Month: February 2026

My Pronouns are Papa/Gringo

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Years ago, when I started as a college English Professor, I was the one teaching about pronouns.

I taught all the classic pronouns — personal, objective, possessive.

Now, we got new pronouns.

But only the people using those pronouns know the rules about using them.

I have one student who says:  “My pronouns are they/them.”

Okay.   I’m all about honoring personal choices.

But they said, “My pronouns are….”

Not “Our pronouns are.…”

Why must I refer to them in the plural when they refer to themselves in the singular?

That’s not equity.

That’s semantic discrimination. 

The Tao Goes Against the Flow

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I saw a big protest outside an elementary school.

Lots of activists, the usual e pluribus complainum crowd.

Big signs said:  “Stolen Land!” “No One is Illegal!” “ICE is illegal!” 

Musta been about forty people there, most of them under four feet tall.

The tall ones with the blue hair were teachers.

It’s not fair that teachers impose their political views on vulnerable kids, at least not before naptime.

That’s an abuse of power. Teachers can find that on Bumble.

So I decided to hold a counter protest — just me and my incredibly self-confident ego.

I got some old cardboard. I got a big black marker. And I wrote in big block letters so the blockheads could read it.

Then, I held up my sign from across the street from the school. I didn’t say a word. I just stood there. It was my John Cusack moment.

Before long, kids started crying. Then, the crying kids started to point. Then, all the kids got crying.

One of the blue-hair teachers came stamping across the street.

“What are you doing? That sign is disgusting!”

“At least, it’s true,” I tell her.

She says: “These kids are six years old! They don’t need you spoiling Santa Claus!”

“Okay,” I say. “You end your protest. I’ll end mine.”

Upshot:  In case you’re wondering, it can take a whole night before you make bail.

The Tao & the Weekly Exercise Tip

/ Papa Gringo / 1 Comment

I went grocery shopping today. Here in San Francisco, getting groceries has become an obstacle course. It’s how I get my weekly exercise.

It starts as soon as I park. Before I’m even outta the car, there’s a tap on the window. It’s the box boy.

“Roll it down!”

I roll it down.

He says he’s out here “collecting shopping carts… you know… Tips!”  He flips his phone in my face. He’s got the TipMo app. The screen says: $1 / $2 / $3.

A tip? For what? Maybe I’m going to the post office. Maybe I’m here to meet a Tinder date.

Way back in the 70s, when I worked as a box boy, I never got no tips. I double-bagged groceries, I pushed heavy carts through parking lots, I loaded up trunk after trunk. Maybe I’d get a nickel. Maybe I’d get a dime, a silver dime if I was lucky.

I look at the box boy at my window: “Hold on a sec… Maybe I got some change.”

Then, while I’m fingering junk in the cup holder, the box boy loses his patience and slinks off to pursue more promising prey.

That’s when I make my move!

I’m out of my car, dashing past the empty Waymos. When I get to the train of shopping carts, I tug and I tug till I yank one loose.

Fortunately, it’s a weekday morning. There’s no kids around, no one selling TranScout cookies.

Right as the automatic door swings open, a woman with a clipboard needs a couple signatures.

“Maybe later!” I say. I try to push past her.

But she flips her phone around in my face: $2 / $4 / $6.

I fake a grab at the clipboard, then cut left, squeeze right… I’m into the store! Touchdown!

So, I’m in the produce section, but I can’t find the Honeycrisp apples. I ask the guy stocking the broccoli. “Honeycrisp apples?” he asks. He pulls out his phone to check their location. “Oh! Oh! Over here!” And leads me to the apples.

And I am so grateful for this small simple kindness. I say, “Thank you so much!”

He flips his phone around: $3 / $6 / $9.

I can’t believe it!

I tap a nearby woman squeezing cucumbers.

“What’s with all this tipping?”

“Times are tough!” She flips her phone around: $12.95.

That’s enough exercise for one week.