Last night Will was reading Twelfth Night to me and somewhere in act 4 there was this quotation: That that is, is.
Which reminded me the stupid line I learned in LA and kept repeating for no apparent reason: It is what it is.
Which reminded me the day I asked a musician in Viper Room what is “a duchebag” because everybody kept using the word and I’m sure it was never mentioned in any of the English classes I took for 9 years.
And then had a panic attack: I’ll spend most of my summer without Will’s protective aid. What if I say the wrong thing in front of his parents? What if I pick an awful word and use it without realizing how offensive it is? What if I don’t get his friends’ jokes? What if I’m really the “immigrant”, the person who uses boring text book words and can’t be funny even if her life depends on it?
And then I remembered the small person I was holding last Saturday, Maria’s baby son. He doesn’t even speak a word I know and he made me laugh out loud so many times, I had tears in my eyes. And if a 1,5 year old can communicate with his family and friends, I can do it too.