An Ode to My Mother’s America

November 12, 2023

My mother turned our lumbering Toyota Highlander onto the street without seeing there was oncoming traffic. Pressing hard on the brakes, hands gripped firmly at the 9’clock and 3’clock positions, she coaxed our car into a stop, barely missing the other car’s front lights. A lady drove by, looked at us both — a mother and daughter returning home from the orthodontist’s office, trying their best to live the good suburban life — and sneered.

“Chinese. Of course.”

I glanced over to my mother. Her face was set forward, not looking at the women’s car careening past, not looking at me. Even now, I often wonder what she was thinking. Perhaps she was deliberating her response carefully, knowing that this was a moment where motherhood was truly tested, a moment that could shape the way that her daughter saw their town and their life together. But knowing her now, I don’t think she thought about it like that.

“Did you hear what she said?” I asked. My teeth were freshly stretched, and my words came with a dental odor.

“Don’t worry about it,” she responded.

We drove home and the strange sting of the moment dissipated in our silence. After a while, I thought only of how I would convince her to make me buttered noodles for lunch. She probably thought only of how she would convince me to eat a lunch that consisted of more than just carbs and fat.

Another memory lies close by. We were standing on opposite sides of the kitchen island, newly renovated, the lights too bright. To signal that time has passed, my teeth are straight. I had three things to tell her: (1) I was going on a gap semester, (2) I was depressed, (3) I was a victim in a sexual assault court case that happened with my driving instructor when I was in high school but I didn’t tell her about it when it was happening then because I was scared of her being upset but it wasn’t a big deal since it happened so many years ago so she shouldn’t worry about it at all.

I wanted her permission, her love, her forgiveness, but I somehow made it out as though I wanted none of the above. For a beat after I stopped talking, we were frozen under the blinding, antiseptic lights, two figurines glued to their mid-century split-level dollhouse.

“Okay,” she told me. “Don’t cry.”

My mother’s America is not petty like mine. My mother’s America is beautiful. It bloomed during COVID, when she and my father made a habit of going hiking every weekend in the Appalachian mountains. Every Sunday, like clockwork, I would receive the photos. They were always posed in the same way, my father’s arm around my mother’s shoulder, their hiking sticks planted firmly into the ground, backdropped by a vista of blue sky. If I was with friends, I’d show them the photos. Don’t they look so young? I would coo, knowing that’s what she would want me to say. Aren’t they so fit? As the nation was consuming itself, my parents conquered yet another New Jersey mountain.

She takes 3 mile-long walks in our neighborhood nearly every day. She passes by the Alexis house that got robbed before we moved into town and the Owens house with the Don’t Tread on Me flag and the Brown house backed by four immense Pyrenees dogs that holler at her every time she walks by. She waves at everyone she sees, and strikes up a conversation when she can. She knows that the father at the end of the street had beaten cancer and that the college student living in the two-story behind our house played volleyball like me. Despite her familiarity with the people on our street, I don’t think she hears about the increasingly combative school board meetings. I don’t think she thinks much of how the town is changing, how the new neighbors look more like her than they look like the Smiths three doors down.

One last vignette. She was picking me up from high school. It was only until we exited the parking lot that I realized she was crying.

“What’s wrong? Is it daddy? Or Lele?”

She shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak. I rubbed her arm awkwardly, spinning over the rolodex of people who I loved and feared were hurt.

“Your dog is dead,” she said after she calmed down. “We’re driving to the vet now”.

I sat there, dumbstruck. I couldn’t understand what she was saying. Despite my begging, we had never been to the vet before — my parents both thought going to the vet was too expensive, an unnecessary luxury. They told me the dog was pampered enough with all of the food and toys we bought. So I couldn’t figure out why we would go to the vet if the dog was dead.

“What happened?”

“She escaped out the front door when I was heading out. A nice man in a car hit her. He helped me drive her to the vet. But she was too hurt, and she died.”

A nice man in a car, I stupidly echoed in my thoughts. A nice man in a car hit my dog.

The animal hospital was breathtaking. Soaring glass windows circled a tower-like structure. Warm light glowed from within, making the paved garden walkway shimmer. The interior had dark wooden detailing, and there was a rich hush once the door closed behind us. A lady immediately ushered us into a room, seating us in two chairs near a small bed. She left the room and placed my dead dog on the bed.

“I’ll leave you to say your goodbyes,” the lady whispered, and exited the room.

My mom and I stayed seated, not knowing what to do. She was no longer crying. I reached out to stroke my dog’s fur. Then we sat there in silence until the lady returned and asked if we wanted to keep the body. My mom looked at me and I shook my head.

Before we returned to the car, my mother went to the mahogany front desk, where a piece of paper was discretely slid in front of her. Her pen hovered over the paper, paused, just for a second, and I knew then that it was a bill. In that split second, she scanned the fees. A ceiling fan twirled lazily above, casting a cool breeze on the nape of her neck. In America, this was the cost of a dog’s death. In some ways, this was the cost of her daughter’s happiness.

She signed the bill, and we left.