my run-in with the chinese mafia

my teacher wanted me to write a story, and i was more than happy to tell her what i did over my christmas break. i spent it with my family, and my family was in the mafia. but only being in the second grade, i wasn't sure how to spell "mafia" yet. i tried. and i wrote all about my christmas with the chinese mafia who came from out of town especially to pay us a visit. grandma bessie, uncle egg, bonnie and mary were all there. christmas was big and loud and very exciting.

and then my teacher wanted to have a special chat with me. "your family is not in the mafia," she told me. "is there another word you're looking for?" i told her no, mafia is exactly what i meant, i just didn't know how to spell it. i asked her how you're supposed to spell it. i tried to explain how my family really was in the chinese mafia, and she got this sort of worried look on her face. she thought i was making it up. she refused to believe me, i bet she even talked to my parents about it. i was insensed that she did not like my story, my very true story.

years later, i was crushed to find out that my family was not, in fact, involved in any mafia. i found out what the real mafia was. we just called them the mafia, because.

it's sort of like that time in fourth grade when i confidently raised my hand to answer the washington d.c. question. that was easy, i knew what d.c. stood for, my father always referred to good ol' dixie cup, he used to live there. i was sure i was right, but when my teacher said no, that is most certainly not what the d.c. stands for, i was stricken with disbelief. how could i be wrong? had i been lied to all these years?

well, i have since realized that not everything my father said should be taken completely seriously. a lot of what he said, actually. and as a kid, with a very smart, knowledgable, witty, punster dad, it can be hard to figure out what is real and what is a joke. because the delivery is always the same, and the jokes always get repeated so many times that nearly anyone could believe they were true. but then there were those strange things he would say, that weren't really a pun or a joke, but his own peculiarity.

it's funny how every significant day in his life happened on a thursday. "daddy, when did you become a boxer?" and his reply would be, "on a thursday." "when did you get married?" .... "when did you get your first job?" - always on a thursday.

or how about this one, "where are you going?" do you know where my father was always going? "to see a man about a duck." tell me, what is a kid supposed to do with that? in his mind, it made sense, it amused him, and he didn't need anybody else to get it, but he did always get a huge smirk on his face when he thought he was being particularly clever and saw that he had thouroughly confused some poor soul who knew it was a joke but couldn't figure it out. ah, but the giant smile and kickback of the head, followed by an attention-getting gaffah, that was reserved for those who did figure out his best lines. and as a kid, that is so embarrassing.