Italy, McDonalds and Paul

“He’s American. Seriously, we all have the same face. It’s not even funny.” He said and pointed at this nearby blonde kid, with green eyes. “He’s Italian. He’s in my Math class and he speaks all funny.” I answered, biting a piece of my apple.

Paul wasn’t feeling like going home that afternoon. Me neither. It’s not that I hated my family, but I just felt like staying. Paul needed help in Math, but he hadn’t brought his workbook. And so now we were both sitting by the soccer field, staring and pointing at people.

“You believe you can tell an awful lot about people by their looks.” I told Paul. He was a bit stubborn, and a true-born leader. He had lived here all his life but I had just met him last year. He was all political-like, and liked to analyze things, though everything he said was mostly wrong.

“But what do you know about this Italian kid? Maybe he’s just faking the accent.” Paul said reasonably. Maybe he wasn’t, though. “Nah.” I said simply. More apple. Paul looked around a couple of times. “Perhaps his family is from Italy. Perhaps he was born here. Maybe he eats more McDonalds than we do.” He insisted. He never gave up. And this was good, till some point.

“He has the accent of his parents, though. And he was raised the Italian way. His house is like a smaller version of Italy.” Truly, I was just babbling. Unlike Paul, I didn’t like to get all philosophical about kids I didn’t know. “So if your house is like a smaller version of China you’re Chinese.”

“You’re not Chinese, but you might be educated like one. Because you are influenced by your surroundings.” Paul had this way of understanding things that just confused them up a bit more. This, I said with a bit of desperation in my voice. Because we were supposed to be studying Math, right now.

“What is the difference?” He wasn’t totally confused. Just curious. I know he wasn’t doing this to get me angry, but rather because he really cared about it…a bit. “There are Chinese people and people who are not Chinese but they act like one of them. Because they have been influenced ‘Chinese-ly’ sometime during their lives.” Breath in, breath out. More apple.

“Huh, interesting. How do you think they are influenced? Like what they wear and the music they hear—” “And the food they eat. That affected them too.” I finished, afraid that he might come up with any other option, that might lead us to more discussion. But Paul proved me wrong, and brusquely responded to my food comment. “Food? Come on, do you really think there are people who have enough dedicated as to cook Chinese everyday? I bet even Chinese people try hot dogs every once in a while!” Not logical, and not funny. Therefore, worthless. “Well, they prepare the food, every once in a while. They vary between hot dog and Chinese. Paul, the dialogue, though, that is what influences them the most.” The dialogue. Sure, there was nothing bizarre about that.

“Yes, I agree. Sometime, the weird noises and vowels and words they use stick up on them. Like these Italian boy. So I was right! Perhaps he isn’t really Italian, perhaps he’s just influences by the Italian culture!”

For a moment I thought Paul was going to jump up and down because of closing the circle. I was happy too, for I didn’t have to keep talking. I was done with the apple, and laid on the grass, and closed my eyes.

“You know, now that I think about it, perhaps I am a bit of a Latino. Because my mom has this statues that she brought from her trip to Guatemala, and she likes to sing in Spanish, a lot. Sometimes I even hum the music as well!”

Latino. I had to give up, and noticed that it was hard to talk complicated with Paul. “Paul, wait! You’re talking about that kid? He’s not Italian, I was just confusing him with the other guy in my class. I think he is American.”