Sorry To Keep You Waiting...I Didn't See You Come In

Summer is bearing down upon us, and with it comes the proliferation of street festivals in celebration of the rich ethnic heritages of the proud Hyphenated-Americans. Downtowns will be barricaded, tents will billow above the asphalt and the heavy summer air will explode with aromas of old country cooking.

Swarthy Italian-American teens adorned in wife-beater tees and gold chains will communicate via crotch-grabs, exhibiting the proud culture they have learned from Don Corleone and Tony Soprano. Never mind that they can’t find Italy on a map of Italy. Greek-Americans will dance a confused Fiddler On The Roof jig. Wrong ethnicity, but who am I to question their proud heritage? Afro-Americans, Hispanic-Americans, Polish-Americans; all will jubilantly revel in the warm glow of the remnants of their highly diluted ethnicities.

I need a hyphen. I crave an ethnicity. I feel so invisible. I’m pretty sure I could walk through walls, but who would notice? After all, I walk through a door and nobody notices.

By the powers vested in me as an armchair Presbyterian, I hereby declare myself a Beige-American. Unassuming. Unobtrusive. Safe. Goes with anything. Provides a subtle background for the vibrant colors without detracting from them.

And I hereby declare Beige-American History Month. We will celebrate our heritage by making our beds and taking the garbage out. Bric-a-brac subdivisions in suburbs of Anytown, USA will erect barricades for Beige-American Fest. We’ll run through the sprinkler and play kick the can. Food booths will vend pickle loaf on white bread and vanilla ice cream. Not French Vanilla. just plain vanilla. We’ll eat school paste and wash it down with hose water. Leave It To Beaver will play on the big screen at sundown. No dancing, because we can’t. No fireworks, because they could put an eye out. Thousands of chalky-complected families adorned in bermuda shorts, black socks and sandals will join a pilgrimage of tan Chevy sedans to an industrial park on the outskirts of town to witness the unveiling of the Beige-American Monument: a paper-mache three-bedroom ranch with central air. Carousel upon carousel will be filled with Kodachrome slides as shutterbugs provide the archival record of the event.

When day is done, we will bathe with 99.9% pure Ivory soap and slather our burned flesh with Unguentine. We’ll recite our Now I lay Me Down To Sleeps, slide between our crisp white sheets and fade back into anonymity.

But, boy, we sure raised some gosh darned heck, didn’t we?