I was ten years old when the boys in my class asked me "Hey, are you a racist?" suspecting that I had absolutely no idea what it meant. In my mind, it could have been a) someone who runs, or b) somebody who liked rice. I liked both. So, I nodded, and said "yes! I'm a racist!" all day with pride.
I used to think manicurist meant maniac (as a result of reading Mia Thermopolis venting out about Paolo, her faux francais makeover artist), and went around calling everybody I didn't like 'manicurist'. Thankfully nobody understood what it meant either and thought I was a bit clever.
The same boys asked me if I wore boxers. At this point I genuinely had no idea what it meant so I simply nodded because we moved around a lot in UK and packed stuff up in boxes. Only when they asked if it was stripy that I began thinking, 'this does not seem quite right', and shuffled away.
I used to think manicurist meant maniac (as a result of reading Mia Thermopolis venting out about Paolo, her faux francais makeover artist), and went around calling everybody I didn't like 'manicurist'. Thankfully nobody understood what it meant either and thought I was a bit clever.
The same boys asked me if I wore boxers. At this point I genuinely had no idea what it meant so I simply nodded because we moved around a lot in UK and packed stuff up in boxes. Only when they asked if it was stripy that I began thinking, 'this does not seem quite right', and shuffled away.
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