It’s one of those things that has to be said,

Whether I like it or not.  You see the thing is that my ITALIAN-AMERICAN mother, is, at 70 years old, in addition to being a narcissistic borderline personality, kind of a racist.  She won’t let the black batista at Starbucks make her coffee, but has to ask “Is there anyone else (and by anyone else, she means “is there anyone white”)? She won’t let the black bellboy carry her bags at a hotel because he might steel (and you and me both know that a black guy would look ridiculous in her cashmere sweater and pearls and so he wouldn’t bother taking them) and so on and so forth.  She loves pointing out “mixed” kids on the subway, and she’ll whisper (well she’ll THINK she’s whispering but she’s really not) “D’you see those kids, across from us…they’re ‘mixed'”.  I have no idea why she feels the need to whisper, the mixed kids (teenagers actually) know they’re mixed (and yes, I know biracial is the correct term), and I don’t know why she insists on pointing out biracial teenagers on subways either.  She oughta know the rule about minding your own goddamn business in subways, but anyway.  She also loves to point out interracial couples, as in “Do you see THAT, a white girl with a black guy”, and I could just punch her when she does it because more often than not, she calls my attention to a fat white woman who happens to be with a black guy.  And I know what she’s saying (I know what she’s saying by not saying it) is that she thinks if I continue to be fat, I’ll end up with a black man.  And she can’t have that.  She’d rather I spend eternity alone than go with anyone outside my race.  

8 thoughts on “It’s one of those things that has to be said,

      1. I tolerate my mother (although I might die of shock if she figured out how to send me an email) as best I can. I won’t take a subway rife with her, I won’t let her come to therapy sessions with me (and yes she would if I let her), I never leave mail laying around when she comes over because yes she’ll read it. She doesn’t know from boundaries and I’m attempting to have boundaries with her.

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      2. Bwahahaha. I may be the only Italian-American who doesn’t carry a weapon in my purse. While I thought about using a cattle prod (or possibly a shotgun) to teach her boundaries, I kind of know it would result in her funeral and my trial.

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  1. You could really upset her and tell her that historically we are all Africans and that, as an Italian, she is probably a historical mix race with the Moors, Turks, Africans and probably a dozen other ethnicities.

    Another reply to *not* do is to ask… “Are you jealous?” Be prepared to run though. B-)

    In the end its a culture thing. It will pass in time. As each generation grows up and it becomes the norm people will stop commenting and just accept it.

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    1. Kalmain, both my parents’ parents came from parts of Southern Italy where (surprise, surprise) there is much mixed blood. The vikings and the Moors (separately) invaded my father’s region of Reggio Calabria; my mother’s family town of Bari, in Puglia, is so close to the former Yougoslavia that Serbs & Croatians can be found living there. And of course both Reggio Calabria and Bari are south of Naples, which means that at one time they were part of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies (with a Spaniard sitting on the throne). So yeah, my mother is “pure white” in her mind, but everyone knows she’s crazy.

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