You can’t really forget certain words once they’re uttered or screamed in to your ears. No matter if it happened back in the Jurassic 80s, and you bonked your head a few times since then, and thus your memory ain’t as sharp–some things just kinda stick to your brain’s ribs no matter what.
(Word for word)
“Where’s your green card?!”
“Go back where you came from!”
And other such musical hits.
These would get shouted at me while I inbounded a basketball my junior and senior year of high school basketball. Straight out the mouths of the opposing team’s student-fans. I’m irresponsible if I don’t point out these were God-fearing, Jesus-loving Catholic fans, or at least the school they attended was, and so was mine, and so was the fact this took place in blue-state CT, which was blue even back then.
Of course I moved on from this, plus from a friend of mine from my same Catholic prep school who would call me “dirty American” for what I don’t remember now. We’re not friends anymore, but I don’t think it’s because of that. I think we just drifted.
Of course there’ve been other moments of brownness since the 80s, like meeting my natural brown dad around the time I was in my mid 30s. Now, I don’t know if it’s because of the silver or the Irish freckles getting more and more pronounced or the lack of sun that I’ll hear from time to time, “Dude, you’re not brown.”
It’s pretty true, I can pull off caucasian pretty good. Take one good look at the old man a short time after he shot me out his pecker, though, and try and tell me I ain’t brown. I really wish I could have met his parents, my grandparents. They volunteered to raise me and everything since both my parents barely had hair on their privates. Straight from Ecuador they were. I’ll bet they were brown. Like brown brown.
In more recent memory, it’s Monday Night Football and young blood out of the blue asks me, “Dad, what’s going on in Venezuela?”
Shit.
The Steelers are on and it’s a must-win. Like any die hard, then, I punt brownness and global affairs down the field. “But I like that you’re asking,” I say.
And I am. When he was around ten or twelve, he asked about Afghanistan. He’d been reading a book about Pat Tillman. I told him what I knew. I loved that he was (is) curious. I didn’t consider on this more recent Monday night that this was an invitation from young blood to me to ditch football and be brown for a few minutes. I thought he might just be curious, like, Afghanistan-curious.
“Let’s talk about this after the game, yeah?”
Knowing what I know now, I would’ve recorded the game, and turned the son of a bitch off, but. “Maybe tomorrow after the gym even better. Dad’s getting a little ripped right now and I want to give this the proper attention and–holding, goddamnit!”
We would indeed circle back around on to Venezuela about a week later, when the three of us–me, young blood and his mom–rallied around him in one of our common, impromptu three-way conversations to talk about college and other young blood stuff. Venezuela popped up. “He said he asked you about it but that you were busy watching the game.” mom says. Hmm, this was no Afghanistan
I told them my understanding of what was going on there, and sprinkled it with some history and context. I told them I didn’t disagree with taking out Maduro and why.
“You know what else he told me?” she said.
“What?”
“That ICE is here.” In our hometown she meant. “He’s thinking about it, you know.”
It’s how young blood does it at his age. He’ll ask me about Venezuela. He’ll tell mom other stuff. I guess part of me wondered if she was thinking about it. She Americanized well over ten years ago after we divorced, but you hear these scuttlebutts of Americans getting pulled over and out their cars. Things Men Carry wants to hear these stories, straight out the mouths or pens of those who’ve lived them. This family has not so far.
Still, for the first time in my fatherhood, I feel compelled to explain what exactly my brown young blood should do if he gets pulled over. I feel like an inner city black dad telling his young blood something similar: “I really doubt you will, but in case you do, just shut the hell up and do as you’re told. These guys got nervous fingers on their triggers; don’t give them an excuse to pull it, capiche?” I know that’s Italian for comprendes? I tell his mom, a big-mouth firecracker, “And you too. Just bite your damn tongue. Let ’em puff their chests and shrink ’em back to normal, you’ll be fine.”
“Capiche,” young blood says.
He’s thinking about “it.” Now I’m thinking about “it.”
Super Bowl LX pops up. Of all the things my sports-fanatical young blood texts about, it’s Bad Bunny.
“What did you think about the halftime show?” he asks me.
I was kinda floored by the question. I didn’t see it coming to be honest. I thought if anything it would be some football analysis along the lines of, We need to put these guys (Patriots) to bed in the second half, but nope. Young blood’s favorite-of-all-time Seahawks are on and in the Super Bowl, and he’s asking about an artist I don’t think he even listens to. He’s asking about the brown half time show.
I told young blood what I thought. Without thinking about it:
-tmc
Things Men Carry 