1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

Married to Josh Blumenthal, who works as a college professor at Yale, lecturing on archaic Akkadian idioms, I am a Pulitzer prize winning author, who works languidly from home. We'd have 6 lovely children, named: Veronica Yael Blumenthal Victoria Rivka Blumenthal Joshua Herschel Blumenthal Jared Moshe Blumenthal Vanessa Noya Blumenthal Jesse Levi Blumenthal Veronica, the oldest, would be the musician. She would have red hair, flaming like her father's. She'd be gifted at piano, and probably learn how to play the violin soon after. She'd be like her father in his jovial and genial nature. She'd be an engineer though, because her talent at physics would be unrivalled by even the most studious peers. Victoria would be exactly like me, short with a comically loud mouth. Brown hair, freckles and a connoisseur of literature, especially Nabokov and Tolstoy. She'd become a comedienne, probably act alongside Jerry Seinfeld on SNL if she could. Josh,

And oh how I hated my father's turban! Visible, and loud, and proud, on his head, it spoke volumes about a pride I clearly dearly wished to shed. I could not be more forthright, and honest when I gazed with some apprehension- I hated it! Guilty looks abounded and I hounded My poor father, passing snide remarks for things he had no control over my poor father, I'm sorry for your loss and every time we ate out I would tremble and quiver and fear the frowns, the laughs, the sneer of ignorance and pestilence of hate- Sorry, father, sorry, I hope not too late. Now I understand, older but not so much the wiser but enough yet to understand why you wear your turban- and so much love in my heart for it. Selfless service, I am humbled, By your commitment to your turban, Daddy, mainu maaf karo,  I am sorry For running away from who I am. Daddy, I am sorry for how embarrassed I felt at your accent, Daddy for your loudness, your Punjabiness, your blue collar

Go home, he said, with a glint in his eye, and a bat in his hand, begging me to disagree so he could take a swing, and by hitting me dissolve all his problems. Go back to your country, he hissed, with the weight of his words hanging in the air like a wall between us and it was painful to think that But for the shape of my eyes and the scars on his hands, we are the same, marked by the same stamps and regulations- We are both, for better or worse, Malaysian and we both sing everyday the pledge to die for king and country and in our own Perverse ways, we mean everything we say, and that is not a lie. Stop, I wanted to whisper but the scent of his hate choked my reply. Step by step, foot in front of another, I said to him, YOU ARE MY BROTHER, This country is as much mine as thine, This land of plenty is too my mother. He faltered, hand wavering, I back up, slow stammering, and we fall slowly to the ground crying for this land of our birth! Forever connec