#this is not just abour potatoes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nel-world · 5 months ago

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you are overqualified why do u want to go?

his mom would have conversations abour rice? does ur mom cook rice ?

what does she use ? it is brown?

there is small /little rice

u are from bombai .. you know ..

onions are looking so big

potatos so big..

i took public transport .we just stand the bus driver would stop and open the door. can you open the door?can u open the gate? u have ring the bell

hello , my name is azghi

i like basebell

im practising my introduction

i leave my home in india

i fly fly fly and land in america

im very excited

my entire village has turned up

i have passport

u know im first person to fly

i have a letter

dear azghni , its wonderful place

im going to help u

u can live with us and see america

he owned a restaurant

400 east 6 th st

the world , galaxy

hey ma , dont cry

when i go america , i will write every day

i will from top from empire state , bottom from grand canyon, hollywood

i will write from cleveland

i will be rich and i will invite u

what is this

a stone

u are giving a stone

story of riverstone

i dont r

im keeping it

i threw it away

i keep it

it is in my pocket

i have to go

u made it

this is new york is a crazy place

this is my job

im manager here

im the owner

im the waiter

its such a good job

u know mr hakim were waiting at airport

they two children

samir is 10 year

he is playing with gameboy

how am i doing

sakina is older

dont u worry , soon u will catch on

i have no idea

if u smile , nod u head , people love u

mr hakim is my best friend .. let me tell u something profound

any one can be rich

i just smile

u are absoultely

one day u are millionaire

america can u give u nothing

my dream is classical indian dancer

show me i used to dance

i used to dance

she closed her eyes

her arms and hips

i think u should

then she told me she is going to teach me dance

i try

i put my wrists and turn my hand

im very good this

i can be dancer myself

i can do much than cook food

u bught present for me

hello bob , business is good , dinner for 5

very proud of him

i understand

time is money

what is this dress

u think are too smart

u can marry black guy,white guy

why did i can to restaurant

so that i can proud of u

why did i came here , it is for u

they teach u about

i know

its all fun and games

and then what

everything will be gone

dont speak to me in english

look what u have become

dancing is iportant but im not

help ur mother in kitchen

sakina is getting married

its a party , there are lot of people

there is a dj playing songs

how could u leave ur stuff, u need to clean up

i give the gameboy.. give me postcard

u know what what

my sister sent picture of ninja turtles

we were supposed to go

but my grandmother died

u know what happened happened

u know what

i had a fight

im doing that

no way

u know what happeend

then i called upstairs

to see pics

do u remmeber

u can hold my gameboy for 5 mins

i kicked him

its my five minutes

im not even sorry

he stole my gameboy

im not coming here

why do u hit me

everyone is stupid

we were supposed not to

im sorry

button up his pants. Thank you Angel, I mean Kar—…I mean

Angel.

///

AZGI:ABDUL! I need two puri’s on table five! I need two lassi’s on

table six, and this lamb curry is COLD COLD, COLD! Food, Abdul,

is supposed to be HOT, HOT! Not COLD! How come you don’t

seem to understand that????? (Azgi runs to speak to one of his

tables. To first table.) I am very sorry. In all the time that I have

worked in this restaurant, food is NEVER cold, NEVER! He is heating it up right now. I will bring it out in two minutes and you just

keep enjoying your…water. (He moves to the second table.)

Hello, how are you? My name is Azgi, I will be your waiter. How

can I help you? Oh yeah, it is kind of spicy, but we have a scale.

You see, you can order how spicy you would like one, two, three,

four, five. You decide, he’ll make it.—What?—You want number

five? (Azgi is a little concerned.) Sir don’t take number five, take

number two—No, no, number two is better for you, it’s very

good, you’ll like it very much.—Please sir, don’t take number five.

Sir I am trying to save your life OK. (Getting angry.) look, look in

my eyes OK, number two is better for you. OK you think about it

I will come back OK. (He runs upstage again.) ABDUL!—Where is

my lamb curry ????

(The lamb curry seems to have appeared on the line.)

AZGI:A-ha! (He runs over to the first table with the imaginary

lamb curry. It is very hot and burns his hands.) There you go. OK?

piping hot—What happened? Why you look so sad? Not

lamb?—CHICKEN.—Oh my God!—No, no, please sit down.

Where you going? please don’t leave, sit down, I am very sorry,

this is a terrible mistake, I will bring out chicken in just two minutes, please don’t leave, whatever you do don’t leave. (He runs

over to second table.) OK, OK, look I tell you what, number three,

number three is plenty hot, plenty hot. You don’t need number

five. LISTEN MAN!! I AM FROM INDIA!!! and even in India

nobody asks for number five! It’s not a real thing that you can

eat, it’s just for show. I am not screaming, you are screaming!

Look, look, now your wife is crying! I didn’t make her cry, you

made her cry! OK, OK. Fine, Fine, you want five, fifteen, one hundred five!! I give you OK!

ABDUL!—- Listen on dup forty-one, I put number five, but

you don’t make it number five, you make it number two, OK?

And this lamb curry is supposed to be chicken curry—Because I

am telling you, that’s why. Because I am the boss right now OK,

Listen you give me any trouble no, I will have Mr. Hakim fire

you!!!—Oh, yeah? Oh, yeah? Come on, Come on Abdul (He puts

up his fists.) I will take you right now! I will kick your butt so hard

that you will be making lamb curry for the tigers in India! Oh,

yeah? Come on, Big Guy, come on, Big Guy, come on, Big Guy,

come on—

(Suddenly Azgi is faced with Abdul who grabs him by the collar.)

AZGI:—BIG GUY! I am joking, man. I am just kidding around, why

you take me so seriously?—please don’t kill me. (Turning.) Every

night I have the same dream. I am a giant tandoori chicken wearing an Armani suit. I am sitting behind the wheel of a speeding

Cadillac. I have no eyes to see, no mouth to speak and I don’t

know where I am going. Mr. Hakim, he come up to me, he say,

“Azgi, Azgi, Azgi, you have to calm down, man, he say to me, he

say “Success, Azgi, is like a mountain. From far away it is inspiring, but when you get close, you realize that it is simply made of

earth and dirt and rocks, piled one on top of the other until it

touches the sky.” Mr. Hakim, he is a smart man, but I wonder to

myself when God was building the mountain and piling the rock,

one on top of the other, was he working or playing? (He begins

to ponder this thought, and then suddenly he smiles and goes

over to the first table.) Hello, my name is Azgi…I am working…and playing. (He goes over to the second table.) Hello my

name is Azgi, I am working and playing…how are you ? (He goes

over and looks in the direction of Abdul, and blows him a big

kiss.) ABDUL…I love you man!!!!

(Phone rings, Azgi turns and looks at the audience.)

AZGI:Phone! (He picks up the phone.) Hello, Sakina’s Restaurant

Azgi speaking, how may I—Oh Oh Mr. Hakim? No No He is right

here, I will get him—

Sakina’s Restaur

We decided to watch a called no way home because we kept seeing its ads on youtube. We knew the trailer so well that we could say it word for word. Mark's favorite line was when the lead actor talks about his girlfriend in the movie. Mark would repeat it all the time,

So, we went to the movie theater, hoping to see that scene . But to our disappointment, the lead actor didn't say that line at all. In fact, the whole scene we were waiting for wasn't even in the movie! We left feeling upset

As we left,. We realized we could just go watch another movie without paying again. We felt a little bad, but we had spent a lot on snacks, so we didn't feel too guilty. Plus, we felt like we deserved to watch another movie since no way home let us down.

We ended up watching a movie instead. It was good, and since we hadn't seen any ads for it, we weren't disappointed.

i needed a car , i could rely on public transport

and all i had was 2000$ so i bought a ford car

so after few rides , it started giving problems

the transmission broke..the power steering didnt work

i couldnt find parking on campus..

Is your minivan all fixed?" Larry inquired.

"Yeah, but it cost us a pretty penny," Mark sighed.

"How much did they charge you?" Larry's eyes widened.

"$2500," Mark responded.

"$2500? You've gotta be kidding me! $2500 for a new transmission?" Larry exclaimed.

"A new what?" Mark looked puzzled, glancing at me in the backseat.

"A transmission. An automatic one. That's what you had replaced, right?" Larry clarified.

"Oh, right, yeah, a new transmission," I confirmed.

"Well, it sounds like they're pulling a fast one on you," Larry said as he dialed a number on his phone.

He called someone named Rocko, then his buddy Kurt, both of whom echoed his sentiment that we were getting ripped off. Mark nervously suggested haggling, but I pointed out that we already agreed to the price.

As we pulled into the garage, Larry insisted we stand our ground. "You tell 'em you ain't gonna be taken for a ride," he advised.

larry gets out of the car an goes in and talks to car dealer.

After a few minutes, Larry returned with a grin. "Saved you a few bucks, boys," he announced proudly.

When we settled up, the bill had mysteriously been reduced by $500.

I still don't know what Larry said or did in that office, but his advice and charm saved us some serious cash. Now, we just hoped the new transmission would hold up.

///

There are few things that bring my father as much joy as clearance sales.

It's not so much the food that my dad loves at Denny's—he only knows three flavors anyway: salt, butter, and A-1 Steak Sauce. No, what he adores is the simplicity, the straightforwardness of the entire Denny's experience, especially the menu.

“You don’t even have to read anything,” he’d say. “You look at the pictures of the food, you pick what you want, and you point.” And that’s precisely what he does. We'd settle at a table in Denny's, he'd crack open the menu to a Moons Over My Hammy or whatever caught his fancy, and he'd point. “I want that.” Not a word more, not a word less. It's the perfect restaurant routine.

we bought couch

So, off we went, driving at a snail's pace—twenty miles per hour in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone. The officer followed my dad quietly for a few miles before my father suddenly pulled over, even though the officer hadn't signaled with lights or sirens. I followed suit.

After the officer wrote us both tickets for having unsafe loads, he warned us not to drive with the furniture again or risk getting more tickets. Stuck on the side of the road, my dad asked if I knew anyone with a truck. That was like asking if I knew anyone at all.

///

You ever have those gym ,PE classes that make you question why you even bother showing up? . Coach McAndrew, bless her heart, she had all the enthusiasm of a cheerleader at a spelling bee.

Coach blowing her whistle like it's her only source of oxygen. "Forward rolls, backward somersaults, cartwheels, repeat!" she says, as if we're all Olympic gymnasts in the making.

How am I supposed to learn by watching them? It’s like telling someone to learn how to swim by watching a fish.

I muster up the courage to approach Coach. "Excuse me, I don’t know how to do any of those things. Can I please go to the library?" I ask, hoping she'd see reason. But nope, she hits me with the classic "No pain, no gain" line, like she's trying to motivate a sack of potatoes.

So, there I am, at the back of the line, watching these kids effortlessly roll, somersault, and cartwheel like it's second nature.

Finally, it's my turn. I kneel down, put the top of my head on the mat, and just pray for a miracle. But all I manage to do is roll sideways off the mat—splat—onto the wooden gym floor.

All pain, no gain, and a side of humiliation. Can't wait for next week's adventure in awkwardness.

This is America? I’m fucking in! Big Pimpin’ was the epitome of the American dream and I needed to be part of it. I wanted to be like these larger-than-life American superheroes they called rappers. I wanted to be a pimp like Jay-Z and a gangster like 50 Cent. I made it my life’s goal to live the Big Pimpin’ lifestyle. Whenever I watched BET, I forgot I was a small foreign Chinese boy and I felt like a badass gangsta. I started imitating how the rappers walked and how they talked. I would go up to my classmates and say, “Yo what up, dog. Our geometry teacher is a bitch, homie.” I felt like my identity was being judged based on the other Asians around me instead of my own personality, my inside voice screamed, I listen to Jay-Z, motherfuckers! In high school,

thong thong thong thong thong!” This was one of the first songs I heard on American radio. It was catchy as hell, but I had no idea what a thong was. Then when I saw the music video, everything made sense.

I couldn’t rap for shit, but I wanted so badly to be part of the glamorous rap game that I’d seen on Rap City. Chris downloaded a bootleg copy of Sony’s ACID Music Studio, a beat-making software, and he started cranking out some sick beats. Then Jeremy, Phil and I would go to Chris’s mom’s apartment and record our raps on his five-dollar computer microphone. Next thing you know, we’d formed a rap group just like N.W.A. Chris’s mom’s apartment and his Dell desktop became our recording studio. We felt like the real deal and we called ourselves Syndakit. The first time I recorded at Chris’s house, he played me a beat he had just made. It sounded like a real track I’d heard on Rap City. I pulled out my notebook and I was ready to write my first rhymes, but I

I never got a record deal, but I experienced creative freedom for the first time

offer to buy one and get the other for half price , my father was first in line.

his ability to consume knew no bounds.his favorite was chocolate pean with extra sprinkles

when i orderd plan old chocolate icecream , he took it as an insult

they have thirty two flavors andu order chocaloate

u can get chocolate anywhere , why did we come to america

we didnt sacrifice everything come to here so u could be satisfied with plain old chocolate ice cream

i just want medium soda

get the large

u get extra large for thirty nine cents more

America was Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory and he was a ten-year-old who had won a golden ticket.

Let me tell you what is really embarrassing,” he continued. “Having only one pair of shoes, that’s embarrassing. Having to study for your exams under a street lamp because you don’t have your own room, that’s embarrassing. Hanging off the side of a train on your way to work because it’s so crowded and you can’t afford a seat, that’s embarrassing.”

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“When will you become an American?” he continued. “Okay, pour the extra thirty-nine cents-worth into a cup and I will drink it later.”

///

I saw a job posting in the college newspaper for telemarketer and decided to interview for it. The college building was squeezed between a sandwich place and a bookstore. The guy interviewing me looked a bit like Paul Giamatti from "Billions," but there were definitely no billions to be made here.

During the interview, he asked simple questions like who had used a computer before and who knew how to use a phone, how to type basic english. I got hired and was given a script to follow.

I got hired and was given a script to follow. My job was to keep people/alumni on the line and chat about how great the university was still doing.

I was supposed to ask alumni like Milli for a hundred bucks to support the college.

but milli response was "Oh, I'm sorry, hun. I'm barely scraping by on a fixed income. I'd love to help, really, but a hundred dollars? not happening."

So, I lowered the amount to fifty dollars, but still got a no. Then I tried twenty dollars, and she agreed to make the donation.

After working for an hour, a bell rang for a break. The boss, stood on a chair and called out how much money everyone had brought in. He gave cookies to the top three earners.

Overall, it was an interesting experience, but I only worked there for a few weeks before my semester started, and I quit the telemarketing job.

“BE CAREFUL!” my roommate WILLIAM TOLD ME . “I am being careful!” I said, grabbing the dvd from him and totally not being careful.It wasn't contraband or illicit substances..it was dance dvd.. I was staring at it in awe, my heart pounding like crazy.

cuoristy got the better of me and I put the dvd in my vcr. And What unfolded on the screen was unlike anything I’d ever saw.

and what captivated me even more was drummer in the corner setting the rhythm and this guy was dancing to the beat in rhythm…it was beautiful…

soon i was playing drums…

coach andrew, transmission,affleck movie,

, clearance sales-denny's,

I needed a job. Scanning through the student paper, I found an opening in the computer lab. It seemed perfect, except for the minor detail that I knew next to nothing about computers. All I knew was that if something goes wrong, you should reboot the computer. Sure, I could switch a computer on, but i knew nothing about coding, programming, troubleshooting.

I interviewed with this quiet guy who wore glasses, named Dominick. He wore a buttoned-up shirt, light brown khakis, and Nike running sneakers. "Hi, Kunal, nice to meet you,” he said, in a soft, high-pitched voice. “I am looking for some people to be computer lab managers. What are your skills?”

“Troubleshooting, programming, Excel, PowerPoint,” I said.

“Can you give me more details?”

"Sure, I've read courses online, fixed bugs on my computer, and developed applications."

"I like you. I’m going to hire you,” he said as we shook hands. Bingo! “Given your advanced skill set, I’m going to give you a very special project.”

He turned to the computer and opened up a software program I had never seen. “The school is trying to integrate this new voice recognition software. I want you to figure it out, dissect it, and write an entire instruction manual based on what you’ve learned.”

So three days a week, four hours each shift, my job was to sit at the computer and try to figure out voice recognition software. The first day I took the job very seriously. I spoke into the microphone and compared what I said to the words that appeared on the screen: “The cat drank the cow’s milk,” I said. On-screen: "You drank the milk." I said it slowly again… "You drank the milk" again… I basically gave up on the project after a few days, and each shift I would spend fifteen minutes on voice recognition, and then would spend the rest of my time chatting.

The week passed, the instruction manual was due and it was time to face the music. I decided to write something… click the L button… etc.

“I just got an email from the university. I have some troubling news.” Shit. My scholarships. Dominick took off his glasses. “The school has decided to put a stop to the software. The license has expired.”

I said, “Whatever’s best for the university."

“Because of your hard work and commitment to this project, I’m going to promote you to lab manager of the engineering building.” He gave me a raise, bumping me up to nine dollars an hour, which was damn good money at the time. I was a good lab manager.

/////

After finishing college, I got a job as a waiter in a restaurant. But I also had to wash dishes.

Sadly, I wasn't very good at it. I was slow.

The restaurant needed clean dishes to keep running. So, even though I was slow, I had to keep going.

The owner would tell me to just keep washing.

He often came over to me at the sink, shaking his head and yelling.

He'd say, "Wash the pots first! Why are you washing the plates? We have lots of plates!"

When he got really frustrated, he'd grab the spray nozzle from me and

quickly clean a bunch of pots in just a few minutes.

I got a job as used car salesman.

Apparently, you need zero qualifications to become a used-car salesman."

The car lot manager, Larry, was a sixty-year-old car salesman and a alcoholic. I wouldnt see him for days and then he would come and sell ten Dodge Neons in a week.

I looked up to him as a top-notch car pusher.

I learnt car sales from Larry and soon i became good that i could afford HomeTown Buffet once a week.

and i know one day, if i worked hard and I'd be able to afford Red Lobster.

It's been three days since I lost the pool key, and now my mom is mad at me. It feels like she has a superpower that keeps her angry without a break whenever I mess up, which is why I try my best to never do anything wrong.

It's like there's a flashing neon sign on my forehead: "HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING KID WHO LOST THE POOL KEY. $50 DOWN THE DRAIN!"

I try to explain to her that Cindy and I put up twenty flyers all over, and I understand that fifty dollars is equivalent to three hundred and fifty tomans in Iran, which is a lot of money to flush down the toilet. That's what it'll feel like if we have to pay the landlady.

"Why don't you check the clothes dryer and all your pockets?" my dad suggests, im filled with hope. I search through all my clothes, inspecting the washer and dryer, even go through the vacuum cleaner bag. I c heck between the sofa cushions and manage to find twelve cents.

But still, no pool key. The following day, my dad suggests praying to Saint Anthony, claiming it always works. "Saint Anthony, you mean?" I ask.

My mom , suggests we ask Saint Anthony to come over and look for the key instead. "He's a saint, so he's been dead for a long time," I tell her. "If you think a dead man is going to help you find the key, good luck," she retorts.

but I decide to pray, and, my prayers are answered when a neighbor finds the key gives it to the apartment office.

communication is the key. That's the key to a relationship. That's how you build intimacy, through communication. It's very important to talk and listen to your partner so you can both grow as a unit.

but It's just talking and talking and talking. And I was listening to every word 'cause I thought, you know, there was a point. But there's no point. I should've hired an AI for her to talk to. 'Cause there were so many things I just didn't care about. "Should I move this couch or get a new one? I don't know what to do with this room. What do you think?"

It was a psychotic, babbling conveyor belt of nonsense. "I went to get my nails done, but they didn't have the polish I want.

One of the differences was, I learned this from her, raised to ask questions. You have to ask questions like, "Why? How come? How much? That much? Why should I spend that much?" And, , we don't want to ask questions 'cause we don't want any information. "Look, I didn't see nothin', I don't know nothin'.

" So the questions started driving me crazy. It was like falling asleep with a Spanish radio station on.

Why do you think we possess some mysterious knowledge we're keeping from you? We go to see a movie, she's like, "Now, who's that guy?" "Did I write this thing? I came in with you. How the hell do I know who that guy is? What do you want me to do, show up early?

So she leaves, right? It's all over.

I'm sitting in my room for two weeks straight. my roommate says

They don't want you to talk to them. They don't want you to listen to them. They want you to agree with them. And if you don't agree with them, they just keep talking and talking and talking until you do. and then they will say I'm glad we talked about it.'"

When I was a kid, I had this bright yellow Yamaha YZ80 dirt bike. It was super fast, and I loved riding it around. But my mom hated it.

"Josep, you ride that thing, and I swear to God you’re going to die!" she'd yell at me. And I'd be like, "Mom, it's fine. I'm totally safe." But she wasn't having it.

"What, do you want to die? Is that it? Ha?" she'd say. And I'd respond, "No, Mom, I don't want to die." But then she'd hit me with, "Or maybe you want to kill me from worrying. Yes, that’s it—you want to kill me." And I'd just stand there like, "No, Mom, I don’t want to kill you."

But she wasn't done. "No, no, maybe it’s better if I die anyway. I go to heaven, at least I don’t have to worry anymore. Go ahead, keep riding the motorcycle." And I'd be like, "Fine. Fine! I won’t ride the motorcycle anymore!" But let's be real, I kept riding that motorcycle.

One time, a cop caught me riding the bike without headlights. He was really mad and told me to leave the bike and get in his car. I thought I was in big trouble, preparing myself for the worst—prison, electric chair, death by firing squad—whatever it was. I'm practically begging to go to jail at this point, but no dice.he took me home.

When we got to my house, my mom was freaking out because she thought I was missing. She was yelling at my sisters, too. The cop could hear everything, but he didn't seem to care. He walked me up to the door, and my mom answered, acting all polite.

But as soon as she saw me, she flipped out. She dragged me inside and slammed the door in the cop's face. That was the only time my mom ever hit me, but it wasn't physical. It was all the yelling and arguing that really hurt.

clearance sales-denny's

coach andrew

Most people who are obsessed by America are fascinated by the physical–the cars, the music, the movies, the clothes, the gadgets, the sport, the cities, the landscape and the landmarks. I am interested in all of those, of course I am, but I (perhaps because of my father’s decision) am interested in something more. I have always wanted to get right under the skin of American life. To know what it really is to be American, to have grown up and been schooled as an American; to work and play as an American; to romance, labour, succeed, fail, feud, fight, vote, shop,

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, I will offer this: the overwhelming majority of Americans I met on my journey were kind, courteous, honourable and hospitable beyond expectation. Such striking levels of warmth, politeness and consideration were encountered not just in those I was meeting for on-camera interview, they were to be found in the ordinary Americans I met in the filling-stations, restaurants, hotels and shops too. If I were to run out of petrol in the middle of the night I would feel more confident about knocking on the door of an American home than one in any other country I know–including my own. The friendly welcome, the generosity, the helpfulness of Americans

I don’t know where he learns how to hail strangers, but whenever my father needs directions—which is frequently—he flags down men and women alike with the same greeting: “Hey, bud!” I grow up thinking of all Americans as Bud—and even though my father’s name is Ghassan Saleh Abu-Jaber, he becomes the original Bud. I learn early: We are Arab at home and American in the streets. The streets are where Bud speaks English in a loud voice, swaggers, wears hard-soled shoes.

Bud is a great talker in our family of mostly listeners. He soliloquizes on the history of the Arab-Israeli conflict, beginning with the Bible; delivers a dissertation on free will versus destiny; and offers several exhortations addressing the nature of animals, the difference between men and women, and the meaning of the universe. He tells endless jokes and instructional stories starring his favorite classic Arab character—Jeha the joker.

This time, Bud tells us, it’s different. The place he plans to buy is perfect, perfect, perfect (excellent location, good foot traffic, high visibility, loyal clientele). A can’t-miss. The owner is selling his treasured restaurant at a clearance price because he and his wife—the head chef—are getting a divorce. Bud is ecstatic as he describes his family utopia: “I will be in back, creating! You and your sisters will be out front, taking the orders and making the customers happy and laughing.” He sits back and studies the ceiling. “It’s going to be running together like this—”

According to Bud, this golden place, no mere restaurant, will be a Shangri-la that finally heals the old wound between East and West. All languages will be spoken here, all religions honored. And the food will be pure and true as the first food, the kind that weighed down golden boughs and shone in the wind. A business of one’s own—at last! “You see this bamia?” he says to us, holding up a chunk of okra stewed in tomato on his fork. “Americans are nervous with bamia because they fear the slime. You know how to take away the slime?” My sisters and I shake our heads. “You have to boil it good first and then you fry it! And sometimes you reverse it. How many people you think know about that?” We marvel. Not many. Hardly anybody. “When we get our restaurant,” he says, and eats his bite of okra, “it will be full of secrets like this.”

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There are weeks and then months of debates, schemes, and outlines. The phone rings at all hours. You never know when you’ll lift the receiver to the hiss of the overseas connection. Incredibly, Bud’s relatives seem to be convinced by his business plan this time. Several have even promised to buy shares in the place. Who could fail to be moved by Bud’s exultant rhapsodizing? His voice bounces; he seems to give off a hum. After much negotiation with lawyers, real estate agents, and the gloomy owner, whose disconcerting gaze lingers on Bud long after conversation has ceased, they work out the last details and agree on a signing date. To celebrate on the night before he is due to go in and sign the lease, Bud prepares a grand dinner starring a golden chicken msukhan. This is the traditional Palestinian dish, which owes its ravishing succulence to a few simple ingredients—chicken, onions, and so much olive oil that the chicken is nearly poached in it, turning its flesh soft and amber as a silk purse. “Do you see this chicken, girls?” he asks as we break off tender bites with our forks. “Do you know what it’s saying to us?” No, what, Dad? “It’s saying, ‘I am more delicious than anything. People will come from everywhere to taste me. I am the queen of all!’ ” He sighs and gazes fondly at the queen. //

Let nothing but nothing stop you,” my grandmother said. After retirement, she trekked around the world on her own, took a prop plane to the high end of Alaska; crisscrossed Eastern Europe; sailed the Panama Canal. //

Rental car counters were one of the few places where his name still had meaning. Inside of them he felt special. He never had to wait in line. “As you know, Mr. Schafer, your membership tier allows you for a free upgrade.” “I’ll pass.” “Are you sure? With your rewards points, we could put you in a Mustang at no additional charge.” “I’ll take whatever does best on gas.” “Of course, sir. My pleasure.” He had no palate for cars. A tool to be used, a conveyance; their design was of no interest to him. He never understood the appeal.

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For a period after they arrived in this country, Laura García tried to invent something. Her ideas always came after the sightseeing visits she took with her daughters to department stores to see the wonders of this new country.

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she would talk it over with her husband. On the drive home, try as they might, her daughters could not engage their mother in conversation, for inspired by what she had just seen, Laura had begun inventing. She never put anything actual on paper until she had settled her house down at night.

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I wanted them back. I wanted them back. Mamita intervened, and the sticks were put back into the hollow of the drum, and another promise extracted from me that I would not play the drum inside the house but only out in the yard. My grandmother pulled me towards her. She had once been, so Mami said, the most beautiful woman in the country. We called her Mamita, “little

WHEN I WAS TEN, we emigrated to New York. How astonishing, a country where everyone spoke English! These people must be smarter, I thought. Maids, waiters, taxi drivers, doormen, bums on the street, garbagemen, all spoke this difficult language. It took some time before I understood that Americans were not necessarily a smarter, superior race. It was as natural for them to learn their mother tongue as it was for a little Dominican baby to learn Spanish. It came with mother’s milk, my mother explained, and for a while I thought a mother tongue was a mother tongue because you got it from your mother’s breast, along with nutrients and vitamins. //

Things were making me extremely agitated, and that can be very bad for a performer. I decided to go outside and go through my preshow ritual. Since I started stand-up, I have used the following pre-show ritual as a way of controlling my nerves and centering myself. First I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I create a picture in my mind. It is always the same picture. I am lying in a glade near a brook while a gentle breeze licks my face and makes me smile. Birds fill the sky with song as I lounge beside the brook with my golden Lab and watch the fish as they jump out of the water and back in again. I walk leisurely to the water and take a long, deep drink of it, and it is always clean and cold and slakes my thirst. Then I lie down again on the grass and let my golden Lab lick my face, and then I wrestle with him and laugh. Then I open my eyes. This part of the ritual takes about fifteen minutes. It never fails to clear my mind, as an eraser clears a busy chalkboard.

It’s going to be a better day,” I mutter as I pour my coffee into my to-go cup, leaving just enough room for creamer. Hattie believes if you add the creamer first, you don’t have to stir the coffee because it stirs itself. She’s a liar. I know this because I tried it once and nearly grew hair on my chest from the gulp of black coffee I drank. Never again. I pour creamer into the cup and then give it a good stirYellow highlight | Location: 253

Like most immigrants, my father had left his native country with high expectations of what life in El Otro Lado would be like. Once reality set in, and he realized that dollars weren’t as easy to make as the stories people told made it seem, he had been faced with two choices:Yellow highlight | Location: 2,906

In those days newspapers did straightforward reporting, i.e. a football match was reported on

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had high hopes. I was ready for the theater director to tell me that I was the most talented child actor she’d ever seen and that I’d be replacing the Cuban girl as the lead in every single production or working alongside her. After the auditions, she walked up to me and told me the good news: that I could be in the theater program! “…as a lighting tech,” she added. Oh. I was disappointed, but I figured just being in the program I could find a way to showcase my skills. I had plenty of time for my big moment to happen, so I went home and told my mom the good news. “Mommy, I got into the theater program.” “Good job! Are you going to be in the next play?” “No, ma’am. I’m doing the lights.” “What do you mean you’re doing the lights? That is not acting.” “I’m gonna learn about the lights and the sound.”

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“You are not doing no lights! You are a performer. You go back and tell that woman no. This is some racist bullshit.” “But, Mommy…” “My daughter is not doing no lights.” At school the next day I told the theater teacher I would NOT be doing the lights. “Why not?” she asked. “My mom said so.” “Why?” “She said, ‘My daughter’s not doing no lights.’” So instead of hitting light switches, I switched lanes and that’s when I joined the chorus. My mom taught me an important lesson that day: Don’t let racist magnet school theater directors crush your dreams. Go sing instead. I also learned how to play some instruments, so if you need someone to play “Hot Cross Buns” or “When the Saints Go Marching In” on the recorder, I’m your girl. I am sure casting directors all over the country have been searching for a

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My mom supported me when I was in Starmites, she cheered me when I lost my voice and got it back again, and she never, ever suggested I stop messing around with theater and focus on something more practical. There were a few times she didn’t back my dreams, though. Back in freshman year of high school I’d asked her if I could be in the color guard, spinning flags and doing dance routines out on the field. I figured it would be fun. I figured she’d support me. “Mommy, I want to do color guard.” “The what? No.” “Why not?” “You’re an actor, you don’t have time to be twirling flags.” So that was the end of the discussion. Jump to 2013. Me and my mom are in the front of her house. My brother is raking the yard and my mom and I are sitting in her car, and for some reason, I got curious about her banning me from the color guard back in high school. “Mommy, how come you didn’t let me do color guard? Was it because of the football players?” She looked over at me and narrowed her eyes. “Football players? Girl. I was supposed to spend my gas money driving you around so you could twirl a flag? There’s no future in that! You can’t get a job twirling a flag!” “What?” “What kind of job were you gonna get from twirling a damn flag? Huh? Were you gonna go from office building to office building raising their flag every morning? That’s not a salary position.”

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She went on a fifteen-minute rant about the color guard, I swear to God. It may have even been twenty minutes. She was still livid. “What I look like wasting my gas for you to twirl a damn flag?” She did hate wasting gas. Color guard wasn’t my life dream, and I wasn’t devastated that she wouldn’t let me do it, but still. Some parents might say the same things about acting: there’s no future in it and it’s a waste of gas money. Not my mom. She saw a future in acting for me! Or I thought so. A few years after college, when I was working odd jobs and doing some local theater, my mom decided to lay this one on me, out of nowhere: “Dulcé, maybe you should have double-majored in business….”

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Eventually I went through that rite of passage that every young actor goes through: getting scammed by an “agent.” I had to pay one hundred dollars to sign with this guy who told me he could get me big roles and make all my dreams come true, or whatever bullshit he fed me that I believed. I was new at this, and I couldn’t yet see that the man was a con artist. As soon as I swiped my credit card, though, I was like…wait a minute! What is happening here?! It was too late by then. He had my money, and I had a thief for an agent. It was some bullshit. I got conned! Once my mind cleared, I called and had the charges reversed.

At the body shop there was a Vietnamese mechanic named Tu who escaped during the war. He had a thick accent, but I never had a problem understanding him, maybe because I always grew up around immigrants and because he was speaking English. Tu would always say there was more damage to a car because when he started taking the car apart, there would usually be additional damage that couldn’t be seen by the insurance agent when they wrote the estimate. Catherine would tell him to work off the original

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estimate from the insurance company, but Tu would have to explain why he needed the supplemental estimate, and I would end up translating his English to a forty-year-old white woman, and then I’d have to translate her English back to him. “Bumper no good. Need to be replace,” Tu would say. “What did he say?” Catherine would ask. “Seriously, Catherine? He said the car needs a new bumper.” It would go back and forth like that until their discussion ended. I was back at the shop later that day to check in parts, and Tu looked upset. “Why she act like my English not good? You understand me. Why she not listen?” he said. “Your English is good. She doesn’t want to listen to you, Tu. That’s the problem.”

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Now before we go hating Catherine, remember when I said I had to translate her English to him? Well, the next day Tu comes back into the office. “Estimate no good. Too much damage. Tell him come back. Need more time.” Catherine looks at me, confused. “He said the insurance agent needs to come back and do a supplemental estimate. There is too much additional damage on the car. And he needs more time to fix it.” Tu nods his head. “Well, Tu, the insurance companies really want us to work off the initial estimate. To try to keep the cost of the repair down.” Tu furrows his brow and looks at me. “…

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“The headlight assembly, grille, and front quarter panel are all damaged and need to be replaced. He needs more time,” I sigh. “Hmm. Let me see the estimate.” Tu hands her the paperwork and she looks through it. “Okay, we will reach out to the insurance company about writing the supplement and let you know when he is on the way. Tell him.” She hands the estimate back. Again they both look at me. “We call insurance company. Tell them you need more time. I tell you when he coming back.” In unison they say, “Okay. Thank you,” and Tu goes back into the shop. Catherine turns to me and says, “Thank you so much. I can never understand what he’s saying.” “What do you mean?!” I exclaim. “He is speaking English!” “Well, as long as you can understand him.” Every time this happened I would sit there, wondering what the fuck just happened. I got up and went back into the shop because I thought my brain was going to explode, and I was truly worried I was being racist, when Tu walked up to me and said, “Thank you. I never understand what she say. Her English too complicated. I always understand what you say. You always help me.” “I’m glad to help and, yes, her English is too complicated.” “She say all those words for no reason, dah, dah,…

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People talk crazy at all kinds of jobs—corporate jobs, retail jobs, auto body jobs, white collar jobs. And yes, even glamorous comedy TV jobs. This list will run down some of my all-time favorites. • “I didn’t sit in traffic for this shit.” One of my favorites. I just love hearing people say this. You have to be ornery as hell. • “Let’s put a pin in it!” I mean what does this even mean? • “Let’s table this for another time.” What table? This is an office, not an Applebee’s. • “Why don’t Yellow highlight | Location: 1,026

even once. Bitch, what? And yes, yes I am. • “We need to increase productivity.” Then y’all need to pay more. I am giving ten-dollars-an-hour worth of effort and giving a fuck. • “I want to download the situation with you.” I am not a laptop! Do not download anything on me, with me, or anywhere near me. • “

It was 2012, and I had one of my first headlining shows. It was at a bar in Augusta, Georgia, and I was doing thirty minutes, which, to be only three years in, meant it was not going to be the strongest thirty-minute set in the history of comedy, since I had very little experience. I got a ride to the show from some baby comics who were also performing, and they picked me up in a late 1990s Jeep Wrangler that had seen much better days. Why I let these two stoned white boys drive me two hours across the state is beyond me, but I had a show to get to.. Anyway, as I drove and they tumbled around in the back, I looked at the gas gauge and saw that we were almost on empty. “Hey.” They didn’t hear me because they were too busy singing Justin Bieber songs. I turned the radio down, but they kept on singing. “HEY!” “Huh?” “We’re almost out of gas.” “Oh, no, the gas gauge is messed up. You’re fine.” Okay, cool. I asked because I saw a gas station at the next exit and was going to stop and get gas.

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I should have listened to my instincts, my gut, my first mind—whatever you want to call it—because as soon as I drove past the off-ramp and under the overpass, the car started sputtering and ran out of gas. I pulled over on the side of the freeway. One of the idiots in the back asked, “Whoa, what happened?” “We ran out of gas,” I said, trying to keep my composure. “Oh, that’s weird. I drive around all the time on E and usually it’s fine.” “Well, not today. Do you have a gas can in the back?” “Huh?” I took that as a no. I had to pee, but I was not going to do it in front of these fools, so I walked up the on-ramp, to the gas station I should have stopped at, peed, bought a gas can, and bought gas, in that order. I walked back with that can, cursing my passengers, and berating myself in my head. Why did they think it was okay to pick me up high and drunk and then drive two hours through country-ass Georgia? Why didn’t I trust my instincts and go to the gas station? I got back to the car and I popped open the tank to fill it up so we wouldn’t miss the show. Did I mention that they were both under twenty-one? There was a door-like flap on the gas tank that wouldn’t open with the nozzle on the gas can. So I found a pen in the car and used it to push the flap back, but I couldn’t fit the pen and the nozzle through the flap at the same time. I needed a funnel. As if I needed any more trouble, a Georgia Highway Patrol car rolls up and parks behind us. ///

Neighbors, we have found, take on an importance in the country that they don’t begin to have in cities. You can live for years in an apartment in London or New York and barely speak to the people who live six inches away from you on the other side of a wall. In the country, separated from the next house though you may be by hundreds of yards, your neighbors are part of your life, and you are part of theirs. If you happen to be foreign and therefore slightly exotic, you are inspected with more than usual interest. And if, in addition, you inherit a long-standing and delicate agricultural arrangement, you are quickly made aware that your attitudes and decisions have a direct effect on another family’s well-being. We had been introduced to our new neighbors by the couple from whom we bought the house, over a five-hour dinner marked by a tremendous goodwill on all sides and an almost total lack of comprehension on our part. The language spoken was French, but it was not the French we had studied in textbooks and heard on cassettes; it was a rich, soupy patois, emanating from somewhere at the back of the throat and passing through a scrambling process in the nasal passages before coming out as speech.

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