I kiss my teeth

the non-immigrant father's greatest fear.

My dad says America is a trap.

Before you know it you’ll be stuck in a mountain
of loans,
and debts
and leases
and overdraft
and mortgage
the damn mortgage…

I kiss my teeth.

I tell him I won’t fall into some mouse trap;
that I’m smarter than that.

You are smart, you have a sharp eye,
but this trap, it’s not like a mouse trap,
It’s not one you can see, even with your sharp eye.
It's like quicksand
… it's when you try to move that you realize you’re stuck.

I counter his metaphor wittingly
naively
stubbornly
foolishly - pointing out that you can escape quicksand simply by laying on your back, and paddling backwards.

He shakes his head.
I kiss my teeth.

Despite my foolishness, he is relentless.

He delves into his disapproval
disdain
disgust
hatred of American culture.

Not that of extreme liberalism,
the culture that makes my uncles spit in disgust and aunties gag in distaste,
But that of consumerism…

It’s a sin worse than homosexuality or premarital sex…
a sin equivalent to murder!

I point out how outrageous he sounds…

That if consumerism were equivalent to murder, America would be living in the purge.

It is!

He shakes his head.
I kiss my teeth.

He speaks of the culture of living beyond one’s needs,
of living on money not earned.

It’s all a part of their plan… he explains.

He speaks of the ease of obtaining credit cards and loans,
That it’s all a meticulous scheme to indebt
exploit
control
enslave me,
to bind me to a life of financial servitude.

Capitalism is a scam… he insists.

He speaks of the buy now pay later mantra,

Revealing how advertisements and societal norms,
are pushed by business empires and corporate giants,
to encourage the purchase of the newest gadgets,
and cars,
and fashion,
to convince me the life on that billboard can be mine…

That it can all be oh-so-easily financed
by readily accessible money
credit -
making it feel like a lifestyle
that I have not earned
is within my very reach - at the tip of my fingertips
at the tap of my credit card.

Tell me, how does it make sense that you can get a Tesla for just $300 a month!?... he cries.

He speaks of his hatred for immediate, short-term gratification,
of its detrimental effects
on discipline
on work ethic
on personal growth.
and he speaks of the mortgage…
the damn mortgage.

It’s a staircase, descending into perpetual debt, into a life you don’t want to live!… he raves.

the pursuit
of education

turns into the
pursuit of a job

turns into the
pursuit of a promotion

turns into the pursuit
of homeownership

turns into the pursuit
of a family!

A family stripped from its mother-land!
A family that’ll never enjoy banter in its mother-tongue!

A family that’ll never know its true roots!
A family that’ll unsuccessfully try to shove its roots down foreign soil,
only to discover there’s no place for it in the soil of its native land either!

My family will have its roots, I guarantee
I assure
I hypothesize
I begin to question….

What good is having roots, if you have no where to plant them?... he concludes.

Brick by brick, he tears down the yellow-bricked,
red-roofed,
green-lawned house that I used to draw…
the house that was once my manifestation of the American Dream.

Silently,
I question why he and my mother went through hell and back to give us blue passports,
if he hates this country so much.
Silently.

Please don’t stay there… he pleads.

I tell him he’s projecting.
That this whole philosophy is just a product of his self-proclaimed biggest fear:
that I will follow in the footsteps of his sister -
the sister that moved to the states 22 years ago for school,
the one that now lives in philly;
and the other one, that now lives in Virginia;
and the other one, that now lives in Maryland.

Today, I found out the word mortgage comes from two old french words:

“mort” - death, and “gage” - pledge.

the damn mortgage
Death Pledge.

I miss my credit card payment.
He shakes his head.
I kiss my teeth.

I cry.

It’s called the American Dream, because you have to be asleep to believe it

- George Carlin