Memoir : I don’t understand you

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“Hello, Can I police have dat feesh over dare? Its dat fresh? From today come? How much ess dat will be?” Mother asked the sweaty fishmonger.

“Whaat? I don’t understand you!” He shouted unnecessarily.

“Sorlee, I say, can I havah dat squid over dare? How much is dat priced to me?” She sighed.

“What’re you sayin’? We speak ‘Merican here in this country.”

“Yes, escusa me, I no speak prefect English. My daughter speak for me. You can speak to my daughter pulease.” She bowed and nodded me forward.

“She wanted to know how much that fish was, the calamari. If you had tried to listen you could’ve understood what she was saying, but you’re just giving her a hard time, power-tripping and pretending to not understand her.” I said while glaring at him directly in the eyes.

“Uhh, No I uh, really couldn’t understand what she was sayin.” He shifted nervously, almost apologetically. “We’re in ‘Merica is all I was sayin.”

“Yeah right,” I said. “We’re American citizens too, just like you, but we’re not racist. Mom let’s get out of here.”

One Comment Add yours

  1. Were you the child translator for your immigrant parents also? I’d love to hear your story.

    Like

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