Mother Washington's Carry On

Mother Washington is one of the most capable women I know. Her parents were from slave stock. They brought her up from the Deep South and she raised six boys and five girls. Her youngest daughter had a baby named Gabriel. Because he learned to hustle three-card monte when he was only 6, everybody started calling him Monte. When his father ran off so did his mother, so Mother Washington is raising him too. Before I picked her up at Reagan National Airport the other day I thought she could handle just about anything.

“They robbed me,” she said as I helped her into the car. “They robbed me coming and going.” She’s a big, round woman and needs a little help negotiating the Volvo’s seats.

“What happened, Mother Washington?” Cindy asked from the back seat.

“All I wanted to do was visit my Aunt Sadie before she’s gone,” Mother Washington said as I got into the driver’s seat. “Nothing else could get me into one of those airliners. And nothing ever will again.”

“Who robbed you ma’am,” I asked, sliding out onto the ramp to I395.

“Them foreigners at the terminal gate,” she said, smoothing her graying black hair back and sliding bobby pins into place. “They don’t hardly speak no English and they just goes thru your personals and takes whatever they likes.”

“Oh my.” That was Cindy behind me, stifling a giggle. “I know a lot of the security people at Reagan are African or Pakistani immigrants, Mother Washington, but did you try to take a pair of scissors on the plane with you?”

“Of course not child,” Mother Washington said, sounding a bit indignant. “I ain’t ignorant. But they took my hand cream. You know I can only use that one brand.”

“The new rules,” I told her. “No liquids on board.”

“It wasn’t liquid,” she said, her jaw set forward. “It was cream. And then they took that little bottle of perfume. Monte gave me that perfume.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am,” I said. “But it’s for your protection too.”

“Son, you think I was going to attack somebody with that hand cream?” Before I could answer, she went on. “And then, they took my lipstick in Atlanta on the way back. My lipstick! It ain’t no lethal weapon, son. And they didn’t bother with it in Washington. Now why was my lipstick more dangerous in Georgia than up here?” She crossed her arms for her final pronouncement. “Lord knows it’s just a stupid rule”

Traffic was light on the bridge and the sun hung near the horizon. It reminded me how, not that long ago, a pilot guided a wounded airliner into the Potomac nearby. Much more recently, an airliner had been flown into the nearby Pentagon on purpose.

“You know, ma’am, I haven’t been a big booster of the Department of Homeland Security since it gobbled up the Secret Service three years ago. I loved the Service when I was in and hated to see it move from Treasury. But I’ve got to admit that their response to the recent London terrorist threat was right on.”

“Now Hannibal, you saying some threat in London made them take my lipstick?” Mother Washington Asked.

“Actually, it did,” I said. “The Brits told about a plot to blow up airplanes using liquid explosives. Within hours, the Transportation Security Administration put the new restrictions on carry-on luggage. Security personnel had to show a certain amount of judgment, so I can see how one thought a lipstick was okay but another didn’t. Still, I think the poor schleps who screen the luggage enforced the confusing new rules with surprising effectiveness under pretty tough circumstances.”

“Well,” Mother Washington said softly, “at least they were polite the whole time.”

“See? And Homeland Security gave up as much information as they could, and didn’t panic everybody like they did the first couple times they raised the threat level.”

“You’re being nice,” Cindy said behind me, “But there are bigger questions. Wasn’t there a similar plot that involved unknown liquids ten or 11 years ago? Kind of slow to react, weren’t they?”

Some lawyers can’t resist playing devil’s advocate. “So what’s your point?” I asked.

“The point is, are they doing enough? Are they paying attention to new technologies that could help detect danger? Why are the security measures inconsistent from airport to airport? What other threats aren’t we ready for, like those shoulder-fired missiles? How come the Israelis seem to do the anti-terror thing so much better than we do?”

“Hold up there girl,” I said. “The U.S. is a hell of a lot bigger, and our whole culture’s different.”

“Yeah, well still, the airlines could do more by making passengers provide fuller information, like passport details,” Cindy said, warming to her subject.

“Sure, doll, but even some of the Sept. 11 hijackers could have passed that test.”

Before the debate could become an argument, Mother Washington raised both her hands and we both knew to shut up. The senior lady would have the final say.

“There ain’t no answer,” she said. “Ain’t no one thing going to keep us safe. We got to try everything, and we got to be ready to change when them poor, misguided people over there try something new. I guess these Homeland Security people are still figuring out how to do what they got to do, but at least I’m glad they’re trying to learn some new tricks. And I guess a jar of my favorite hand cream is a small price to pay while they’re learning.”

Hamlet Was a Moron

It was an ugly case. The drugs had got hold of him and he was getting rough with his baby’s mama and the kids. He needed to get into rehab. She asked me to help. I had to help him make the right choice. He got rough. In order to help him, I had to get rougher. My knuckles still ached under my gloves.

And then, when I got home I found Monte on the stoop, having a heart-to-heart with Cindy. I’m pretty much the man in Monte’s life now. When he has questions, real questions his grandmother can’t answer, he comes to me. It looked like my girl stopped by at the same time he was looking for me, and decided to stand in.

Cuban girls.

When I was halfway up the stairs, Cindy said, “Glad you’re home, baby. We’ve got a tough one here.” I just raised my eyebrow in question, so she kept going. “It seems our young man here has met a girl. She might be THE girl. But he’s not really sure.”

The grin on her face told me that Cindy thought this was cute, or funny. Monte just looked embarrassed. He’s trying real hard to be a man, and no woman in the world understands how hard that is in the 21st century.

“I really like her,” he said. “But if I tell her, I mean, what if it turns out to be wrong? I mean, I’m not so sure I’m ready to have a steady girl.”

“But I told him if he doesn’t tell her, he might be letting an important opportunity pass him by,” Cindy threw in.

“So the question is?” I asked.

“Tell her or don’t,” Cindy said.

I was tired. And this was simple. And my patience needle was slipping toward E. I didn’t look at Cindy. I looked at Monte. Boys past ten years old deserve to be addressed directly.

“What are you, Hamlet?”

“Huh?”

I walked between them to the door and turned around. “Look, enough already with the psychoanalysis. On the one hand this, but on the other hand that. This whole damn country is as confused as Hamlet was. Do I tell or do I keep quiet? Should I stay or should I go? Stick with the war or pull out now? Is she the one? Do I tell her? Back and forth, back and forth, chewing over every decision like an old bone. Nobody’s ever sure about what to do.”

“We can’t all be like you,” Cindy snapped. “Good old Hannibal. Often wrong, but never in doubt.”

“And why the hell not?” I snapped back.

“Because, like Hamlet, some of us have more complex questions to deal with.”

I hate it when she pulls out that lawyer crap, and she knows it. I pointed right in her face.

“Well, you know what? Hamlet was a moron. The questions ain’t never as big as ‘To be or not to be.’ It’s ‘how do I get from here to there. How do I move forward?’ That’s all there is.”

“And you’ve got the magic answer,” Cindy said, tipping her head that way she does when she’s being sarcastic. Monte was staring at me like he really did want the answer. So I figured I’d just give it to him.

“The answer is, you start. Then you keep going. Quit waiting. To paraphrase Patton, a good plan now is better than a perfect plan later. Move forward. That’s always the right thing to do. Is it time to have a steady girlfriend? Who the hell knows? Get one and find out. Is she the one? Ask her and see. My dad had a saying…”

I turned my eyes to Cindy. She hates it when I quote my dad. I lost him when I was pretty young, but I swear I remember every word the man ever said to me.

“He used to say, ‘Left foot, right foot.’ That’s how you get to wherever it is you want to go. Cindy, how’d you learn to swim? Did you take fancy classes at the Y or something?”

I caught her off guard, but her father and I are pretty good friends so I was sure I knew the answer.

“No,” she said in a low tone. “My dear father picked me up and threw me in the deep end of the pool.”

“Uh huh. And what happened?”

She hesitated. Sometimes the truth can interfere with making your point, but she was a good enough lawyer to know that hiding the truth never works. There was even a tiny bit of a smile that she was reluctant to share. “Well, actually, I guess I did okay.”

That was all I needed. I opened the door but turned to Monte just before I went inside. “Jump on in, dude. You’ll be surprised how fast your swimming skills improve.”