't have our lazy sundays anymore. We won't be utterly bored. We won't look up recipes for cookies or bread or anything else to alleviate our boredom. We won't enjoy the success of a recipe well made. We won't have lunch, or dinner together anymore in front of the TV. She won't laugh and comment that no one does that in Japan and how I got her in the habit of doing that while she was here. She won't ask me to read to her anymore. She won't read out loud anymore. We won't go to sleep and wake up early the next morning so she can get ready for school. I won't walk with her to North Union Secondary, hoping that crazy Vincy van drivers won't hit us. I won't catch a van back to town from North Union. I won't text her that I had a good weekend and thank her and that I love her. I won't get to town, take a van back to my house in Vermont, and then walk to work in Penniston. I won't tell her how my day is going. I won't come home from work and ask her is she is watching Wife Swap. She won't watch it and say that she is afraid of Americans. She won't write anymore recipes for her students and ask me to check the English. Like in any relationship I will miss the little things that only 2 people know about, the things that make one memorable. My life in St. Vincent is not whole anymore and I don't know what to do.

Thanks for giving me that criticism. Finally someone calling me out! Thanks also for pointing out my own mistake in spelling...woops! I knew that that would happen and dammit it had to be from an anonymous post. I have since edited. I guess I never thought about the fact that are no doubt numerous ranters like me going on about grammar and the like. I was in a particularly pissy mood the other day and saw one too many, "Your," instead of "You're."

As for culpability, I spose (sic) I brought this upon myself due to my inherent nature of saying shit when no one asks. I would however like to read your article. Until next time...so long Xenu.

P.S. I gotta say though, I do like that in your second postscript you wrote P.P.S. instead of P.S.S.

P.P.S. Just an FYI. I don't post these at work. Here in St. Vincent most of my work is out on the land doing agriculture in the hot sun. It's WAY better than sitting at a cubicle!

For those of you that did indeed pay attention in school you would have instantly noticed what was wrong with the title of this post. For those you that didn't flinch, well, I suppose that this is for you.

That is because that I am very often seeing and hearing people make very simple, yet, I feel, very egregious errors with the English language. Why is it that people continue to write like this? In terms of education I am not an exceptional person. I went to public school all my life. Perhaps the only thing exceptional was my Junior year year of high school that was spent in Germany. I went to 4 different colleges, 2 of them community, before graduating from a University not particularly known for its academics (although it's definitely getting there, GO UTSA!)* But I continue to see these asinine mistakes when people write. I also hear them when people talk.

I remember when I was a kid I used to watch Nickelodeon all the time. Rocko's Modern Life was one of my favorite cartoons at the time. In one episode Rocko was in a filthy subway station. Graffitied in the background was, “I was hear.” I thought that that was hilarious. The joke was obviously accentuating the subway station by attributing the graffiti to an uneducated lowlife with minimal grasp of the usage of the English language as well as a lack of knowledge of the spelling of homonyms who hangs around a filthy subway station.

After I saw that episode of Rocko's Modern Life I would constantly write, “I was hear,” everywhere. Even as an adult I sometimes write, “Marco was hear,” when I see graffiti written in public areas. I like to accentuate the ignorance of those filthy public bathrooms that we've all been in with the typical graffiti we've all seen, such as:

“For a good lay call (210) 123-4567

or

“Janine is a slut.”

It's part of my weird sense of humor and irony. It's also a silent homage to an intelligent and funny children's cartoon from the 90s.

I doubt, however, that people get the joke. But I am sure that many of those same people do not get their errors with their language. Why do people still make these mistakes? Seriously, we are educated. At least we are supposed to be educated.

After having worked in the schools here in St. Vincent I realized what an amazing education I had growing up. When Haruka and I first started dating she thought it was strange that I knew so damn much about Japan. I would tell her that it was because I had a good education. I know, of course, some schools are better than others. But in the end, it comes down to giving a shit, and paying attention.

Now, I don't know all the grammatical rules of the English language. Like most people of any language, I just speak and write it. I also just simply know how things are supposed to be said and written. I'm not a snooty prick. I'm not above using slang. I probably say fuck way too much. I say ain't all the time in informal situations. When I'm writing emails I write them almost exclusively in lower case I usually write stuff like, “i'm gonna meet you,” or “i wanna see that movie.”

But when it comes to writing, as well as speaking, when it counts, I know damn well how to use the English language.

Here are some things that some people might want to take a look at. These come off the top of my head because I hear and see them the most.

“I should have went.” WRONG

“I should have gone.” CORRECT

“I should of gone.” WRONG

“I should have gone.” or “I should've gone.” CORRECT

“Your lucky!” WRONG

“You're lucky!” CORRECT

“You did good.” WRONG

“You did well.” CORRECT

I was checking out failblog.org once and I saw a picture of a man with a sign. He was obviously at some kind of rally. His sign said something of the effect of, “This is are country! You need to leave!”

It's funny how that ignorant asshole probably complains that immigrants aren't learning English, when he doesn't even know how to write English correctly.

The reason that I am so annoyed about rather simple errors in the English language definitely has to do with my mom. Most of us have seen that episode of Family Guy where Stewie asks Brian to pass the Cool Whip. My sister an I could instantly relate to that because, growing up, our mom would always, and still does, emphasize the W-H in a word:

“WHAT?”

“WHERE?”

“WHEN?”

“WHY?”

That's partly because she has a degree in Speech Pathology. But it's also because where she and my dad came from, and the horseshit they had to deal with when they first moved to Houston. My parents are from Laredo, Texas. Spanish was their first language. They might have spoken English during class at school growing up, but the majority of their daily lives was conducted in Spanish. Laredo is still that way. It will always be that way. That's why I love Laredo.

When my parents moved to Houston they were just a couple of Mexicans with thick accents. They were some of the first Mexicans in Houston. They both dealt with discrimination, due to the way they looked, and because of the way they spoke. My mom transferred from Laredo Junior College to the University of Houston. In an academic setting people looked down on a Spanish accent. My mom once recalled a time where some white guy called her a taco. She asked him if he wanted to be called a cracker. It was that kind of shit that she and my dad had to put up with.

That's why, growing up, my sister and I, especially me, learned more English than Spanish. It was sort of an overcorrection. But that's why when you hear me talk you would never guess that I'm Latino. Working at Scarborough Research I would hear people make racist comments towards Latinos over the phone. Of course they had no idea who they were talking to. But that's the reason why my mom emphasized the correct usage of the English language, and also emphasized the lack of an accent. To this day in the United States, when someone speaks with an accent that makes it known that you are Latino, you will be treated differently and stereotypically. And perhaps that is why I get so damn annoyed when I see such simple, and as I have stated before, egregious errors with English.

So please. Use the language correctly. There are people who try so damn hard to learn English. Haruka is constantly stressed when she speaks with people, and especially when she writes, even though her English has improved astronomically. But more importantly, there are people in the United States who are trying their hardest to learn English to become better citizens and don't need criticism from people who probably don't know the difference from YOUR and YOU'RE, people who mistake COULD OF and COULD'VE.

So the next time you feel that people who don't speak English need to leave ARE country, take a gander at your grasp of the English language and consider if you deserve to be a citizen of OUR country. *I will however say that I had a very exceptional professor there, Dr. Catherine Nolan-Ferrell. I still keep in contact with her due to the fact that she's awesome and I that I am a very proud dork.

I was scrounging around some old emails I had sent off, and I came upon this attachment I had sent to someone. I was applying for a job at Planet K in San Antonio. Planet K is a head shop with 4 locations in Austin and 4 in San Antonio. There is also a relatively new location in San Marcos. Part of the application process is doing something creative. They leave you a little blank spot on the application paper to draw or write something about why you want to work at Planet K. Since I can't draw worth a shit I wrote a story on separate sheets of paper. I got a call back for an interview, but I couldn't work full-time since I was going to school full time at UTSA and I didn't want to get grizzled. A while after that I ended up working at Scarborough Research doing telephone surveys. It's NOT telemarketing! But in the end who cares, my days in call centers are long over. But it's funny to read this 5 years after I wrote it. It's a zombie story and also a bit of an advertisement for Planet K highlighting their products. When people there read my story they at least knew that I had been to Planet K many times. The only things I changed are punctuation, grammatical errors and spacing some sentences into paragraphs. I wrote the story pretty quickly to get the application out because it typically takes a long time for them to call back. So...without further ado...Planet K and the Attack of the Undead!

Morlock realized he was outnumbered. Worse, he was out of bullets, his machete blade was too dinged up for any good use, and his crowbar got lost in the vast crown of the undead. The last thing he had of any use was The Zombie Survival Guide. He thanked the author for helping him and his party survive as long as they did, but they had since become zombie feed. Out of mercy Morlock gave every one of their lifeless bodies a dose of 9mm to the brain.

Except one.

Except Tandori.

Poor bastard. His soul was doomed. His chewed up body was soon to reanimate and walk among the ranks of the flesh-eating ghouls.

He tried. Morlock tried but he could not plant a bullet into his last surviving comrade’s brain. With the horde of the undead proceeding towards him, Morlock had no choice but to run.

On and on through the streets of San Antonio with pockets of zombies here and there. At the sound of running footsteps their disgusting, putrid bodies would rise from their meal of human, some with half eaten limbs still clutched in their five fingers. Oh the horror! Almost out of breath, Morlock came to Evers Road on the outside of Loop 410. “Planet K,” he spoke aloud. Knowing his time was soon up, Morlock wanted to take one last indulgence of flavored tobacco before joining Tandori in an endless quest for human meat. The doors were still locked. He figured that much. But the frustration made Morlock scream, “DAMMIT! ONE SMOKE! JUST ONE GODDAMN SMOKE!” Then a click, and a door swung open, and a barrel was in his face. He stared into the eyes of the girl. Then her voice, “Have you been bitten?” “No.” “Get in.” Clumsily, Morlock stumbled in and fell to the ground. “Thirsty,” he moaned. “There are a bunch of drinks in the back in the cooler.” Walking to the back Morlock was soon refreshed by teas and juices, many of which he had never heard of. “What’s your name?” Morlock inquired of the female. “Eloi,” she replied, “You?” “Morlock.” “What are the odds?” “You alone?” “Yep. Everyone in my group is out there dead, but walking around.” “Same here.” Eloi had been alone for over a week and was overjoyed just to meet a person who was not trying to eat her. Morlock was happy that he was no longer the only live human in San Antonio. After much talking over peaches and cream flavored tobacco with one of the finest hookahs that Planet K had to offer, Morlock discovered that Eloi was an employee and that all the Planet Ks in both Austin and San Antonio were all in touch, although none had made any physical contact. Late into the wee hours of the night as Morlock was drifting off to sleep, something came to his mind. With some refining, Planet K had an entire arsenal. “Eloi! Get a hose and those Spongebob wastebaskets. We need gasoline.” Being extremely cautious they siphoned out as much gasoline as they could from whatever cars they could find. They contacted all the other Planet Ks. Within a few hours they would be ready. Using the bongos that Planet K sold they both played to their heart’s content, and sung, albeit off key, all the while luring the undead to their position. Knowing it was their salvation or damnation, Morlock and Eloi began their attack. “It’s a good day to die assholes!” Morlock knowing those could be his last words. With cloth from the various t-shirts and quilts, and the gigantic hookahs, Morlock and Eloi hurled their Molotov cocktails into the crowd. Oh! The bright lights and burning flesh! An inferno was raging in the parking lot of Planet K. By reading The Zombie Survival Guide, Morlock knew that zombies would be attracted by the light of the blaze. The rest of their arsenal packed in a truck, they set off. Morlock knew that riding in motorized vehicles was not advisable during an undead attack, but this was the only way of survival. By using a few Molotovs, Morlock and Eloi made it to the countryside. Llano County was what the Planet K crew decided. Hopefully, the others would make it.

In the end, four were lost to the undead. But plenty of undead were lost to those four. Within the group stories abounded of the ingenious Planet K employees who used the leather straps located towards the back of each store to restrain a zombie while another jammed a vibrator in its skull to disrupt its deadalive brain. Another employee jammed a rolled up issue of High Times into one's empty eye socket and set it on fire. A few employees from the Austin-Riverside location staved off a group of ten zombies, even though their weapons were used up. They reached an incline and poured erotic oils down it. The ghouls tried time and again, but the slickness of the oils prevented them from reaching their human meals. Knowing that life would have to resume, an employee from the San Antonio-East Mulberry location brought the entire hydroponics set from her store. Life would continue in this undead world. After months of building homes and fortifications the group got together for a night of talking and reminiscing about their former lives. Eloi mentioned that their tiny installation still had no name. Morlock jokingly suggested Planet K, Texas. It stuck.

I was listening to Talk of the Nation today, I love NPR and more specifically, Texas Public Radio and am eternally grateful that I can listen to it on the internet here. But today it was called Talk of the World because Don Gagne asked for Americans not to call in and instead asked people from other countries to call. The discussion was about race and how race is discussed in other countries. A few people from Europe called in. A few from France, and one from Germany. I can't say anything about France, but I can say things about Germany. It might surprise people, but Germany is a multicultural country. The biggest minority are Turks. There are also Arabs, Persians, and black people, mainly from Africa and children of immigrants from Africa. A lot of the first generation do not speak German well, but the second generation is typically bilingual. That's how it typically works for most immigrants and children of immigrants. So for you xenophobes, don't worry, at the very least the second generation will speak English, even if it's not their first language.

Now a lot of Americans who have been to Europe have this belief that Europe is far superior to the United States. These Americans might have taken a few vacations, or perhaps might have lived in Europe for a while. As you all know, I was an exchange student in Germany almost 10 years ago. I loved my time there, and when I came back I was in that group of snooty Americans who had lived in Europe, and believed it was better and I was an asshole. God bless my mother, she put up with it.

Now Europe does have a lot to be admired. The main thing, I feel, is health care. After Peace Corps, I will be uninsured. Let's hope I don't break an arm, or get cancer. But in Europe, if I were a citizen, I would get subsidized health care. Socialism is not a bad word there, they are the better for believing that. But Germany, and Europe are not perfect despite what many snooty Americans might think. On a side note, for those of you that say that Europe has more history than the U.S., that's because the physical, and cultural history has been systematically destroyed since the arrival of Europeans, culture and history on this side of the world goes back at least as long as Europe's.

But going back to the first paragraph. In general, European views on race would be considered horrendous to the average American. When I was an exchange student I found it comical when I'd shop for a CD (wow! people actually did that 10 years ago!). That's because I would walk past the Pop section, the Rock section, the Classical section, the...Black Musik section. The Black Music section was mostly rap and hip hop. Now, there was German rap and hip hop, all of which is good, but the mostly African-American artists were relegated to the Black Music section. The kids that would look in that section were the hip hop kids. I had a few guys in my class who were in to hip hop. A few of them were Russian. But there were two who, when I think about it now, look like German caricatures of Ali G. Then there was Werner. He wasn't overtly into hip hop like the other two guys, so he wasn't a caricature. Plus, he was huge and could have easily kicked my ass. But he was a cool guy.

When I came back to Germany for my internship in 2003, I was in Köln interning for Partnership International e.V., my exchange organization. Part of my work there had me helping out with a few weekend long seminars with Germans who were going to be exchange students in the States. In one particular seminar I noticed a hip hop guy. I didn't want to single him out and potentially embarrass him, so at one point I told the room of Germans not to call hip hop or rap, or anything else, Black Music, as that might offend certain people's sensibilities. I can't remember exactly what I said and how I said it, but mainly I was hoping that with that tidbit of information that that hip hop kid wouldn't go up to some black classmate and say, “Wass up nigga!”

It seems funny. But it could have easily happened. It might have. I don't know what happened, and besides, that was almost 6 years ago. Point is, a white kid, from the states, who is seriously into rap and hip hop, would never be stupid enough to even consider saying something like that to a black guy. My further point is, as comical as walking through the Black Music section might be, and as hilarious as imagining a German guy trying to talk to a black guy in Ebonics might be, Europe's notions on race are rather archaic to us.

Listening to NPR the day after Obama was elected I heard a story of the many headlines around Europe. Many of them would cause the editor to be fired, but not before apologizing profusely to the African-American community he offended. Silvio Berlusconi said Obama was, “young, handsome and even suntanned.”i

There was a Berliner paper with the headline, “Daddy Cool!”ii

And then there was a paper with the headline, “Africa conquers the White House.” The writer claimed that Obama was, trying to destroy the U.S.'s “white identity,” and he referred to the White House as “Uncle Barack's Cabin.”iii

That is just awful.

When I was an exchange student, I was confused, and now I'm rather appalled, that Germany's citizenship is still based on ethnicity. A case in point, my friend Cenkay. His parents are from Turkey. He was born in Germany. He spoke perfect German in addition to Turkish, was as typical as any other German, but he did not become a citizen until he was 20. I remember once, he had to take a day off of school to drive to Stuttgart to get his passport and go through whatever bureaucracy that that entailed.

I remember sometimes during lunch he would take me to this one particular Turkish restaurant in Villingen to have an authentic Dürüm kebap. We'd have our Dürum kebaps and he would drink this yogurt type drink imported from Turkey. I took a sip. It was sour, and didn't taste all that great to me. But Cenkay loved it. He said that when he trouble sleeping at night, he would drink one and easily fall asleep. It was then that I realized that he, like me at the time, was struggling with his identity. Drinking that drink, which everyone else thought was disgusting, but he genuinely loved, made him feel more Turkish. It's like when I visited home this past October, I ate a lengua (cow's tongue) taco, downing it with a Dos Equis, even though I don't eat beef. It makes me feel more Mexican.

I remember when an Italian class visited our class. Cenkay kept on saying he was from Turkey. I kept on saying, “You were born in Villingen!”

On the NPR program today, an American called in from Paris. He teaches English to adults. One day in class he was teaching nationalities and their adjectives. When someone of Algerian descent said, “I am French,” his classmate responded that he was not really French, even though he was third generation. One of the guests brought up how not to long ago in the UK, in the 70s and 80s white Brits would throw bananas at black players during soccer games. They would also makes monkey sounds to taunt them. In Italy there is extreme xenophobia against Africans and Roma and Romanians. Because of a few high profile rapes committed by Romanians news programs often state, “there was a rape today, of course, committed by a Romanian.”

Now let's go across the pond to Canada. A Canadian called in to the show and explained that there are four main groups that receive much hatred from Canadians. The four groups she said were: the Canadian Indian, the French(the Quebecois I must assume), the Chinese, and the Americans. My fellow PCV Laura can tell you all about how Canada to this day still oppresses their indigenous population. I once had a Vincentian who clearly did not like the United States talk to me about Canada as if it was some type of magical paradise.

And speaking of which, let's fly south to the Caribbean and the island of St. Vincent. The vast majority of people here are black, with different shades to them. There are white people here, some who have been here for generations and some who have moved here from the States, Canada, the UK, and other parts of Europe. There is also a small Indian population. But basically, things here are black and white. For me, since I am not black, people call me white, much to my irritation. It took me 23 years to finally cultivate an identity for myself, and in one fell swoop, St. Vincent took that away. When I first heard someone say, “White man!” I didn't know who they were talking to. I still here it. I ignore it. One, I'm not white, two, even if I was, it's rude so I don't dignify it with a response.

And then there's Asians. My girlfriend, Haruka, is a JOCV volunteer from Japan. People here always call her chiney. Sometimes you here, “Jackie Chan! Jet Li!” and worst, “WAAAHH! Ching chong chong!”

When I was briefly on Palm Island last weekend one of the security guards was a complete racist asshole to four of the other Japanese girls I was with. There is a tiled walkway that goes around the bars and rooms around Palm Island. The girls were walking on it to get to the beach, to take the little boat that would take them back to Scaramouche, the boat we were riding that day. There was a security guard on the dock, who was no where near them and all of a sudden, he started yelling at them to get off since they were not guests. I knew that it had nothing to do with them not being guests, so just to be an asshole I stood on the walkway. Naturally, he said nothing. When we got back to Union Island I heard some kids saying ching chong (you really have no idea how much I hate writing that, but I must for purposes of the story). I stopped them and said that they must be smart so they should talk to my girlfriend in Japanese. Of course they couldn't. I told them to have some respect and they walked away. Then we walked away. But as soon as we turned around they started following us and doing the same thing. I had only made things worse, and I felt awful for my girlfriend and the other Japanese volunteers. When we got back to St. Vincent, I walked with Haruka and Sumiko to Sumiko's house. As we walked we heard a few kids do the exact same thing as the kids in Union did, in addition to calling them Jackie Chan and Jet Li. I swear my blood pressure rises to the point of a coronary heart attack when I hear that. It's my girlfriend, and I want to defend her from anything and everything, and not being able to slap the shit out those kids, and the adults they learn it from, makes me livid.

Now, my point. I am from the United States of America. We have awful problems in the U.S.A., particularly with race. But, in terms of race, we are better than the rest of the world because we have had so much history with it because of the fact that it's been a thorn in our side since the beginning. This is all relative, but we are so much more inclusive, and *gasp!*, accepting of other cultures and races.

On Haruka's last day in Texas when she came with me to visit, we went to Flatonia, Texas with my parents. She was hungry so we told her she should be a judge in a rib tasting contest. So there she was, this cute Japanese girl, around all these rednecks, who were curious about her, friendly to her, and actually knew Japan and China were not the same place. Nobody called her chiney, ching chong, and no guy was creepily hitting on her.

I have to say, in the United States, even though we most definitely have our problems with race issues, we are light years ahead of the rest of the world, and yes, even Europe. Don't get me wrong, I love St. Vincent, but coming here made me appreciate the fact that I come from a multicultural society. I can wake up in Houston, have a down home country breakfast, drive about 10 minutes, have Vietnamese food for lunch, drive about 10 minutes more, have soul food for dinner, drive 10 minutes more, and have Mexican food at 2:00 in the morning. You can't do that in other countries. That's why I love mine.

Being in St. Vincent also made me realize that no country is better than another. I love Germany, it's my second home and I still plan on living there, in Köln, in the future. But, I know that it's not better than the U.S., or St. Vincent, or anywhere else. So for you Americans that think Europe is this magical paradise, it's not. So stop acting superior just because you lived for 6 months in France or the UK, and stop writing color with a U, because you, and they, and I, are not better than anyone else. ihttp://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=96949439 iiIbid iiiIbid

So this is my first post on my new blog. The name of the blog is an homage of sorts. Quién sabe que la chingada is something I've heard my dad say plenty of times when he's telling a story, describing something, or just in regular casual conversation with people, mostly family, and friends who speak both Spanish and English.

For some reason I didn't really notice it until my family came to visit me in St. Vincent. My dad tells the best stories, and these stories would be peppered with that phrase, "Me 'staba deciendo...o quien sabe que la chingada...and then he was yelling...!!!...o quien sabe que la chingada."

Since then I've been wanting to use that phrase in conversation, but I don't get to speak much Spanish in St. Vincent with the exception of talking to my Cuban friend Luis, but I don't get to see him often since he now lives North Leeward.

Quien sabe que la chingada is an homage because I've slowly started to notice certain things I do and say , and realize that they are things that my dad would do and say. Some of it is my personality. I get moody a lot. I'm monosyllabic when I'm either in a shitty mood, or just simply don't want to be bothered. I can be downright charming when I want to be. And I also tend to say things or write things that give people that gasp of incredulity. Those things everyone sees and are rather superficial. It's other things that stop and make you think, "Holy crap!"

I realized I pulled a dad, or more specifically a Mario Piña on New Year's Eve 2008. I was in Bequia with a bunch of other volunteers and Haruka. At one point in the evening Haruka and gone by ourselves to get something to eat. We had gone to this "Mexican" restaurant in Port Elizabeth. This place is owned by an American I think, and none of the food there is Mexican with the exception of maybe a little but of salsa and corn tortilla chips. I had been there once before, and the food is decent enough, and I didn't feel like walking along that long stand of restaurants, so I figured what the hell, we'll stop here.

As we sat and waited to order I noticed Spanish music playing. Now here is what annoys me about non-Latinos and their definition of "Spanish." Have you ever heard someone refer to Latinos as "Spanish people?" That's taking a group of people whose first language, or heritage language is Spanish and labeling them "Spanish." That's like calling the Irish, or Scottish "English," since most Irish and Scottish have English as a first language. Go ahead and see what they say. But...I digress.

The owner of the restaurant was playing Spanish music. He calls his restaurant Mexican, yet he was playing Spanish music. He could have been playing Cuban music, or Andean music, to him it would not have mattered as long as it was Spanish language music. So I see this white guy, assume he's the owner and sure enough, he is. I pointed out that what was playing was Spanish and not Mexican music. He said that he was always looking for more music to play at his restaurant. I offered to bring some of my own music and he was rather enthusiastic about that, if only to shut me up. I asked him for contact information and he gave me his card with his email address, and I told him that at the very least, the next time I came to Bequia, I would give him a burned CD of traditional Mexican music. At the very least, I plan on giving him Los Lobos, "La Pistola y El Corazon."

For anyone who knows my dad, they will know that what I did was just like what Mario Piña would have done. It wasn't until after that whole exchange was over that I realized what I had done. It might me laugh on the inside. I texted my sister and let her know what I had done.

Another thing I do: Whenever Haruka and I are eating somewhere, I always eye her plate. Usually she doesn't finish everything, and usually we switch plates when she is full. It's reminiscent of the times when I was a kid and we'd go out to eat and my dad would always eye my mom's plate, usually right after we'd gotten our food, and my dad a lot of the times would lamentably say, "I should have gotten that." This past weekend in Union Island Haruka ordered some pasta when I ordered pizza. When we got our food, I momentarily thought the same thing, of only because she had more food than me, and I was really hungry.

My situation is not unique. That New Year's Eve, someone, one of the volunteers, I think it might have been Scott, said that pulled a dad-ism, or something like that. In any event, he gave me a name for it, but for me I pulled a Mario Piña. I always thought my dad and I were totally different, and in many ways, we are polar opposites. But I realized that there is a mold that we slowly morph into, and that mold is the shape of my dad.

Lastly, here is one of new favorite cartoonists, Lev Yilmaz. I discovered him a few months ago and love the mundane truth he speaks.