“This isn’t what I was expecting. I really don’t like it.”

“Hangon a second…”
The waitress waltzes into the back.

An average size man, who needs to shave, pushes through the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. He storms up to the offending table. The lights dance in the sweat that covers his nearly bald head.

“Is there a problem?”

“Ah, I just really don’t like this.”

The cook pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes off his forehead. What is left of his dark hair is slicked back, and his sharp nose stabs in the direction of the offending patron.

“Well, don’t worry about paying for it then. And don’t worry about ever coming back here again, cus if you do, your dish will be well spiced with my favorite seasoning, rat poison.”

The cook ignores any reaction the customer might have and proceeds straight to the bar where I was sitting. He grabs a bottle of vodka and takes a long swig before heading back to the kitchen. At that moment, I fell in love with this place.

I found the perfect Italian restaurant. It is a hole in the wall just outside of Boston. On the TV was a Red Socks game and diner table conversation revolved around business. For example, it would not be a good idea to invite Rochelle to the picnic following little Pete’s baptism, because her brother still owed the family five thousand dollars. I was immersed in Italian American culture and it was great. Their accents were charming, the food was amazing, and never once did I expect to be fully informed of the details surrounding the events that took place around me. I was polite, and in turn, everyone else was civil. It reminded me of my last trip to Massachusetts.

Whenever I am going to be in an area for a week, I make sure to pick a local bar and go there every night. It is not until the third night that you can really see what is going on. It is not until you are either ignored or accepted by the regulars that you can truly see what an average night is like. I love the North East. There is so much history here. Last time I was up, I visited Americas fist medical library. I have seen the Liberty Bell and stood on the ground where the shot heard round the world. Old, here, has a different meaning then in Texas. But this sense of the past is not limited to the history that you can read about in the history books. Everyone knows everyone else’s family. A few months ago, when I was last in the Boston area, I made my home in an Irish pub. Although it bore a few similarities to the Italian place I just returned from, it was worlds apart.

Technically, the Irish beat the Italians. From 1800 to 1860 America was flooded with Irish immigrants. Most of these people were illiterate and found jobs in manual labor for an economy that was booming. Although the first generations of Irish immigrants were considered less then human and worked for a fraction of the wage that any other American would accept, they chose to retain a fraction of their dignity by keeping the traditions and customs of their motherland. It was not uncommon to see a sign outside a bar that read “No dogs or Irish allowed.”

The Italians followed suit. Starting in the 1880’s Italian immigration peaked. The children of these immigrants, attempting to find a place in the new world, were welcomed by the opportunities provided by Prohibition. The rest is history. To this day, the Italian Mafia controls most labor unions and has a well-known and powerful influence in the politics of this great nation.

The cycle continues. The Irish and Italians are considered valuable ingredients in the melting pot, however the flood of Mexican laborers, are viewed with contempt. Like the cultures that cam before them, they choose to retain an element of their heritage. Like a safety blanket, they cling to their past culture. This behavior is nothing new. Despite the constant ramblings of personalities on Fox News, and the likes of those who claim the name “Minute Men,” this trend is just the next page in the great American evolution.


It is fifty years from now. I am sitting in a rocking chair on my front porch, smoking a pipe, and listening to Slip Knot. My grandchildren are in the back room making fun of me for listening to old fart music, and wondering why I don’t understand their generation. Over the past thirty years, China has become more and more liberal. With a population greater then even this manufacturing powerhouse can sustain, a flood of Chinese immigrants are illegally crossing the border. They take manual labor jobs that no red blooded American would touch with a twenty foot pole, and they gladly work for less then the minimum wage of $15 an hour. We are having a cookout and my son’s coworker, Carlos, parks and walks up to the front of my house. Six pack in hand, he notices the newspaper at my feet. The headline reads, “Are Americas borders safe?” Carlos straightens his tie, “What do you think about those damn chinks sneaking into our country and stealing our hard earned jobs?” I pound my beer and smile. There is not use explaining it to the poor bastard. Fifty years from now he will understand.