This weekend, after a particularly exciting trip to a local trampoline park, Emily and I took our kids to a Mexican restaurant.
Obsessed with authentic tacos, it’s a place I’ve been wanting to try for years. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t cater to white Americans; the kind of place that doesn’t serve margaritas. Hell, they didn’t even serve chips and salsa.
Considering as much, me and my wife and our two very white American children were the only people in the place speaking English. And about halfway through our (absolutely stunningly excellent) meal, our five-year-old, who spent several weeks in France last summer, asked his mom, “Why is everyone in here speaking French?”
And so now we have to explain to him how any language that isn’t English isn’t French. Unless, of course, it’s French.