Ancestral Pride

Mamacita says: Our ancestors took enormous pride in their children’s education. Many of these ancestors had little if any education; in the various old countries, it wasn’t possible for many reasons. It was too late for most of the adults; they had to earn a living, but they focused on their children. Their children were going to be educated, by gosh and by golly, no matter what the parents’ sacrifices might have to be.

When their kids came home from school with new ideas, and books their parents couldn’t understand, quoting people other than family members and religious leaders, questioning the old ways and contradicting their elders, these parents beamed with pride because it meant their children were becoming educated, and educated people question things.

“This child was born of parents who can read and write. To me, this is a great miracle.” — Mary Rommely, from “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

How far we have fallen from the true purpose of education. We have parents who are desperately afraid of their children knowing anything they don’t already know and approve of. This. . .. . is worse than tragedy. We are going backwards. We have people who are afraid of knowledge. We have people who fear learning lest their set ways be challenged. These people will destroy us all. Our ancestors, who sacrificed their own education and lives that their children and grandchildren might learn, are turning in their graves from shame.

Learn Some Context

Mamacita says: Context, people. Learn some context. No no NO. No updates, edits, modernization, political correcting, adding, eliminating, changing, gender swapping, romance insertions or removals, relationship changing, etc. If you want a story that suits you better, write a new story or stick to fan fiction. Stories that are already written are carved in stone.

I don’t necessarily “approve” of everything I voraciously read, and sometimes I love a book, sometimes I don’t, sometimes it’s meh, sometimes it’s awful for any variety of reasons, but whatever my reaction, it wasn’t my story to tell, or yours, and what the actual author wrote should stand inviolable. I’ve rewritten many novels – in my head – in my lifetime and will no doubt rewrite many more to suit myself, but the very idea of changing someone else’s story to better suit someone else and stop all future publication of the original, actual story? Blatant thievery. Learn about context, for all our sakes.

One of My All-Time Favorite Mothers

See the source image
Mamacita says: I saw one of my all-time favorite mothers at Aldi’s today.

When she found out that her son was being disruptive on a daily basis, she came to school in a ratty nightgown and robe, hair in rollers, and filthy bunny slippers. She sat by her son in every class, walked him through the halls holding his hand, sat by him in the lunch room, played volleyball with him in PE, and never stopped the very audible toddler-level sweet talking.

She promised to do this every time she got a call from the school.

The kid never gave us a bit of deliberate trouble again. Turned out to be one if my favorite students. To paraphrase Anne Shirley, I like best the ones who COULD be bad, but choose not to be. Most complete turn-around ever.

The Lunch Thief Who Was Also “Religious”

Mamacita says: I was reading a friend’s post about her lunch being constantly stolen at work, and it reminded me of the co-worker who was obsessed with food. He “sampled” other people’s lunches almost daily, sometimes just taking a few bites and sometimes taking the whole sandwich He would help himself to a few chips from one lunch, a few Fritos from another lunch, a tomato slice, a few pickles. . . you get the picture.

If there was cake or pie or anything sweet, he took the whole thing; he had a massive sweet tooth. (This is not the principal who roamed the cafeteria stealing bits and pieces of students’ lunches; this was a teacher who stole other teachers’ lunches.)

Sometimes we would take our lunches from the lounge refrigerator and a sandwich would be warm – he had microwaved it before taking half of it. If there was a pitch-in, he NEVER contributed anything but would always casually walk through and fill a plate, commenting that it looked like we had plenty of food.

The year before I started there, the teachers gave him the ‘ex-lax brownie treatment,’ which knocked him out of work for several days but didn’t teach him anything. Whenever food was mentioned, his eyes would glisten and his breathing changed. He was obsessed with food. He was a fat guy who passed most of his workload onto his aide, and whenever his name came up in conversation, all kinds of food-stealing-related stories came up in quick succession. My own lunches were usually pretty boring unless I brought leftovers, so leftovers days were the only times he messed with mine, but what I really remember is the day I brought a cheesecake to a pitch-in and when I opened the fridge to take it out and put the topping on it, a huge slice had been stolen.

Whenever I see this guy on Facebook, all I can think of is how those eyes would glisten at the mere mention of food, and how he was supposedly so religious yet would feel justified in stealing other people’s lunches almost daily. A fine deacon and occasional preacher. Right. No respect.

My Beautiful Mother

See the source image

Mamacita says: A year ago yesterday, I found my mother lying on her bathroom floor, fully conscious, but unable to get up. The evidence told me that she had fallen in her bedroom, pulling down some furniture trying to break her fall, and crawled down her hallway to the bathroom. She had lain there for most of the night.

If I had not gone over there to take her to an early lab appointment, she would have lain there several hours longer.

The ambulance took almost forty minutes to get here, and at the local hospital she seemed groggy and embarrassed but okay-ish, all things considered. Then she told me that her chest felt heavy. I knew from experience what that meant.

She was rushed by ambulance again to a nearby city hospital as the local one doesn’t do cardiac. The family started gathering and there was an aura of unreality about the whole thing. My son lives near that hospital and he spent a lot of time with her, talking about his childhood memories with her and ordering Cokes (with ice, very important) for her and helping her hold and drink them.

A year ago today, her minister visited her and they talked for about fifteen minutes. My sister and her family ran down to the cafeteria for a quick bite and I went back to her room. She looked at me, gasped a few times, and was gone. My mother, who took care of me until it was my turn to take care of her, was gone.

A full year later, I am still filling dinner plates, marking pedicure dates, thinking about giving her a call to see if she wants to go out for pizza with us, saving the breast and wing for her when we have chicken, and putting pickled beets and sweet onions in my cart, in my head. Her mail, and she still gets tons of mail, is still being forwarded, but that won’t be for much longer.

I will always miss my beautiful, wonderful mother, the best mother ever created. I am sitting in her brown leather chair and thinking about her, a year after she died. I can close my eyes and see her in this chair, “clicker ” in hand, watching “Murder She Wrote” and asking Alexa about the weather. I know it will get better as more time passes, but right now things are still pretty raw.