Fabian Perez red hat painting

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His features softened. "Yes, well. The Moishians is the Chosen Class."
"Chosen for what?"
His reply was matter-of-fact. "To suffer, dear Billy. Chosen to fail and suffer."
I pondered these words. "Who chose you to do that?"
Max smiled proudly. "Who's going to choose you to be a goat or an undergraduate? My boy, we chose ourselves. It's the Moishians' best talent: WESCAC puts it on our Aptitude Cards when we matriculate. I'll tell you one day."
I understood: he was not putting me off, but clearing way for more pressing inquiries. And though my curiosity was strong, it was no longer pressed. Great doors had quietly been opened; there stretched the wide campus and everything to be learned. But quite so, I had to learneverything, and those doors I felt were open now for good; there was no rush. I felt suddenly exhausted and relieved.
"Well," I asked him. "Are Moishians the same as goats?"
"Not all goats is Moishians," he replied with a smile, "but all Moishians is a little bit goat. Of course, there's goats and goats."
Now I wanted to know: was I a Moishian?