Our dinner conversation the other day ended up focusing on different cultures and ways of living. We talked about different religions, the different ways people dressed, different eating habits, the whole thing.

Somewhere in that conversation, I brought up Burkas.

“They’re these robes that the women have to wear, and they cover their whole body, even their faces.”

“Wow,” my oldest said. “Even their eyes?”

“No. I think they peek out through little eye slits. But there might be veils. I’m not sure.”

“The problem is that in some places the women are forced to wear them,” my wife added. “Women aren’t allowed out in public without being completely covered, and that’s not right.”

We’re all about tolerance in my household, except when it comes to intolerance. I’m afraid the cultures that force people to do things don’t get much good PR around our dinner table.

“What color?” the big guy asked.

“Black,  I think.” I answered. “At least that’s what they are in the pictures I’ve seen.”

“Yeah,” my wife agreed. “I think they’re black.”

My son’s eyes widened “You mean, like Ninjas?”

Hmm… Black robes, covered faces, they get in trouble for taking them off… I guess they might be.

A few weeks back, as I was taking the boys to the bathroom at Aquatica, I had an interesting moment. We were waiting for my youngest son to finish, and my oldest son was practicing snapping. He was snapping with both hands at the same time, and looking awfully proud of himself.

“Cool,” I said. “Now try this. Hold your left hand up high and snap.”

He did it.

“Now do it again, but as soon as you snap with your left hand, snap with your right, and keep your right hand in a fist.”

He did it.

“Okay,” I said. “Now after both have snapped, slap your left down on top of your right, twice.”

I showed him how: snap-snap, slap-slap.

He grinned and tried. After a couple tries, he got it right.

“Hey,” a man said as he walked by. “I remember my Poppy teachin’ me that.” He did it twice quickly.

My son’s eyes widened and he did it again. 

The man laughed. “You got it.”

Another man walked by, chuckling.

My youngest joined us at the sinks and washed hands, then we headed out.

“Hey,” an older man called out as we walked around the corner. He did the full routine for us, snapping, slapping, and waving while he called out whoop-whoop. Then he put his hand between his eyes in the classic Curly block for the traditional eye-poke.

My son did his new trick.

The man laughed. “Nyuck, nyuck!”

“Soitanly,” I responded.

I don’t know anything about Curly (other than that he was in the Stooges), but I’d imagine he would have gotten quite a chuckle out of the whole thing.