America...What a country.

So growing up as a child of immigrants is quite an interesting adventure. Let alone, growing up looking different in Utah. I have been thinking about this since last month. While I have known I was different since I was a child, last month I was with a client at the Jerry Seinfeld concert and the client turned around and looked at the Abravanel Hall crowd and said, "Wow, that's scary," and then laughed. I looked around at the beautiful hall and didn't notice anything odd, so I asked, "what's scary?" He looked at me as if I should know and said, "everyone is white in here, there is no color." He is a Caucasian man and so, it just struck me as odd. He asked me if I had grown up in Utah, I said yes. He said that is probably why I don't notice how odd it is to have a crowd of almost no diversity except the clients which we had brought with us. He was from Houston and before that, New Orleans. I love Utah, don't get me wrong, I am glad my parents raised me here, but like every region in the United States, we have our quirks. It is never more obvious, except when you are a child. So, here are some fun stories about growing up and being different.

Growing up, both of my parents worked very hard. My mother earned citizenship when she was 30 through my father, my father was already a resident alien when they married. We have had different aunts and uncles stay with us throughout the years. It has been a blessing for us to get to know our relatives and grow up with them. It is not uncommon among immigrant families to have multiple families living in one house. In fact in much of the world, multi-generational housing is not only common, it is expected. Both my parents are the oldest child. My mother of 11 siblings and my father of nine. So, one Halloween, a relative of my mother's was staying with us. She was older and so she stayed home to pass out the candy while the rest of us ran around the neighborhood. When we came back home, we knocked on our front door and said, "trick or treat." She opened up the door and was holding our piggy bank. Ready to give us our pennies as a treat. Somehow, in the middle of the trick or treating frenzy she had run out of candy, instead of simply saying no candy, she began passing out apples, pencils (I don't guarantee they were all new) and had started passing out our piggy bank money when we came home. We just laughed, the neighbors probably thought we were nuts, what's new.

My family used to have frequent gatherings when we were growing up which required a pig roasted. My uncles and father would go to a farmer and purchase a pig, then butcher it and prepare it on a spit. It would often take the entire day to roast the pig in an open pit. The neighbors would drive by and gawk at my father and uncles turning something over an open fire. We would call the fire department before hand and let them know. Why? because people see smoke and call 911, its a crazy thing. ;)

One day my older brother, who was in elemetary, got into a fight with one of the neighborhood kids, he was sent home and my mother was very upset and asked him why did he get into a fight. He said, "So and so, said that he lost his dog and that our family killed it and ate it because he saw us cooking it outside." My mother looked horrified and my Dad asked him if he had hit him good. Crazy Tongans.

My older brother and sister in High School, met a Tongan boy who was, as we describe them, Fresh off the Boat (F.O.B.). He was having a difficult time with his older sister that he was living with. My parents adopted him (in the Tongan way, no actual documents) and we refer to him as our brother to this day. One day my older brother was speaking to my younger brother and telling him a knock knock joke. It went like this.

OB: Knock, knock.
YB: Who's there?
OB: Little Old Lady
YB: Little Old Lady, who?
OB: I didn't know you could yodel.

Geeky I know, they were in High School and elementary, what do you expect. They started laughing so hard all three brothers.

my adopted brother laughed so hard and asked my older brother to tell the joke to him. So the conversation went as follows:

OB: Knock, knock
AB: Knock knock who
OB: No you're supposed to say who's there?
AB: ah, okay okay, do it again.
OB: Knock, knock
AB: Who's there (he smiled)
OB: Little old lady
AB: Who's there? (still smiling)
OB: No you're supposed to say little old lady who?
AB: Oh, oh, go again. sorry
OB: Little old lady
AB: Little.. old.. lady.. who?
OB: I didn't know you could yodel?
To which my adopted brother began an uproarious laughter. My brothers laughed shaking their heads.

My adopted brother then turned to my little brother and began the following conversation:

AB: Knock, knock.
YB: who's there?
AB: kran-ma
YB: (puzzled look on his face) grandma who?
AB: I didn't know you can yodels?
To which he began to laugh just as hard.
OB: You can't say grandma, you have to say "little old lady"
AB: grandma, little old lady, what's the different.

Some jokes, you just can't translate.