Speak English

As a child growing up in upstate New York, I attended an ethnic parochial school which required all students to learn Polish. We needed to learn Polish because we resided in ethnic localities in which the majority of the populace spoke a particular language. I was reared in a Polish a neighborhood. Beginning in first grade I studied the Polish language in both the spoken and written word. This effort continued until I left for high school.

But, those eight painful years also included learning English and Latin. My math is correct. I went from an elementary school directly into high school.

We learned Latin because the Catholic mass was held in Latin; English was learned in order to get a job in America in later life.

My language woes were over once in high school – or so I thought. This institution was adamant each student learn a foreign language for the next four years. Unfortunately, Polish and Latin were not choices; French, Spanish, and German, were.

Since I watched a lot of WWII movies, I decided to learn German and see if they were really speaking German in those war movies. They were.

Upon graduation from high school I had several different languages under my belt but, what people don’t tell you is that ‘if you don’t use it, you lose it.’

Then I acquired a job as a garbage man with my route being in the Italian section of town. You guessed it – I picked up some conversational Italian along the way but, only enough to embarrass me while testing freshly-opened homemade wines from my generous customers. I can now swear like an Olympic-class curser in five different languages, and I’m proud of it.

Languages need to be used and exercised nearly every day, however. If you don’t, your brain will begin reaching into the foreign vocabulary closet for the appropriate words when speaking to someone.

A sentence consisting of some English, a couple of Polish, one Italian, and three German words often ruins point and causes confusion. Medical professionals often suspect a stroke and must be re-assured.

While at work, I had some dealings with the Chinese, and reading and pronouncing Chinese words and names needed work on my part. So, I took a language class in Chinese. It was a short course in conversational Mandarin Chinese.

To keep this language firmly ensconced in my cranium, I decided to both exercise my modest abilities and demonstrate my prowess. A few fellow workers joined together at a local Chinese restaurant and, yes, I ordered in my newly-learned language.

When asked what I would have, I proudly said, “Wǒ yǒu wǔ zhǐ zài wǒ de kùzi.”

The waiter laughed and nodded with a nervous smile. All around the table were duly impressed. After excusing myself to wash my hands, I caught our waiter and told him I wanted lo mein. He then asked me why I told him I had five rabbits I my pants.

Just speak English.

Cowboys and who?

While at the doctor’s office recently, I was filling out forms when I happened upon a question that seemed to be more of a test than an inquiry. “Best describe your ethnicity: White, Hispanic, African-American, Native American, other. Circle one.”

Of course, I became perplexed. Going back to my school daze days, I used the elimination process I was taught back when. I’m not Hispanic, and I wasn’t brought to this country from Africa. Although I look “White” as a Caucasian, I felt “Native American” fit the answer to this question, best.

My sainted wife – I often call her ‘Hawk,’ because of her sharp-eyed scrutiny of my every action – did a double take and quickly pointed out that I was not – NOT – a Native American.

“Native Americans are Indians!” she insisted.

Once again, I reverted to my school daze days and pensively recalled Indians being people whose skins were reddish in color. They were often the opponents in western movies and TV shows that featured cowboys and Indians.

Indians wore loin cloths and adorned their hair with feathers, their skin with war paint, carrying bows and arrows and tomahawks to better dispatch their foes.

Somewhere in elementary school we learned about The Battle of Little Bighorn. In 1867, General George Custer – known as an “Indian Fighter” - and 700 soldiers were stationed in The Montana Territory, many of whom were massacred by thousands of Indians from several Indian tribes.

Then, I recalled my high school mascot was an Indian warrior; our team was named the Red Raiders. Nobody mistook this imaginary figure for someone from New Delhi, but rather as an honoree depicting strength and determination that depicted our sports teams.

Somewhere along the way, politically correct whiners insisted this representation of virility and fortitude needed to be put to rest and history re-written. The Indians were re-engineered to be portrayed as devout custodians of the land and lovers of all men who crossed their paths. But, I digress.

Native American, as a description for my ethnicity, although I never raised a Bowie knife or wore paint on my face, seemed to fit the bill.

After all, a person born in Italy is a native Italian, a person born in Mexico is a native Mexican, and a person born in Australia is a native Australian. Therefore, I am a Native American.

It is too bad the politically correct crowd didn’t learn history and English. It is also a shame we may have to change the name of that children’s game to ‘Cowboys and Native Americans.”

Dear Mr. Montonunu

Every day I get luckier and luckier. Of course I play the lottery and occasionally have a modest winning ticket. Those winners usually amount to either two-dollars or a free ticket. Not necessarily the stuff dreams are made of. None the less, I endure.

When playing lottery games one must be aware of the ‘odds’ associated therewith. The odds are estimates as to how many tries it should take to win the jackpot in that particular game. The more numbers required to correctly select in order to win, the higher the odds.

One multi-state lottery game requires a player to select five numbers from a choice of 59, plus an extra ball from a choice of 39. The odds of picking all those numbers correctly aren’t as astronomical as one would surmise. Odds are only 1 in 195,249,054. That’s pretty much akin to expecting a visit from Gordon Ramsey, wearing a toga and riding an ostrich, on Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, those free ticket and two-dollar coups are not making me rich. But, today is my lucky day and I feel compelled to share it with you.

I received an e-mail that promises to change my life. It was from Kwame Ungutari, Minister of Finance in the Republic of Togo.

It seems that Mr. Ungutari got my name and e-mail information from a secret source and feels as though I am trustworthy enough to get involved with a Republic of Togo financial matter.

Mr. Ungutari said that there is $65,000,000 USD in an undisclosed bank account and he needs me to only give him access to my bank account, along with my Social Security Number. He assures me this is on the up-and-up and the money will be transferred to my account, soon. What could possibly go wrong?

Some sort of unforeseen snag occurred, though. Mr. Ungutari needs me to send him a small check for $40,000 for processing and to prove my bank account is, indeed, mine. That seems like a pittance compared to the real money I’ll get from him, for simply giving him a bit of information, “soon.”

Yes, my ship has come in but, don’t think I’m dumb enough to put all my proverbial eggs in one basket. No, I am pleased to announce that I was blessed enough to actually receive another, similar letter from a Mr. Moganda Montonunu, who lives in Zimbabwe. He is the sole heir to an uncle who recently died and left him with $92,540,031 USD that he promised to share if he, too, could use my bank account.

I feel so blessed that Mr. Montonunu also feels I can be trusted with all that money, even without ever meeting me. It's clear there's an overabundance of unclaimed cash on the African continent.

Here’s my public plea: I would like everyone to stop sending me all this money as my bank is pretty small and I’m sure that kind of cash wouldn’t fit inside. Please give your money to other people. Thanks.

Bad boys, bad boys

Every once in a great while, we at www.EasternShoreFishandGame.com like to provide a public service. This day finds us offering selected advice that is worth exactly what it cost you – nothing.

Uncertain as to how many felons or other law-breakers regularly visit us, it is here these nefarious types can get some tips that may be of assistance for their first, or next, meeting with law enforcement personnel.

Upon seeing emergency lights and hearing a siren pursuing you, stop. This is not only a suggestion, but it is also the law.

Jumping from your vehicle and running like a gazelle won’t ingratiate you with the local constabulary. Police will follow you as your actions just indicated something suspicious is afoot as most people don’t exhibit that sort of questionable behavior. And, they will catch you.

When you are caught, don’t say, “I was scared! That’s why I ran.” Your fellow roommates in the county jail will view you as weak and that will likely make you someone’s girlfriend. Now you will really be scared.

During questioning the police detect an aroma of marijuana on you; you should tell the truth when you are asked about your dalliances with illegal hallucinogens. You may be able to fool the officer but, you won’t be able to fool the drug-sniffing dog.

If it comes to a vehicle search, and you know you have contraband in your vehicle, you can either man-up or run like a gazelle. This choice is yours and yours alone.

Using stories such as “I loaned my car to my cousin so, I don’t know what’s in it,” is a really stale excuse. I’ll wager that if the police found a shoebox full of twenties in the trunk, you would lay claim to it but, not the bale of weed. You can’t have it both ways.

As soon as the cops find a crack pipe under your seat don’t lie and deny it belongs to you, either. Lying about it belonging to your homeboy designates you as a coward. If you’re reading this while stoned, you will probably not remember the “I was scared!” line above. Please take note of this important freebie.

Police also do not like being spat upon or kicked, lied to, or having to run. They do relish being justified for using their guns so, don’t give them a chance. Simply comply with the orders they give.

Or better yet, don’t break the law in the first place.