“Honey I heard some music from your room last night. Were you singing?”
“Yes, Mom! I was rapping.”
“No,no! We are brown people. We don’t rap”.
“But I’m very good. My friends love my rap”.
“Are they rappers?”
“Then they don’t know, sweetie! No one’s friends know anything. Not even your dad’s. If you want to sing, may be learn the cello”.
“Oh! But can I learn the guitar instead?”
“Honey! We are brown people. We don’t play the guitar. Guitar is for underground white bands that are too people shy to exist above the ground”.
“Mom! Can I have a sleep over at my friend’s place?”
“Does she have a brother?”
“So his three year old brother isn’t a boy?”
“Well technically he is”.
“Okay. Can I go to spend a day?”
“You spend a day with her everyday at school”.
“Mom sometimes we want to enjoy each other in a different setting”.
“No, honey! We are brown people. Brown straight people. We don’t “enjoy” each other. Girls don’t enjoy each other. Girls just make friends.”
“Okay mom! But that leaves me no choice. I can’t be friends with boys and now I can’t enjoy my friends either? Who are girls”.
“Why do you have to have friends? Parents are your best friends”.
“Mom! Can I join the gym? Wanted to lose some weight before my homecoming party”.
“Honey! We don’t go to gym. We clean the house.”
“But I have to fit in my gown, mom”.
“My homecoming gown. You promised we will go shopping tomorrow”.
“I don’t remember that. I can’t possibly promise a gown. Why would I allow you to wear a gown? We are brown people. Why don’t you wear the new Peshwas that your Phuppo sent so lovingly from Pakistan for Eid. And you’re not allowed to go to the homecoming party. People get pregnant afterwards”.
“No, Mom! People have a good time”.
“Do you know what a good time means?”
“Sex and drugs.”
And so a quirky Pakistani grew up to continue the chain proudly.