Two Times Too Many Madeleine Albright November 3, 2007

“Why you do this? Why you give up top law school that not Harvard to work at law firm? You think working at law firm make you lawyer?,” my immigrant father inquires over the phone.
 
“Well,” I begin to reply, ”No, of course not, but–”
 
“You go to law school to be lawyer!”
 
“Yes. But I’ve met a lot of important people and been able to make a lot of connections–”
 
“You think knowing lawyer make you lawyer? Law school make you lawyer!”
 
“Yes, you’re right.”
 
“Of course I right! Really! What happen to you? You keep disappoint only!”
 
And the moment has come. I know that what is about to follow is a pause and on the other end of the phone, he will catch his breath and I will wait for the declaration that provides endless entertainment due to the pure absurdity of it, the inevitable remark that will ignore any achievement of mine in the past X amount of years and shed light on that Singular Moment my father has determined to be the end of the short-lived period whenst I was a good little obedient daughter. To my great amusement, wonder, and fear that these may be those early signs of Alzheimer’s you hear about, this Moment invariably changes, seeming to follow no obvious pattern. As a result, I have heard my father say I started making all the wrong decisions when you in 8th grade; when you 16 [Ed. Note: This one I can believe]; and now…
 
“Last time you make me proud in fifth grade.”
 
“Fifth grade, Father?”
 
“When Mrs. Grove invite you to dinner at her house at end of year for top students!”
 
“But graduating in the top of my class or being a National Merit Scholar or–”
 
“You remember Mrs. Grove? She say she so proud of you. She say you best student.”
 
“Yes, I remember Mrs. Grove.” And I do remember her. Or, rather, I remember her house and how it was very large and, more importantly, that during our tour of it, I noticed that there was a back staircase that led from one of the bedrooms to the patio door and even at that young age, I knew that something like that in my own house could be very useful in the future.
 
“I miss good days. You make good days again if you go to law school.
 
“Yes, I know.”
 
“You get old. Stop wasting time. You read Madeleine Albright memoir I send you? She good role model. You never forget about Madeleine Albright, O.K?“
 
I muffle my laughter.
  
I shouldn’t laugh. It’s not typically funny to hear from one’s father that the last Great Thing they did was get invited to a dinner held at their fifth grade teacher’s house for, most likely, reading the most books on the Scholastic Book List that year or having perfect attendance. Still, I laugh. Because it’s funny. Maybe not funny in the same way that I think Ali G is funny when he asks former CIA directors is yous worried dat da terrorists goin ta attack the White House with trains? or how I start laughing when I begin to imagine what it must have been like to be Kirk Fogg during his reign as host on Legends of the Hidden Temple, but funny.
 
What’s not funny is that I now have two copies of Madeleine Albright’s memoir, both courtesy of my father, both untouched, and both of which I cannot throw away due to deep harboring guilt, but cannot read due to inexplicable but absolutely mandatory pride.