Robert McGregor is not my dad. Not my real dad.
My real dad is Samoan. American Samoan.
His name is Watu-Watu.
He never cuts his hair, but he’s got tattoos all over his stomach for all the men he’s killed. Like his whole stomach is one big tattoo.
He’ll pretty much do anything I want because American Samoan dads have to obey their sons. So, if I wanted him to rip off your ear or something, he would. Without hesitation.
He has to do what I say. It’s our culture.
His name means “jaguar hurricane.”
I haven’t been given my native name yet because you’ve got to spend a week at sea by yourself with just a rope and a spear. That’s next summer though. In the Pacific.
What’s his job? He works for the American Samoan Delta Force. And he’s our chief.
Tonight we’re going to a bar for dinner. He lets me get beer.
Sometimes we get drunk together and start bar fights.
He taught me how to glass somebody. You know what that is, right? It’s when you smash a beer glass in someone’s eye. Then they’re blind.
We do that all the time.
In fact, he should be here any minute. You can stick around to meet him, but I can’t guarantee that he won’t break your jaw just to make me laugh. He’s crazy like that.
And he has immunity, so he can’t go to jail.
