As Women’s History Month wraps up, I think it’s as important to recognize the women who aren’t necessarily activists, artists, dancers, musicians, and scholars, but contribute nevertheless toward making a difference in our lives. These are the women who probably won’t be well-known, or among those who have made a mark globally. Instead, they step up in smaller ways, more locally, often just within their own families. They are no less forces of nature, and their stories, too, are worth knowing. I dedicate the following memory to my mother, Jeanette, who passed away in July 2019. A stronger, more devoted, courageous ally you couldn’t ask for. On the flip side… let me share a moment when she needed to set something, and someone, straight in her own unique way.
“I’ve had it with that filthy slob!” My mother is so angry, I imagine smoke coming from her nose. It’s early morning and she just got in from her all-night waitressing job. My younger brother and I, supposedly getting ready for school, are dawdling, yet at seven and 10, we know enough to keep out of Ma’s way when she’s this fired up.
Barefoot, Ma’s pacing the kitchen of our three-room apartment in Brooklyn, still in her uniform. Loose strands of hair escape from the bun atop her head. Her face is flushed, her cheeks shiny apples. “Really Pete, I can’t stand it anymore. I asked him nicely a million times not to keep all that garbage out in the hall. Last week, I went down there. He opens the door and there’s dirty dishes coming out of the sink. Filth everywhere.” Her voice is hoarse, shaky. “I’m sick and tired seeing all these damn roaches tap-dancing around this kitchen every time I get home. It’s disgusting! I swear I’m gonna choke that dirty slob one day!”
I look over at my brother, his eyes wide; his mouth forming a silent, “ooh.” “Don’t worry,” I whisper, “she doesn’t mean it.” Or does she?
My father sits smoking at the kitchen table, absorbing Ma’s fury with few comments. Finishing his cigarette and third cup of coffee, he rises to go to work. Ma steps into his path, snaps at him, “Talk to him, will ya? Why should I always be the one?”
The object of my mother’s wrath is our downstairs neighbor, Mr. R. Fifty-eight, he lives alone, rarely venturing out of his foul apartment. Running into him is never pleasant, the whiff of liquor and fried food mingling with his body odor. A thick rope holds up grease-stained pants. He greets everyone the same, growling “Get out my way,” in broken English. Rumor had it Mr. R. was a scientist in his native eastern European country. Our own resident mad scientist.
Before heading out the door, Dad exhales a long, slow puff of smoke. He turns toward my mother and says, “Listen, the last couple of times I stopped him, he pretended he didn’t understand me. You talked to Stella, and she doesn’t do a damn thing. What are we gonna do?”
Ma snorts at the mention of our nonchalant landlady. “Ugh, Stella, she wouldn’t care if this dump burned to the ground. Funny how nobody around here seems to have a problem with all the garbage, and nobody ever sees roaches. Forget it, I’ll deal with it myself.”
The final straw comes a few weeks later. After a mouse zips across our kitchen one night, Ma storms downstairs and pounds on Mr. R.’s door. My brother and I run into the hallway and hang over the railing. Finally, our neighbor opens his door and Ma cuts off his protests of being disturbed. She launches into his native language, one she’s also fluent in, yelling, “Let me tell you in your own language so you understand!” As she reads Mr. R. the riot act, I recognize more than a few of the curse words peppered throughout.
The confrontation ends with Mr. R. dismissing my mother with a wave of his hand, telling her, “All in you head, lady.” He slams the door in her face. We run inside. Ma storms into our apartment and grabs the industrial strength pesticide the exterminator left after his last futile visit. Running back downstairs, Ma aims the spray under Mr. R.’s door, blasting away. He coughs endlessly, but never shows himself. My mother repeated the treatment every day for the next week. Each time, our slovenly neighbor hacked away, but again didn’t dare open his door. Ma followed up with a call to the fire department, reporting the hazardous garbage heaps, which resulted in a sizable fine for our landlady.
Stella finally acted and eventually Mr. R. was evicted. Passing his door a final time on the day before he left for good, I remembered Ma’s promise to choke him one day. She sure did.