that, but the truth is heâs told me this before, a few times probably. The thing is, though, itâs a myth. I looked it up online. I wanted to be certain of my facts before I went up to any history teacher with unconfirmed stories from the Greek imagination. Turns out Benjamin Franklin did not want Greek. A few Brit haters wanted anything other than English, and they did propose Greek or Hebrew since it was considered to be the language of God, but it was never a true possibility. And it certainly wasnât wanted by any of the major leaders like Franklin.
But who am I to burst my dadâs bubble?
âWhat else?â He writes a number and looks at me. âTell me something else about school. About what youâre doing.â
I take this as a window of opportunity. âWell, Iâm learning my cheers. I mean, Iâm trying out for cheerleading.â
âYes? Ra-ra-shish-boom-ba and all that?â In his very thick Greek accent, it comes out sounding like something in Greek, with his rolling Râs and heavy Bâs. He presses a few buttons on the register and it spits out a reading of totals. He squints over it. âWell, very nice. And youâll wear something colorful?â
This has always been a point of contention for my dad and me. He always complained to my mom that I wear too much black, that I look like Iâm going to a funeral every day, like Iâm in mourning. âWho died?â heâd say. âI feel like I should put an armband on or something.â
The weird thing is he hasnât said anything about my new clothes, about the fact that I havenât worn anything black for over two weeks. And that of all the times when technically, according to Greek custom, I should be wearing blackâright after my mom diedâI donât. Thatâs my dad. He wears blinders and sees only what he wants to see.
âYes,â I concede. âYellow and blue. The school colors. The thing is, though, Dad, Iâm going to need some money for uniforms and trips and stuff.â
He looks up from his totals. Maybe this wasnât the best time to bring up money. Or maybe, with all that cash in front of him, heâll just hand me a few bills and call it a day.
âBut you donât know if you got in yet, right?â
Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad. I donât say this.
âNo, I donât.â But Iâm trying to think positive, damn it. Iâm trying to plan for the best possible outcome. I donât say this, either.
âWell, siga, siga, â he says in thick Greek. â Siga ta laxana. â
âDadâ¦â I sigh. âI donât know what that means.â
âSlowly the vegetables, you know? You cook them too quickly and they will burn.â
âUm, yeah, I still donât get it.â
My dad and I speak different languages. And I donât just mean the fact that I hardly speak any Greek, while he speaks some obscure form of Americanized Greeknglish that involves a thick accent and a confusion of clichés and proverbs. I mean that if we were a radio, Iâd be tuned at 93.1 FM and heâd be at something like 1480 AM. Weâre not even on the same dial. Weâre both in the same room, but our signals rarely cross.
âThis is what it means: Weâll figure it out when we get there. Take it easy, okay? Each day, each day.â
In other words, no.
He goes back to his money and I go back to Thomas Paine and thatâs the end of that for now. Maybe heâs right. First I have to make it through. And before that, I have to âbe myself, but better!â for the world of Webster High School.
We close up and drive home in his old beat-up Buick in silence.
The tall lights of the city street flash against the windshield. I press my head against the warm window and look up at the towering buildings. They make me feel so small.
This is what I learned today: Without my mom,