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Retirement Talk for Boomers, Seniors, and Retirees

Frog Spit

Jackie Spinks

                                                 Chapter Twelve

            Mama and Daddy lived in the land of the free, inhaled the narcotic blessings of democracy, but in their secret hearts, felt about as welcome here, as a cat pee in a kitchen.  They told each other it was because they weren’t citizens.

            The met at a grange dance and like a couple of perfectly synchronized dervishes fell in love forever, while whirling around the dance floor.  Fell “like a ton of bricks,” Daddy said.

            The bonded, not only because they were a couple of Charleston aficionados, but because they weren’t citizens.  They were here on probation, and while they may have developed a proficiency in American slang, knew words like “so’s your old man,” “plenty of d-re-mi,” “best bib and tucker,” and “I’ll be danged,” they weren’t real Americans.  They weren’t citizens.

            As a result, these dancing crazies—Mama enjoyed telling people she “would rather dance than eat” while energetic, were insecure and ill-at-ease with the native born, whom they considered their betters, meaning, that included just about everyone.

            They married and although they would never admit it, insisting it was dancing to “Frankie and Johnnie,” and “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree,” that made them fall in love.

            They also had in common, that they were both small.  Mama was five feet tall and Daddy was five and a half feet tall.

            Once married, they molded themselves in the self-improvement tradition, by pantomining the rich, rubbing out as much of their old world handicaps as possible, working hard to show the city folks they had the right stuff, but because of a word here or there or an awkward courtesy, they missed that panache of being native-born and retained much of their old world manner all their lives.

            Mostly, pronunciation and grammar gave them away.  Daddy finally got rid of his Scottish burr around the age of thirty, although when he referred to me affectionately as his girl ‘ems—pearl ‘ems, it came out gettle ‘ems—pettle ‘ems, and so it remained all his life.

            My mother spoke only Swedish, as a child until she started school, and even at eighty years old, in heated moments, when she wanted to say something unacceptable, she’d fall back into Swedish.  Probably because she had a greater lode of swear words in Swedish.  Her collection of Americana swear words consisted of “gee whiz, dang blasted,” and her term for  “oh shit” was “ca, ca.”  On rare occasions she used her ultimate expression of fury in English—“damn you, Jimmy!”

            But the most serious strike out, for this young couple, who wanted to fit in, be fully Americanized, was that they lacked citizenship papers.

            Forget everything else.  It was the papers that counted to them.  Those to-the-manor born will probably never be able to fathom the trauma of not being a citizen for them.  It was a kind of shame.  This rich country either wanted you or didn’t want you.  And they sure didn’t want someone who lacked papers.  I remember Daddy studying, at the kitchen table, late into the night, worried about his citizenship, memorizing questions like:

            What was the Mayflower Compact?

            What group wrote the Constitution?

            How long do federal judges serve?

            What happens if a President refused to sign a bill into law?

            “What did secessionist states call themselves?

            The first ten amendments to the Constitution are called what?

            The term “reconstruction” refers to what?

            Daddy encouraged Mama to do the same, study. He’d say, “Selma, you have to get your citizenship, too.  You know they could deport us, otherwise.”

            ‘”Oh, they’d never do that.”

            “Probably not, but they could if they wanted to.”

            Daddy would come home from work, put his lunch pail on the counter, yell, “Selma, I’m home,” grab Mama and waltz her around the kitchen, repeating, “You’re My Tootsie-Wootsy, in the Good Old Summertime,” and add, “it won’t be much longer, not much longer,” and we knew he was referring to getting his citizenship papers.

            The day arrived.  Daddy was spiffed up in his best “bib and tucker.” “Do I look okay, Selma?”

            “You look fine.”

            “Where are my Chesterfields?  No. Better not smoke.  How’d you think I look, kids?”

            “You’re the handsomest Daddy in the whole world.”

            A united fan club, we stared in wonder at this slicked-up Daddy, his hair combed off his forehead, a nick on his chin where he’d shaved too close, a Beau Brummell we’d never seen before—about to get his citizenship.

            ‘What if I don’t do it right?”  His hands shook as he pulled at his super-starched collar.  Mama always put extra starch in special-event clothes and it took a stoic masochism to hang around anywhere for very long in those stiff, scratching, poking clothes.  But a person did look nice.

            ‘You will do fine.”  Mama straightened Daddy’s starched collar back the way it was supposed to be before he started pulling at it.  “Everybody says there’s nothing to it.  Easy as pie,” Mama reassured him, but her upper lip sweated in shared anxiety.  “I’ve heard it’s real easy.”

            ‘You should get yours, too, Selma.”  Daddy looked around the porch, where he was now standing, clenching and unclenching his fists.  “Well, I’m off, wish me luck.’
            “Good luck, Honey,” Mama said.

            “Good luck, Daddy,” and we all waved until his car was out of sight. 

            “Yeah, Mama, you should get your citizenship, too,” Brother and I said, as we entered the house.

            “I know,” she said.  “Except, I’m not as smart as Daddy.”
            “You’re pretty smart, Mama.  Daddy says you were and you could do it.”

            “But I only went to the fifth grade.”  Sometimes, Mama went to the fifth grade, sometimes to the eighth—as nobody in a one room school house really knows.

            A few hours later, a jubilant Daddy returned, “Well, I did it!  I’m now a U.S. citizen.  Just call me Mr. Citizenship!”

            Mama had baked a cake and bought a brick of ice cream, confident Daddy would make it.  So we all had that rarest of treats, with everyone smiling and telling Daddy, “You did it, Daddy.  You’re a citizen.” 

            I sure did,” and he picked up Brother and me and whirled us around the kitchen, as we giggled hysterically.  When Daddy put us down, we went outside and button-holed the first neighborhood kid that came along.

            “Our Daddy’s a citizen,” we bragged.

            “So what!  Everybody’s a citizen.” The smart-ass answered.

            “Is not.”

            The kid walked off shaking his head, “Dumb foreigners.”  And so it stood.  And even though Daddy got his citizenship and Mama was thrilled with his triumph, she still dragged her feet about her own citizenship.

            If anyone brought the subject up, she’d say, “I’m just not as smart as Daddy,” and she’d clasp and unclasp her hands and wait for someone to say, “Yes, you’re smart enough.”

            “Or we’d add, as further encouragement, “But Mama, you learned how to speak English and Daddy says citizenship is easier then learning a foreign langage-- that anyone can do it.”

            “But I only went to the eighth grade.”

            ‘That’s pretty good.”

            “But I’m not smart in book learning.  I didn’t get very good grades.”  Anxiety grew. 

            She knew she had to do it, she’d answer the questions Daddy quizzed her on the citizen test perfectly, a hundred times.  She knew as much about the government as Roosevelt, but she gulped, lowered her eyes and ran her hands through her hair, whenever anyone brought up going through with it—whenever actually doing it was mentioned.

            Mama saw it as some kind of test to see if she was worthy, and Mama had a hunch she might be unworthy to be in this wonderful land of plenty.  Why chance it.  At other times, “Do I have to do it?”  She’d plead her insecurity.  And always uppermost in her mind was her lack of education.

            “Yes, Mama, you’re smart enough.  Do it and get it over with.  It’s not as bad as pulling teeth.”

            “How would you know?”

            “The teacher at school told us that.”

            “What does she know? Has she ever gone for her citizenship?”

            “I don’t know, but teachers know about those things.” 

            A few years back, when they were discussing teaching Spanish kids in Spanish, I asked Mama, what she thought of the new way they were thinking –such as teaching immigrant kids in Spanish, rather than English. 

            I asked, “How would you have liked it if you’d been taught your lessons in Swedish, when you were a kid, new to this country?”
            “Oh, I would have loved it,” she replied.  “Then I wouldn’t have been the dumbest kid in the class.”
            “You think it would have helped you?”

            “You didn’t ask me if it would have helped me.  You asked me if I’d have liked it.  And I would have loved it.  But, as for helping me, it probably wouldn’t have helped me because knowing myself and my shyness, I’d probably still be reading and writing in Swedish.”  She sighed, dropped her shoulders and picked at the dish towel in her lap.  “It was sure a struggle learning English.  But I finally caught on.  Then it came fast.  Learning in English was kind of like having your teeth fixed.  It may hurt at the beginning, but later on, it comes easier, and you’re glad you did it.”

            And that went for citizenship, too.  It hurt at the outset, but later one, she was glad she did it.

            Yeah, Daddy got her down there.  He pretended he needed Mama at the courthouse to sign for his driver’s license.  She came through with flying colors--what a red-letter day!  And what a boost to her self-confidence-- she was worthy after all.  And maybe smart, too. 

            “Think I’ll learn how to drive,” she said.  And she did. Although, she never learned there were other people on the road and drove like a maniac, until she had to give up driving at eight-two.  Thank goodness.  It would have been less nerve-wracking riding a space shuttle than it was riding in a car with her.