famous

In talking to a friend recently I described walking around town with Isaac as akin to hanging out with a famous person. Everyone stops you to talk. Everyone wants to be close to you. Prior to my current incarnation as a mother, I have had a few other encounters with the famous.

When I was an undergrad in college, I lived for a brief time in a small town in Mexico with a host family. There were four boys ranging in age from seven to sixteen. My host mom was a quiet, serious woman who taught elementary school. My host father was a judge and the principal of the elementary school in the tiny town. There was always a flurry of activity around Mario. Going anywhere with him was an adventure. Leave for a simple errand and you might be gone all day. Every half-block we’d stop and greet whomever, my host dad taking off his ball cap stitched with the logo of the majority political party, wiping his brow, and replacing it on his silver head of hair a dozen or so times at each meeting.

My time with my host family included Mother’s Day in Mexico. I had been to the market that morning to look for flowers. I could only find gladiolas, which I associate with funerals, but it was what they had and, hoping the two cultures wouldn’t suddenly match up on this point, I bought them. (At my wedding, I carried calla lilies. When my photographer saw the bouquet, her comment was, "How sweet, honey, you chose the death flower!" This is the same woman who on seeing me when she arrived said, "Oh thank goodness you look beautiful. I’ve had such a day. If I got here and the bride looked like shit, I was going home!")

Several hours after I’d decided on the glads, my host dad, Mario – "Papi" – came home. He took command of the situation. Now we would all – the four boys and me – go get flowers for mother’s day. I glanced at my glads and obediently got in the car. We drove all of ten blocks, stopping at least ten times. Finally, we arrived at a non-descript house and parked. I looked around carefully on the dusty street, waiting for the next extended hand to jump out and accost Mario. No one. We might actually accomplish our task. "Buenos!" my host dad bellowed from the street. (The shortcut for "Buenos Dias") "Buenos!!" he hollered again announcing our arrival. Finally a round, dark woman in an old dress poked her head out and called back "Pasen!"

We shuffled into this woman’s living room where there was exactly one arrangement in a basket sitting on the table. "We’ll take that one," Mario said, actually pointing to the lone bouquet. The florist lifted the basket and handed it to my host dad. Mario made some pretense to pay and the woman waved him off.

That evening we presented my host mom with the basket, over which she made much fuss. At some point when Mario was otherwise occupied, I handed her the gladiolas, over which she made an equal fuss and towards which she showed no sign of being offended by funereal implications.

Then it was off to the Mother’s Day celebration in the town square. Families crisscrossed each other to get through the people and from one spot to another. It seemed like everyone in the town had come out. The whole event had the feeling of a rock concert. People were jovial; everyone was waiting for something to begin. As we entered the square, there was a man handing out ticket stubs to all the moms so they could have a chance for some of the prizes that would be raffled off. He tried to hand me a ticket and I waved him off vehemently. Our little family took our place standing behind the rest of the crowd, craning their necks toward the temporary stage. There were music and vendors. There was a lot of standing around.

Finally, a man appeared on the small stage pacing back and forth and speaking unintelligibly into a microphone. Suddenly we had reached the moment we were all there to experience. He called out numbers three times each and all the moms scanned their tickets. Eventually, there would be a whoop from somewhere in the crowd and a ticket, like a tiny red flag, would wave in an arc above the sea of heads. Everyone applauded and the winner clawed her way to the front to retrieve the prize – things like toilet paper or sets of plastic bowls – from the man on stage.

My host mom didn’t win anything. But we all had a blast. The women were so forefront that night. So celebrated. Being a mom that night, among the plastic bowls and packages of toilet paper, was like being famous, for all the right reasons.