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epitome of incomprehensibility
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Jennifer, my mother's friend, had a going-away party today in the church basement. I went there with my family - which is why I was waylaid by the Montreal Greek parade while failing to see the prime_minister.
This Jennifer is not a millennial Jennifer_and_Jessica. She's my mom's age, recently retired.
Last week she announced she was going back to the country she came from, the place her children and grandchildren now live. I was relieved to learn that this place was not South Africa.
...
Why? Last year. Christmas party and/or anniversary party at the church, the first post-pandemic gathering of its type I attended. I sat at the same table as my parents. Idly looking around, I noticed two things:
1) Jennifer was sitting on a chair by herself, near the wall. I didn't want her to feel left out.
2) There were a couple of non-family people at the table we sat, but everyone was white - in contrast to most of the other tables. This struck me as weird and I wanted to comment on that.
I turned around, asking Jennifer if she wanted to join us. "So it doesn't look so much like South Africa over here."
Hm?
I said, do you want to sit with us?
She smiled and indicated her cane - she'd had a knee operation - and said she preferred to stay there. Mom: are you sure? Jennifer: yes, yes, it's hard for me to sit on one of those chairs. Mom made sure she was comfortable and that she had a place to put her plate.
But I thought Dad was looking at me a bit oddly, and it struck me: Jennifer wasn't a first- or second-generation Ghanaian immigrant, like the majority of the congregants. She was from somewhere else in Africa, I knew. South Africa?? Me and my stupid mouth. I'd meant to make fun of the ridiculousness of segregation, contrasting it with the random nature of the current seating configuration, but was I just bringing back awful memories??
I asked Dad later; he said it had been someplace different. "And I don't think she even heard you. But I wouldn't say things like that, just in case."
So yes, Kenya. I didn't know her well. Mom did - she was working with her making the free Wednesday lunches after the days of feeding_the_poor_with_dandelion_leaves - but anyway she said, "If you ever visit Kenya, you can stay with me." And she smiled. "But you'll have to pay for the plane yourself."
I smiled and said something about planes being expensive, yes, and thanks, and I hope you have a good trip. When am I ever going to Kenya? But just in case, when Sybil gave her the contact list, I wrote my cell number next to my parents' contact info. To get in touch with Kirsten, international traveler, call here. Dream_travel.
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