I don't know how many times my friends and I have discussed our foreignness. We're not ashamed of it. It is what it is and we just laught about it. We can probably write a book about it. Let me take that back. I know we can write a book about it. For example: We know we're foreign because our parents have a main fridge, a backup fridge, and a backup freezer. We know we're foreign because we always have an extra car, as old as it can be, on hand for our cousins to borrow. We know we're foreign because when we say "back home", we're talking about our foreign, mother land. We know we're foreign because unless we grow up to be a doctor, our parents will always secretly be disappointed in us. We know we're foreign because we're always either dropping off or picking up someone at the airport.
About a month ago, I told my friend Paul that I was extra foreign for driving around with lamb in the trunk of my car. He laughed and said, "I got you beat. Last week, I went to Frederick with my dad and killed a goat with my bare hands." Damn. He did have me beat. About a week later, I was telling his brother, Pius, about the conversation. Of course, we both laughed, but Pius asked, "Wait...was it cooked?" I said, "No. It was raw. The butcher just chopped it up. It's the whole thing. Head, heart, liver, and everything." We laughed some more until he told me the icing on the cake: "So, you know the goat they killed? Well, my dad skinned it and hung the skin in the garage to dry. He didn't care that the garage smelled like road kill for like a month. When it was dry, he sent it home." We died laughing. I asked, "What are they gonna do with goat skin?" Paul said, "It's probably someone's shorts by now. 'Hey, man! What you wearing? Is it that new goat? Damn! Where can I get that?'" Oh, I love being foreign. --M.S.
