My Uncle, the immigrant

Uncle G: Pulls up a chair and sits at the head of his dinning table, sets his old leather attache case down on the table and unlocks it, his face contorted in the kind of severe seriousness I notice only on immigrants. The folds I see now on his face, I see only when he reads the electric bill or the phone bill or any kind of bill as though the demand for immediate payment were something grave and tragic. He digs in that box for something important, dutifully setting aside documents and files, parting old pay-stubs from dated certificates; sometimes discovering, on his way down, lost nuggets of important or nostalgic things: an old picture of a deceased relative loosens his brow and he calls me over for show and tell. "Oh I am so happy I found this" he proclaims like he had never stopped looking for it. And after he has sworn to never lose it again, he nestles it right back in the spot from which he had just salvaged it.

On he goes, digging deeper, through old receipts from purchases long forgotten that have grown and settled in the shadows of that box like dust; and yet this man, who has never found a scrap of paper too small to be trashed, or a stain of something white, too faint, to be rubbed off, will inter these scraps of useless miscellanea right back in that box, after his search is complete. Some dirt are just worth saving.

He finds it, his phone-book. Tonight, like every other night, he will unwind from an honest-immigrants days struggle by enjoying the only work of literature he will ever write. Bound in weathered brown leather, this book no bigger than the span of his hands comforts him in ways his Americanized kids were doomed to fail from the start. Once upon a time my uncle tells me, "just after I came to this country at 23, I had my first son. My mother told me he'd be like a brother to me since I was such a young father. Now look at him, doo-rag and braided hair, hip-hop music and over-sized pants. This is not my brother; He is nothing like me."

He identifies with every immigrants struggle as though they were those of his own family; "look at what they do to my brother," he says of the Malaysian security guard at work, who is too sick to work but too poor to quit. "If they fire him, I will leave" he says, more a curse than a threat. For over 20 years he has worked for the state government as an accountant, and aquired for himself what many consider emblems of the American dream: A car, a house, health insurance, a retirement plan; and yet his alliance lies more with an immigrant stuck in the ghettos of Newark, New Jersey than with his suburbian middle class American neighbor.

The foundations of that alliance lie in the pages of that book and with each new name entered, it confirms for my uncle that the alliance is growing. Every call made, strenghtens it and comforts him.

He hits the speaker button on the phone and dials...

Uncle G: Hello
Ms. Ama: Hi, who is this?
Uncle G: Ama, it's me, G.
Ms. Ama: Oh hey, how are you doing.
Unce G: I'm ok. How are you?
Ms. Ama: could be better
Uncle G: How are the kids
Ms. Ama: Fine. Just fine.
Uncle G: Well just called to see how you were doing
Ms. Ama: Ok
Uncle G: Ok then, Bye.

He hangs up. Waits a minute and dials another number

Uncle G: Hey OC, its G
OC: Oh hey! How are you.
Uncle G: Staying strong man. You?
OC: I'm well, just the weather. Hows the weather there?
Uncle G: 35 and overcast... oh well I'll survive. Just called to say hello
OC: Thanks man.
Uncle G: Speak to you soon ok?
OC: Ok
Uncle G: Bye

He gets up to drink some water and settles right back in his chair. Flips the pages of the phone book and dials again

Uncle G: Hey Judith, its G
Judith: How are you, it's been so long
Uncle G: I know how are you doing?
Judith: Good. Good. What about you?
Uncle G: I'm ok, just called to see how you're hanging?
Judith: I'm ok, healthy thank God
Uncle G: That's good. That's Good to hear. Well thats really all I called about
Judith: Oh thank you. Talk to you soon
Uncle G: Bye

He flips some more pages when the phone rings. This time he opts for the reciever.

Uncle G: Hello?
Friend: ......
Uncle G: Oh KC. Whats up man? Its been so long
Friend: ......
Uncle G: I know, I know, its 35 and cloudy here. Thats America and their winter.
Friend: .....
Uncle G: Yeah, well its good to hear from you
Friend: ......
Uncle G: Thanks for calling
Friend: .......
Uncle G: Bye

He hangs up, smiles and declares more to himself than me, "thank God he called. Saves me the trouble of calling him" and continues to flip his book. He will call 7 more and recieve several calls before reading his bible and turning in for night.

Word of the day: Quotidian (kwo TID ee en)
This one means "occurring everyday" or something "commonly occurring" or "commonplace". I say: I wish this was a quotidian blog but I get so lazy about writing everytime I think of it. And even worse I have "completion-anxiety" which means, before I get started, I fear I won't finish so I opt out of starting altogether. Kinda kooky, I know but, thats me.