Mom's three for three this week

I *just* walked in when my phone rang.

A.: Hello?
Mom: Hello.
A.: What's going on.
Mom: You know, I'm tired. I've been busy, trying to get organized. So much stuff to sort through. And the gladioli! I planted them late, and you know how they reproduce...
A.: Yes.
Mom: Anyway, I wanted to tell you--I had a feeling, a sense, that you were seeing someone.
A.: That is really interesting.
Mom: I don't know what it was, but I just knew. And then you confirmed my suspicion by not picking up the phone when I called pretty late.
A.: I wouldn't have picked up the phone anyway. I was probably at the theater or ballet.
Mom: One time it was during the week.
A.: I go out during the week, too.
Mom: Anyway, I just knew.
A.: Fascinating.

Mom said she was happy for me and asked me some questions about this person. Kidding! This is what mom said:

Mom: Well, do what you want, but just know that I prefer you go out with Maria's son.
A.: That's good to know, mom, but since this is my life, it's not really up to you.
Mom: They immigrated before their parents, they--both sons--treat her very well, and that is very important. And they managed to achieve great success.
A.: That's nice, mom.
Mom: Just keep your options open.
A.: I'm not in an options-open place right now, mom.
Mom: Well, I've said what I had to say.
A.: Okay, bye.

***
I can't begin to describe what a great guy this person is, and the bizarre ways that we're compatible, that I didn't even think were out there. Things I didn't realize were important to me until now. I could go on, and on, and on about all these things, but I'm going to focus on two or three of the most recent. And lest you think that they're not that special, I'm going to contrast them through examples.

(1) Dealing with heritage Now, I have a complex relationship with my heritage; I spent my early years disavowing it, as you're prone to do when your country of origin is your adopted country's Cold War enemy. Besides, your people are different, and you just want to fit in. To this day, I still marvel that I can pass for "all-American," whatever that means; that few people on the street would guess that I wasn't born here, that I grew up speaking another language, that neither of my grandfathers lived to die of natural causes, that the stuff of totalitarian nightmares and no-shit deprivation is the history of my family. No one wants to wear any of that on her sleeve; at least I don't. But I honor it. I may have dodged both the accent bullet and the obviously-ethnic name bullet, but the rest of the heritage bullet pierced right through me.

The men I've dated--as a microcosm of people in general--tend to dismiss my heritage (oh, please; you're American) or exotify it or tell me what it should mean to me, what it says about me. Maybe they even want a medal for being willing to date me (I $hit you not). I very rarely meet someone who's just cool with it, who takes it for what it is, who respects my heritage but doesn't feel the need to magnify it or extrapolate from it. And yet, I have.

Consider that inimitable Dar Williams line--"I don't know what you saw, I want somebody who sees me." I didn't realize how f*ing sick I was of being misunderstood, of having other people's templates projected onto me, until I met someone who didn't do it. Someone who just gets me.

(2) Feminism I may be dating myself here, but I'm a no-shit, no-disclaimers feminist. None of this "I'm not a feminist, but..." bullshit. I don't feel the need to be the nice girl, to avoid the appearance of "bitch," whatever that means. You'll recall that the label of "bitch" was leveled at me over the way I handled my roommate situation. Well, if preserving my sanity by acknowledging my own needs entails being a bitch, I pick bitch. And if you ask me, it would behoove the "I'm not a feminist, but..." ladies to refuse to rest on other people's laurels and fight for what's theirs.

All that said, I've developed a mistrust over the years for men who feel the need to announce, proclaim, attest to their feminism. In my experience, there's this deep-seated misogyny there; they still, often, feel the need to tell women who and how they should be--it just happens to be a different who and how.

None of that in this case. Just a guy who has my back but doesn't undermine my own strength. A guy who gets it.

(3) Substance over Style Y'all remember RM? He would trip over himself to appear useful to me, to surprise me, to coerce my appreciation. This person doesn't do any of that; he just makes himself useful. He doesn't live here, so he doesn't even have to. But he does. Ironically, that he's so willing to help means so much more than anything that actually gets done. And yet, at the same time, he's less interested (I think) in getting credit for being my savior and more interested in actually helping. How awesome is that?

Like I said, I could go on. I'm tempted to. But I think I've made my point. Mom may not be interested in any of that, but I know better than to throw it away.