Oh, Texas. . .
I'm in America. In Texas, where my mom grew up. It's a scary place. My brothers and sister and I don't fit in here: we don't know anything about sports, or t.v. shows, and when we go to the grocery store and there are men who don't wear shoes, we stare. Tomorrow is the big family get-together. Lunch will be ribs and sausage, fried chicken, and beans. I am going to have arteries the size of coffee stirrers by the time we leave to Frankfurt in seven days. Tomorrow, my grandfather, my ten aunts and uncles, my ten cousins with their seven spouses, and their nine kids will all converge on my aunt's tiny, collectibles filled house. We'll sit next to little glass cases filled with tiny ceramic flowers, and I will be asked all those intrusive questions these people, who have never had an in depth conversation with me, feel are somehow appropriate.
Questions like "so, you're still fat?" and "Do you have a boyfriend? Why not?". Or maybe, "so, you're still going to that stuck-up Yankee school?"
And simultaneous to all these questions, which I will attempt to evade, they're going to be judging, and storing away all these little bits of information to gossip about later. The brand of shirt I'm wearing, how much gray root is showing through my mom's dye job, and how big my sister's butt is are all going to be topics of later conversations.
I hate Texas.
Suck it, relatives. I go to a frikkin Ivy League. I've been to Israel. I've eaten a salad that doesn't include bacon bits or cheese.
Gah.
Questions like "so, you're still fat?" and "Do you have a boyfriend? Why not?". Or maybe, "so, you're still going to that stuck-up Yankee school?"
And simultaneous to all these questions, which I will attempt to evade, they're going to be judging, and storing away all these little bits of information to gossip about later. The brand of shirt I'm wearing, how much gray root is showing through my mom's dye job, and how big my sister's butt is are all going to be topics of later conversations.
I hate Texas.
Suck it, relatives. I go to a frikkin Ivy League. I've been to Israel. I've eaten a salad that doesn't include bacon bits or cheese.
Gah.