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Immigrant Dad Advice Column
I am having problems with my mother!
I am now a grown man. 18 years old! It is my first year of college and I’ve moved out of my home. I’m on my own for the first time, spending most of my time studying and working. But my mother doesn’t seem to understand that she has to let me go – let me spread my wings and soar! She calls me every day, every 3 hours. She visits my dorm every weekend, bringing food and cookies and clothes. It’s very embarrassing. How do I ask her to stop without hurting her feelings? Please help.
Your Favorite Study Buddy.
Dear Favorite Study Buddy,
You will honor her, you ungrateful little punk!
In motherland, there were no mothers. Men become men at the age of 6. I was raised by my father, a goat, and three hens. My school was the streets. My college, the war. Maybe if there were mothers, there’d be no war. A country full of men is war. I lost my father when I was 12, my goat when I was 9, but the hens still live. Somehow…
Appreciate your Mama! Next time you see your Mama, fall to her feet and recite Hail Mary, three times. You are lucky to have her. Don’t you dare upset her over your hurt feelings! You would have no foot to put down without her. So, put it in your mouth.
PS Is she single? What kind of cookies?
I can’t get out of bed. I lost my job. I lost my girl. My friends stopped asking me to go clubbing. I am in crisis. How do I lift myself from this? Therapy isn’t working. Hiking isn’t working. Not even the cottage! My life feels like a burning house. Please help me get out of this funk.
Drowning In Self-Pity City.
Yo Drowning In Self-Pity City,
Run towards the fire!
When you find yourself in crisis, you must hold on to your cojones! (For our gringo readers, cojones means balls!) If they are still intact, you scream at the top of your lungs; and then you run towards the fire! In my country, there was no such thing as a fire department. We put it out on our own. Buckets of water. Spit. And blood. Sometimes, other fluids. I will not elaborate. Be your own fire department. And then rebuild your house from the ground up. Get up, loser. Print a resume. Find new friends. Buy your own club.
PS What is a cottage?
Dear Immigrant Dad,
I need help with the landlord.
Our landlord is ridiculous. We have no heat in the winter, in the summer, there’s no air conditioning, and we can even hear mice in the walls! We write and complain and send emails but nothing happens. I would go to the housing board, but the rent is cheap and the location is prime. My roommates and I just want our rights. We pay on time. We keep the place clean. We fix whatever is broken. What should we do? We fear we’ll lose our home if we speak up.
Trapped In A Box.
Dear Trapped In A Box,
Now we are talking!
It’s time for revolution! You must topple the slumlord! You must end the reign of the dictator. Power comes from the people. That’s what they’ll never understand. When they take away your heating, you protest the energy companies. When your house is too hot, you burn it to the ground. When there are too much mice and insects, you trap them and release them into your enemy’s home. When the man brings his agents after you, you retreat and fight from the jungles. From the mountains. Guerrilla war is beautiful. But always remember, the true ingredient of revolution is love. The people are where the power is. And the power of the people comes from love.
Good luck, comrade.
PS Maybe find a better place too.
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Note from Editor: This magazine or publication does not endorse or condone any advice given or derived from so-called “immigrant dads.” Please do not follow any advice given in this article. Please! If you choose to do so, please do so at your discretion. This publication is not responsible for any injury or harm that may come from listening to crazy men.
100 Years Of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and anything by James Baldwin.