Capitol Hill Blue Forums Misc. Topics General Stuff A really personal reaction to Obama's speech

I doubt the following will generate discussion, but I'm still posting it. Just because:

While mulling Obama's speech yesterday afternoon, I was able to understand and therefore forgive my mother. She died in the late 1990s.

My mother and I always had an adversarial relationship. As a child I found her bossy, as a teenager embarrassing, as a young adult nosy, and for the last thirty years of her life, horribly judgmental. (Like I'm not?) Not surprisingly, when I came down in 1981 with MS, our relationship worsened. In my eyes she was labeling me defective.

After my father died in the 1980s, visits to see my mother became less frequent and more troubling. While I was scooter-confined but could still drive, I visited her once-a-year-ish. During the years between my no longer being able to drive and her death, friends drove me to Virginia's Eastern Shore to see her. (As I've remarked elsewhere, I'm lucky to have some really good friends.) At the time of my last visit, she was living in a retirement home—half independent living, half nursing home. She lived in her own apartment, and one afternoon while we were talking, she mentioned that the management was letting anyone move in, regardless of condition.

"Why, that Mrs. Belote, who lives down the hall" my mother said, "can barely walk. She uses a walker all the time."
"Oh?" I said, probably more than a bit testily.
She defended her position. "Now there are even wheelchairs in the dining room."
"And that's a problem?" Teeth clenched.
"They used not to allow them."
Snap! "Oh, Mommy, you're such a snob!"
Silence, then: "Thank you for pointing that out to me."

She usually won arguments, often in ways I didn't consider totally fair. But anyway, there I was—insulting my mother and being called on it. Bad cripple! Bad Martha!

Yesterday Obama described his white grandmother who loved him but said racial epithets that made him cringe, and I thought, but to her you weren't a scary black man, you were the grandson she loved. And I remembered that conversation with my mother. I wasn't a cripple, a person in a wheelchair who shouldn't be allowed in the dining room. I was still her daughter. How simple is it. And I never realized it before.

Thank you, Senator Obama.

.

Martha,

What a powerful story. I'm glad you posted it. I have tears in my eyes as I write this. Thanks.

Wonderful post, Martha.

It's amazing isn't it? The more people you truly get to know the less "different" they become. Your mother obviously didn't know very many wheelchair users. Obama's grandmother obviously didn't really know many black men. In each case the person they really knew they didn't see as being different.

I had a similar experience in Georgia when a supervisor, Joanne, use to rail on about a client who had a hearing loss. Once something was missing from the office, I can't remember what it was. Joanne said, "Well you know Mr. X was here yesterday. He probably took it."

I asked why she would think that and she said, "You know how those people are."

"What people?"

"Everyone knows he wears hearing aids."

"Right, but I am missing something here. He's a professional, he owns his own business, he's a client. Are you telling me he's dishonest because he wears hearing aids?"

"Haven't you seen those people handing out cards and begging for money?"

"You mean deaf people? He isn't deaf and most deaf people don't do that anyway. He certainly doesn't do that. You know I wear hearing aids."

"Yeah, but I don't mean you. You're not like them."

This kind of thing went on for a while. I mean I'd flat out confront her and she still didn't get. It was amazing.

One day I was having lunch with a friend who happened to be a black woman. We are very good friends. I was talking about Joanne and her idiocy and her inability to see what she was saying to me. I talked about having an emotion that I couldn't identify and being confused by it. My friend said, "Oh, how lucky you are. You are experiencing oppression."

It hit me like a brick! Oppression. It was an ugly, nasty thing.

"You said, I'm lucky".

"Yes, you really are. You are a white Southern male. Most white Southern males never have the opportunity to truly know what oppression feels like. Now you know. I wouldn't wish the feeling on anyone, but I am very pleased that you understand it. I know you will use this knowledge in a positive way. It is a gift."

A year or two later Joanne clued up. I have no idea why or what caused it but she realized that she had been terribly wrong. She apologized to me and her apology was very sincere. I thanked her for being my teacher. It was a difficult lesson for me to learn but, I said, I was grateful for the lesson.

Me too...actually the tears are running down my cheek...thanks Martha.

the problem anymore with acknowledging goodness of the type you're sharing is that it takes some of us who are working hard to knock obama detractors off our game. it is so difficult to rebuke, to insult, to chide, and to defeat the enemy when the quiver contains anything but poison arrows.

I learned oppression while teaching at a black college for 12 years. Odd situation. I could see the oppression of the people at the university and at the same time experienced being a minority. Guess I was in training for the wheelchair but didn't know it.

PS Thanks for the responses.

Well you know what they say, Humph? It's not the disease a person has but the person a disease has. I think when MS picked you it picked the wrong lady. Maybe your experience with your mom and teaching at a black college was preparation for your MS. I know you don't want it but just perhaps you've been able to weather the storm because of your experience. In a strange way you may be fortunate. You don't know how many people have benefited from your experience.

On the other hand being given an option would have been nice, no?

I know a guy who is a para Olympian and one hell of a great guy. I was once at a conference when I saw him heading toward an elevator in his manual chair while pulling a large suitcase on rollers. I knew there was no way the elevator door was going to wait on him and his suitcase to enter before it closed. I yelled to him to hold up, I'd help, as I sprinted across the lobby to grab the elevator door. Without a thought he responded over his shoulder as he continued toward the open elevator door, "I've got it; this ain't my first day."

Man, I love BOTH of these stories!

Wow, thanks for sharing that Martha.
I'm touched.
You too, Mick.
Nice conversation.

Martha, my husband's mother was a paraplegic from her late 30's (he was born when she was 33) until her death in 1992 at age 70. She wasn't supposed to live more than a couple of years past her diagnosis.
You brave people amaze and awe me. I could only hope I would be as strong and as beautiful.

When I was only using the scooter for shopping, I was perfectly capable of getting it in and out of the trunk. Of course, people were always racing across parking lots to help me. I'd thank them and say I could do it. The only exception were little old ladies. When a seventy-something woman would totter rapidly up to me, I found it impossible not to let her help.