Back to Basics #2

Today I ventured to the land of my alma mater, Berkeley. As the day progressed, I joined some friends for lunch in the hills of Tilden Park. Despite my love of Tilden, I can never figure out how to get there. The roads leading to the park are narrow and circuitous, and even though I’ve visited Tilden a million times, I’m always surprised when I find the entrance. This is not a criticism of the park’s general location; rather, this is a reflection of my absentmindedness and complete lack of directional sense.

Lunch was an enjoyable affair until my friend’s three year-old declared that I am NOT his favorite adult. Thank you, Johnny. Now I’ve experienced rejection on so many fronts that I can now add Alienation from Toddlers to the list.

The criticisms continued on the Berkeley campus.

As I passed the picturesque Wheeler Hall, I asked three girls to take my photograph. The girls were very conscientious, and in broken English they inquired about the appropriate angle at which to hold the camera, as well as the amount of sky I desired above the roofline. I was impressed; clearly, English was not their first language, yet they asked many thoughtful questions about taking a nice picture. When people ask me for a photograph, they’re just lucky if I remember to remove the lens cover.

Later, as I wandered the campus, I saw the girls again. This time, however, the trio quickened their pace toward me. The leader, hereafter named Spinach – she had some salad in between her teeth – stopped short an inch from my face. As I stared at the glistening remainder of a salad, she boldly stated, “You do not speak English like a native!”

“Yes, that’s right!” said Glasses, her earnest friend. “You do not speak English like the other Americans!”

Meanwhile, Backpack remained in the distance, glowering. She scared me the most. With Spinach and Glasses, I knew where I stood. Backpack, however, was an unknown quantity. Who knew what treacherous thoughts she was thinking!

Ever the coward, I used humor to deflect the situation. “Well,” I laughed, “I was born here!”

Spinach and Glasses exchanged glances of disbelief while Backpack continued to stare.

In the midst of our icy standoff, I noted the irony of the situation: the Language Police was accosting me at the institution that had granted me a degree in ENGLISH LIT!

After a few more idiotic assurances – “Yes, I was born here,” and “Yes, I graduated from here,” – I extricated myself from the girls. As I left campus I wondered if I had misinterpreted their comments. Perhaps I had overreacted? What if they meant it as a compliment? Maybe they mistook my speech for that of William Shakespeare! Or possibly I mimic the sophisticated stylings of Snoop Doggy Dogg!

After all, even three year-olds have stuff to say about me!