8 posts tagged “conversation”

A conversation in the car today:

Son:  Do Liopleurodons have gills?

Me:  No, honey.  Liopleurodons aren't fish.

Son:  I know that.  They do, however, have gills.

Me (trying hard not to laugh):  Well, no, you know they're reptiles.  They have to breathe.

Son:  Yes.  But they have gills.  Well, only the males have gills.  The females don't have gills.  Males are always more fancy.  They have gills on their hips.

...Sorry, I just had to write this down somewhere.  I love when he uses "however."  What the heck kind of 4-year-old talks this way?  Why are gills considered "fancy"?  Why on their hips?  By the end of this, I was really struggling not to laugh.  He doesn't appreciate being laughed at when he's being scientific, though.  It didn't help that shortly after this conversation, he wanted to sing that Sammy Davis, Jr., song "Candyman," and he suggested we sing it together by saying to me, "You be the men part, and I'll be the ladies part."  He then sang the part of the backup singers in an *extremely* high-pitched voice, at times coming dangerously close to what one might call a shriek.  God, I love the way he talks.  I've been videotaping him a lot lately, trying to just capture his normal speaking, because it's incredibly awesome.  Four years old is such a great age.  I keep telling my husband that I wish we could keep a copy of him at this age that would never grow up; the real him could go on growing, but we'd just have this one copy around who could go on wild tangents about gills forever.  *sigh*

On a related note, I've always wondered why males of the human species aren't the fancier sex.  Unless by "fancy" we simply mean, "not soaked in leaking breast milk."  In which case, I guess they are pretty fancy.

A conversation yesterday between me and my son, age 3.5.

(...while hugging each other...)

Son:  Mama, you're crushing me!

Me:  I have to.

Son:  Why?

Me:  I'm trying to push all the love from my heart into yours.  All my love for you is in my heart, and I have to hug you tight to push it into yours.

Son:  (pensively touching my sternum)  Oh...hmmm.

Me:  Do you understand?

Son:  Well, yes. 

Me:  And?  Did I push all the love from my heart into yours?  Is all of mama's love in your heart now?

Son:  (pensively touching own sternum)  Yes!

Me:  And what does it feel like?

Son:  Tentacles.

...I do not hesitate to note that this is not quite the answer I was hoping for...

Son:  I am eating the jelly beans.

Me:  Oh, is it good?

Son:  looking at me seriously  Are they good?  ...letting me consider my mistake...Yes, they are.

Touche, kiddo.  Not even 3 and already a pedant.  This warms the cockles of me very heart, lad.

Today, we woke up to find it had snowed.  My son was very excited.  After I strapped him into his Thomas the Train snow boots, I let him go outside to explore (he's seen snow many times before, of course, but this is the first real one of this winter).  The following conversation ensued:

S:  How it got snow, mama?

Me:  It came from the sky, like rain does.

S:  But how it got snow, mama?

Me:  Well, when the rain comes out of the clouds, when it's cold, it freezes and becomes snow before it falls to the ground.

S:  But how it got snow, mama?

Me:  Uhhhh...magic?  Probably involving reindeer.

S:  Mm-hmm.

Because there are some people who are insisting on repeating the fiction that our entire sense of morality, including the prohibition against murder, are derived from the Old Testament, I offer this true conversation with my long-suffering (Japanese) husband:

Me:  Honey, do you believe in God?

T: No.

Me:  Have you ever believed in God?

T:  No.

Me:  Have you ever read the Bible?

T:  No.

Me:  Before we moved to Mormontown, had anyone ever taught you about the Bible?

T:  *giving a small snort of laughter* No.

Me:  Were you taught that it's wrong to kill other people?

T:  *giving me a suspicious look, as he is certain that he has not killed anyone*  Well, case by case, I guess.

Me:  Oh, I don't mean those Aum Shinrikyo assholes or in war or self-defense or whatever.  I mean just in the normal course of things.  Like, you were taught that just because you don't like your mom or your teacher, you don't kill them, right?

T:  *looking at me as if I might be retarded*  Yes.

Me:  So, you were taught and believed that murder is wrong without any exposure to the Bible or God?

T:  *looking at me as if I am definitely retarded*  Yes.

Me:  How about adultery, then?

T:  *laughing*  Oh, case by case.  It's fun sometimes.

ERGO:  There exists at least one avowed (though hardly militant--he finds belief in God to be mildly delusional but he doesn't really give a crap if others believe or not), lifelong atheist who has never read nor been exposed to the Bible who still believes that murder is generally wrong. 

When I explained to him why we had that conversation, he said, "Well, of course, in Japan, we are all atheists and we still think murder is wrong.  In fact, we murder a lot less than these Christian Americans."

Q to the E to the muthafuckin D.

Now, anyone who knows us very well knows that my husband and I don't have normal conversations.  For one thing, they are randomly bilingual.  For another thing, much of what he says to me is nonverbal, and I just know what he means because I've lived with the laconic bastard for so long.  Finally, we have a tendency to start a conversation, drop it, both silently ponder it for a while (hours, days, weeks) and then just pick it up again exactly where we left off as if no time had elapsed. 

Last night while I was damn drunk (proof:  I was chatting to Zack, and I kept typing stuff like "yer cuuuuuute"--real articulate), I got angry at the "debate" going on over at this post.  The point of the post and the ensuing "debate" (I'm putting debate in quotation marks because that is not a debate; it's a farce.) is that white people (that's me!) are privileged in America and we're racists and we're all white and all the same and so forth.  She wants to end racism by, uh, apparently by starting a war with whites (which, dude, we outnumber you...bad idea) or, in lieu of that, getting whites to admit that, yes, we are bad people, incapable of distinguishing a Kenyan from a Senegalese (one of them is Anglophone, one is Francophone--see how I did that?  I defined them in terms of their colonial history.  I am the oppressor!) or a Korean from a Filipino.  Because, see, when you're a "person of color" (her term, not mine), your cultural background and your past matter; when you're white, they don't.  She even, much to my glee (sorry, Shmuel), lumps the Jews in with us whiteys and asserts that they, too, can't understand the experience of racial discrimination in America.  Hee heeeeee.  That's funny.  Jews don't understand being oppressed?  HA!  Alright, rockin'. 

[Just for the record, the above is an extremely flippant characterization of the post and the ensuing "debate."]

So, anyway, I got angry.  My husband, a POC himself as y'all know, came home about 1:30 am by which time I was giddily sloshed and angry and depressed and laughing my ass off all at the same time (the latter, of course, was due to the characterization of the Jews as privileged and also to my extremely articulate ["yer niiiiiiice"] discussion with Zack).  I said, "Hey, honey, you think I'm a rashist?"

T:  giving me WTF? look.  How much beer did you drink?

Me:  Dunno.  You want one?  I think there's some left.  I'm drinking your beer now.

T:  Maybe you should come to bed. 

Me:  Can't.  Busy.  Talkin bout ninjas.

T:  ...giving me that put-upon look that says, "why did I marry this freaky gaijin?  what did I do to deserve this?"

Me:  So, imma rashist?

T:  Huh? 

Me:  This lady says you're a "person of color."

T:  I'm tired.

Me:  You like that?  "Person of color"?

T:  looking dubiously at his arms.  Color? 

Me:  Yah, yer brown.  And now you're the gaijin, too.  I have color, though!  I'm pinkish.

T:  White, like rice.  That's why I like you.  It isn't a meal without rice.

Me:  So, what does that make [our son]?  Crosshatching?

T:  OK, I'm going to bed.

...

T:  You know, since we've been here (in the States), it doesn't seem like white people care about my skin color.  It is irritating though, because around here all the brown people are Mexican, so they think I am too, and they start speaking Spanish to me, and I don't understand.  If they figure out I'm not Mexican, they think (American) Indian or maybe Chinese.

Me:  Ni hao! 

T:  telling me to shutup with his eyes

Me:  Oh, and you know, Mexicans are counted as "white" in most of the data.  You can't be Mexican, as you are clearly brown, not white. 

T:  They're the same color I am. 

Me:  Yeh, but they speak Spanish, while you speak one of those crazy "Asian" languages.  See?

T:  ....?

Me:  Yeh, yeh.  So, you think I'm a racist? 

T:  I don't even know why you worry about it.  This isn't worth thinking about.

Me:  Ah, because this kind of shit bugs me.  The past counts for this group, but not for this one.  Because she thinks I'm X, Y, and Z because of the color of my skin which is exactly what racism is and what she's theoretically railing against.  Because I have no idea what this great "privilege" is that I'm supposed to have from my lovely skin tone--we were really fuckin poor, I worked my ass off at two or three jobs a semester to put myself through college...I don't care that the President has roughly the same color skin as I do--it doesn't mean anything at all, as we have nothing else in common, and anyway...

T:  I think I've heard this before.  (Actually, what he said, with a deep sigh, is "mata ka?" which just means "Again?")

Me:  Yah, sorry.  I know.  So, my handsome person of color...

T:  You should call me "Chinese" or something.  "Hey, Korean!"

Me:  laughing   Well, that would explain your fucked-up Japanese* AND the love of kimchi.  You can call me cracker.  Oh, and also, she keeps saying "Asians."

T:  laughing.  Yeah, we're all the same.

Me:  Well, you do all have the shiny black hair.

T:  Mine's falling out.

Me:  Damn.  I need a younger man then.  A younger person of color man.

T:  You said Zack's only 20.

Me:  He white.  White men bad.

T:  Too bad then.  What about that 17-year-old [Mister Lokii]?

Me:  He is an oppressed person of color. And I believe he has a thick head of shiny black hair.

T:  There you go then.

Me:  So, what about this little man (our son).  White or person of color?

T:  Color.

Me:  You think so?  I don't think it matters because he's too handsome for a category.

Son:  White!  He's white!

T & Me:  laughing.  That settles it then.  White you are, boy.  With all its attendant privileges.  Off to Harvard with ye.

*About his fucked-up Japanese.  Seriously, it's messed up.  This isn't going to mean much to you people who don't speak Japanese, but, ah, I guess it might mean something to Kimura.  He says "sukiku nai" instead of "suki ja nai" and "kireku nai" instead of "kirei ja nai."  Drives me insane.  My son is going to think that's proper Nihongo.  Grrr. 

The following is a conversation that occurred over lunch, in a restaurant, a couple of days ago.  The participants are myself, my husband (T), and my son, age 2.

Son:  (shouting the Japanese syllabary:  a i u e o ka ki ku ke ko... at the very top of his lungs).

T:  Purin ga shoppai na.  [This pudding is salty.]

Me:  It's salty?  Really?

T:  Yah.

Son:  (still shouting, now mixing Japanese syllabary with theme from Wonder Pets!)

Me:  Let me taste. (tastes pudding which is not salty at all)  I think it's fine.  It's not very good pudding, but it's not salty.

T:  Yah, shoppai na.  Kuchi kusatteiru node.  [Yeah, it's salty.  Because my mouth is rotting.]

Son:  (shouting and jumping around in the booth)  Shoppai!  Shoppai!  Shoppai! 

T:  Yah.  Shoppai. [salty]  Ne, ne--suwatteitemi.  [Hey, sit down.]

Son:  (ignoring papa, going under the table)

Me:  No, honey, I think it's just you.  It's really not salty.

.......all, eating

Son:  (shouting unintelligibly, punctuated with requests for me to pick up his straw that he dropped on the floor while going underneath the table)

T:  Cola ga nigai!  [The cola is bitter.]

Me:  Nigai ka?  [Bitter?]

T:  Yah.

Me:  I doubt it. 

Son:  (again, going under the table to go back to papa, still shouting about the straw)

T:  To no one in particular:  Kuchi kusatte shimau.  [My mouth is totally rotting.]  To son:  Ne, ne--suwatteitemi.  [Hey, sit down.]

....10 minutes later.

T:  Yah.  Niku ga amakute, purin ga shoppakute, cola ga nigai.  Anmari oishikunai na.  [The meat was sweet, the pudding was salty, and the cola is bitter.  Not very delicious.]

Me:  Honey, I really think it's just you.  I think the food was fine.

T:  Shinde shimau zo.  [I'm totally going to die.]

Son:  (shouting and jumping, this time shouting rhymes from Fox in Socks)  Bim comes!  Ben comes!  Bim brings Ben broom!  Ben brings Bim broom!  etc.

T:  To no one in particular:  Shinde shimau zo.  [I'm totally going to die.]

A conversation with my 22-month-old son, tonight at bedtime.

Mom:  Stop biting your fingers, or I am going to kick your butt.

Kid:  Angry?

Mom:  No, not angry.

Kid:  Goofy?

Mom:  Yes. 

Kid:  [own name] goofy.

Mom:  Yes, you are goofy.

Kid:  Mama goofy too.