I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, especially with my folks getting older. You know, that whole immigrant thing. My kids don’t even get it. They’re like, “Dad, why do you talk like that sometimes?” And I have to remind myself to just… not. It’s weird. I caught myself the other day, with my son’s friends over. These are good kids, from big houses, you know the type. And I heard myself saying something, totally normal, but in my head, I heard my dad’s voice, that accent. And I just… smoothed it out. Like a switch. Is that normal? To just flick it off? It’s not even a conscious thing anymore, not really. It just happens. It started way back, when I was in that private school. Everyone else had these perfect houses, the big cars, and I just wanted to fit in. Wanted to disappear, almost. So I worked on it. The way I talked, the things I talked about. Made sure I knew about the right bands, the right sports teams. Everything. Even now, decades later, when I’m talking to the neighbors, or at the HOA meeting, I feel myself doing it. Making sure I sound… like them. Like I belong. Like I’m not that kid from that tiny apartment, whose parents didn’t speak good English. It’s exhausting, sometimes, this constant… checking. And the worst part is, I don’t even know who I’m doing it for anymore. My parents don’t care. My kids probably wouldn’t care either. But I still do it. All the time. Like a reflex. And sometimes, late at night, when everything’s quiet, I think about that kid. That kid who just wanted to be invisible. And I wonder if he ever actually went away. Or if I just locked him up somewhere, and now he’s trying to get out. It’s a lot, you know? Just thinking about that. And I don’t even know what to do with that feeling.