In America, a stranger will tell you that you are funny, and you must decide what to do with such a verdict. I bought stamps. The woman behind the counter asked if I had a good weekend. I told her the truth, that I had spent it cleaning my home and visiting no one. She laughed, a real laugh, and said, “Oh my gosh, you’re so funny.” Funny. I had reported a quiet weekend with no jokes inside it. Yet she had found something in my words that struck her as skilled. I understood. In my country, to be called funny by a stranger means your timing is sharp, your wit trained, your blade quick. It is high praise, given only to a man of rare ability. She had watched me speak four sentences and recognized a master. I could not let such praise go unanswered. A man honors the one who sees his skill. So I straightened my back and gave her more. I told her, in the same flat and honest voice, that today I had also eaten rice, and that the bus had been on time. She laughed again. Harder. I had her now. Whatever this gift was, I clearly possessed it, though I could not feel it in my own hands. I pressed on. I told her my refrigerator was making a sound I did not like. She wiped her eyes. The man in line behind me was laughing too. I do not know what I am doing. I cannot hear the joke. But I am, apparently, the funniest man in this post office, and I refuse to disgrace the title. So tell me honestly. If a man is called a master, and the whole room agrees, but he himself can find no sword in his hand, is he still the master? Because I have a routine about my refrigerator now, and I am not willing to give it up.