Trinidad, an island in the Caribbean. I remember when I was older, asking my dad, “What is Trinidad known for?”
He would say, “It’s basically a landing strip for the U.S. during wartime.”
“Dad, come on. We’ve got to be known for something besides that.”
“The island’s chief economy is oil. However, it’s believed that we’re just tapping a Venezuelan oil vein and the proceeds rightfully do not belong to us at all.”
“We have the best carnival in the world.”
“You mean that drunken orgy that goes on for a couple of weeks? Where people do unspeakable things to one another that they can get away with doing because they’re wearing masks and, well, because Lent is around the corner; they can fast to repent for their sins then?”
“It’s not like that. The natives spend all year on the costumes. Their creations are a sight to behold.”
Honestly when we’re not busting each other’s chops about our island heritage (which we’re actually rather proud of), we’re reminiscing about our colorful childhoods. His war stories are epic. And one of these days I owe it to both my parents, for having the foresight to bear me in such an island paradise, to write about it.
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