Wherin I start to talk about one thing and end up somewhere else; what else is new

I was outside the city's convention center earlier this week taking a smoke break from the day-long seminar when a woman approached me. She was amicable and told me she had a small bag of items for sale as she pulled out the first, a pair of flip-flops. My daughter loves flip-flops, so I listened as she pulled more items from the bag, expecting a variety of footwear to choose from. As she presented each item, different from the last, she primarily described each one as new and never opened.

One pair of flip-flops. One bottle of lotion. One t-shirt. One comb. One wash cloth. One bar of soap. One bottle of shampoo.

You've probably figured it out already. She offered the bag for $6 to cover bus fare and food, I took the offer as the items were handy and worth that much so whythehellnot, and she continued on her way. But it bugged me. Why different items? Did she go through cupboards to get a few items to sell for quick cash? Why just one washcloth? No, I didn't put it together until the next morning.

As I handed the flip-flops to my daughter I immediately realized, "homeless shelter handouts". Duh. Now that I solved that slightly nagging question something else replaced it: the "what if's" and "coulda's". What if I realized this at the time, what could I have done different? Could I have offered some items back if she needed them? Could I have asked if she gets these things each time, and after a while rolls her eyes at being provided a year's supply of lotion each night while, for instance, never being provided bus fare to bounce around from poorly located service to poorly located service? I don't know, because my chance to ask has passed.

But maybe it doesn't matter. At the time I figured "There's something about the items I don't get, but the value is right and the items useful", which is pretty much any transaction. Do I need it? Is the price fair? That's about it - why does it have to be more than that just because it did not take place in a dollar store?

Which brings me to mom. Oh, mom, I never knew you, did I? I thought I did, but sadly, I have to admit after all these years, the person I really knew was dad and I just blindly assumed that it extended to you, also. I realize that you just plain never spoke up about things, and I assumed that was agreement with your spouse.

That's a sucky realization to be making at 41 - about my assumptions.

We visited my parents two weeks ago for a few days when they came to the east coast to vacation. With them in the car on the way to somewhere in their area, we pass by a man holding a sign that says, "Will work for food". Mom, in the back seat with the kids, points this out and then declares that the man is lying, that "they" are all liars, lazy, and just want money to buy booze. It was like Bad Stereotype Virus just invaded her brain and took over. But it wasn't. The difference is that now she has found her voice (stereotyped as it is).

What did I do? I cringed. I shook my head no in an effort to keep the words from coming out. The only other time I got a whiff of her new found voice was a few months ago in a phone conversation. This time she brought up the issue of the day, as fed to her by a newspaper opinion editor: immigration. And as she got into it and I rebutted the points she, or rather the opinion writer (sorry, but damn, it's like that), I could not get past her continual use of the word "illegals". She used it constantly. "Illegals, illegals, illegals." It was driving me mad. And I had never been down this road with her exploring opinions like this. No where in the word "illegal" is the word "person", I told her. "Illegal" is bad. "Illegal" is murder, rape, robbery. Illegal is not skin color, and accent, and person. I went on and on, not letting it go. I just, well, couldn't believe that was coming out of her mouth and her defense of the term. Gawd.

So since she was revealing this new vocal side of her, I let into her. Okay, I held back some because I was so very mad at her using the term over and over again; because this sort of discussion was new ground for us, because I certainly didn't want to scare her right back to voicing the first stereotyped opinion she opens the page to that makes her feel "better". But I still let into her quite a bit, even recalling how after being raped, all I heard about it from others at school was that I was a slut and a whore. Which was nothing compared to the words my parents used when they found out I was pregnant a few months later. i.e. Words hurt, mom. Anyway, I know using this term, having this view makes her feel better. I know how "inconvenient" she finds having to push one extra button at the ATM to select the language, and that it's convenient to blame "illegals" for having such a humongous obstacle put in front of her! And her thinking that, and me knowing that, really sucks.

So, back to situation #2: mom in the car. This is why I did not say anything. Not on a visit, not with the kids, not when I'm still trying to understand this person, and certainly not while my ears were burning hot (bad temper sign for me). I did talk with the kids later, alone, to ask them what they thought of what she said in the car and then discuss it with them. Another day and time, perhaps, I will ask mom if she wonders what everyone else does with their money, the ones not on the side of the road. If she has vetted the gas station clerk to make sure they are not buying beer when their rent is due. You know, shit like that.

And back to situation #1: the flip-flops. I don't know what the woman's story was. I didn't think to ask at the time. But I know what my mom would have said. And I just don't get that. She raised me. How could it be so different? How could I not know all this time? But mostly I don't get it because I do the opposite. Instead of "she's a liar, she just wants money for booze", I think "it could be any number of things. It could be anything. I don't know, so if I don't at least ask, I won't assume".

And I think about mom. How I never saw mom talk to different people and ask their stories. Surely she never asked someone on the side of the road if they indeed would mow the lawn or fix a fence for food. And I realize, for the first time in 41 years, that my mom is tied to the convenience of her privilege, and would rather whole segments of society be further disadvantaged than say, push an extra button. The horror!

Maybe it's the diagnosis. 2 years ago with a disease that could kill her within 10 years. Maybe there's a lot of transition there, rethinking things, looking for that voice she never used, which at first is easily swayed by the first opinion that comes along that makes you feel good. I got past that a few decades ago, but I guess mom never got started.

And isn't it ironic, now that she is on disability. (Certainly she would not call those on disability lazy, because that would not make her feel good, or maybe it's just everyone else on it. Who isn't white. With an employed spouse.) Now that she has that handicap placard. (How inconvenient! I have to walk further!)

Okay, stopping the snark. Suddenly, I don't know my mom in a way. Maybe never did. Maybe she never did.