Caleb brought in the paper this morning, very excited.
“Look mommy! Fuggies!” (Which in Caleb-speak means “thuggies.” Caleb hasn’t quite gotten his mouth around the “th” sound. I blame the pacifier – and thus, of course, my spineless self).
“See! Fuggies, fuggies!” He thumped the front-page photo for emphasis: a group of Pakistani men returning to their village. One of the men wears a turban; all of the men wear blankets wrapped around their shoulders.
“They are probably going on a hunt for jewels,” Caleb went on, nodding wisely. “Dat’s what fuggies do.”
I looked at the photo, looked at Caleb, looked at Liam, who was nodding agreement with his brother. “How do you know they are thugs?” I asked.
Caleb, exasperated: “Mommy! Because of Indiana Jones!”
What he’s saying is funny, of course, but slightly troubling, too, particularly because when Caleb and Liam look at pictures from their grandfather’s childhood in Karachi, they will see men dressed very similarly to the men in this photo. I’d rather they didn’t think that all men in turbans are fugs. I mean thugs.
Unfortunately, I think Indiana Jones carries more weight with them than I do.
Fanks very much, Mr. Spielberg.