While the Warriors played their championship win this week, I noticed an interesting cultural phenomena on my street Tuesday night.
My Indian neighbors – those who have come to the US for the tech jobs – were hooting and hollering like the best of us over the game.
Their voices flowed out of their open windows and crossed the street to my house.
The American assimilation had begun.
One family has two children, a white Lab, and a Volvo. They’ve already been seduced.
Another family has a daughter in the elementary school around the corner. I often hear her arguing with her mother in perfect kid-lingo, sounding like a typical spoiled American child, while her mother answers her in her language.
I grew up in foreign countries.
I know what it’s like to be on foreign soil, eating different food, hearing another language all day long.
So a basketball game makes a lot of sense.
There’s no need for subtitles.
A basket is a basket.
A foul is a foul.
And a shouting coach needs no interpretation in any language.
I remember going to bullfights.
I would always cheer for the bull.
Calvin says, “You would. You prefer animals to people anyway.”