Mother, Can You Not? (11 page)

I
f my mom were a superhero, her secret identity would be The Castrator—a television director and sassy mom by day, a defender of women and children by night. Her shape-shifting superpower would morph her into whatever form a sexual predator found most alluring, and then she’d use her superhuman strength to beat the living shit out of them. Her signature would be one blood-red nail that extended into a sharp blade that she’d use to castrate the rapists and child molesters she confronted.

Now, my mom is
not
a superhero and she has never castrated anyone (to my knowledge), but like a superhero, she has a dark origin story that informs her overwhelming concern for my personal safety.

She was ten years old when a man who lived in her apartment building tried to grope her in an
elevator. My mother
being my mother,
and following my grandmother’s advice, punched him in the testicles and screamed, “GET OFF ME RIGHT NOW!” before running out on the next floor.

Not to get all Freudian, but I think this experience was formative for her parenting style in one major way: it put her on the constant lookout for sexual predators.

The moment I emerged from her uterus, everyone became suspect. The male nurse in the delivery room who tried to bathe me was told: “BACK OFF! I’ll do it myself.” Mind you, at that point, my mother was still on the operating table being sewn together after a C-section. And it only got worse! My high school graduation present was a rape whistle. By the time I went away to college, she was sending me rape sirens.

When I moved to New York after school, my mother’s central means of protecting me became personal safety devices: Kubotans, knives disguised as combs, hot-pink canisters of pepper spray. You name it, she’s given it to me and demanded that I carry it in my purse. In her defense, I once had a chilling experience walking from the subway to my apartment. A tremendously
drunk man shouted at me: “I’m going to fuck you in your mouth, bitch!” When I didn’t immediately report for fellatio duty, he threw a beer can at me. Again, he was very drunk, so the can hit a mailbox about three feet to my left.

As satisfying as it would have been to watch that particular man writhing around in Mace-addled agony, if I carried her weapons with me all the time, I would almost definitely go to jail for assault. While I don’t support my mother’s belief that the punishment for all rapists and pedophiles in this country should be public castration in Times Square, followed by forcing the criminal to eat his own testicles, I still get pretty worked up about the catcalling and casual sexual harassment that I’m conditioned to silently tolerate as a woman. While I’m quietly ignoring your “Smile, miss’s,” “Dammmn, girl’s,” and “Hey, sugar tits, you wanna suck on something sweet’s?” I’m also fantasizing about peeling back the skin of your penis with a rusty nail. So, (1) arming a person with that kind of stifled rage is probably not the best idea, and (2) I guess I’m turning into my mother a little bit.

Besides, the three neighborhoods where I have lived in New York have been perfectly safe. In spite of my mother’s apparent belief that the New York State Department of Corrections’ policy is to release all sexual predators directly into my apartment building, I have never felt truly threatened.

One weekend, my mother was visiting from New Jersey, and I took her out to lunch at a coffee shop. Between mouthfuls of kale and complaints about the hipsters serving her seltzer out of a mason jar, my mom asked, “So, where’s the Mace I sent you?”

“Uh…” I looked down at my plate.

“Excuse me, I’d like to see that pink pepper spray I sent that you promised me you’d keep in your bag at all times.”

“Mother, I’m not going to play this game with you. Stop. Eat your lunch.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you’re just walking around this city every single day without any way of protecting yourself?!”

“Shhh, Mother!” I glanced around the restaurant;
people were staring at us. She raised her voice and sat back, addressing the room.

“Why, you’re worried your cool hipster coffee shop friends here will think you’re
uncool
for carrying a weapon to defend yourself? You know what else is uncool?? RAPISTS!”

To avoid scenes like that going forward, I decided that every time she visited in the future, I would need to stuff one of the weapons in my bag. And it works. Whenever she walks into my apartment, the personal-safety spot check begins before I can even say hello. The first thing out of her mouth is always “Where is it?” On one of these visits a few years ago, I selected a Kubotan, which is a small baton that, when gripped, reinforces a punch. In some cases, these small sticks expand out into longer clubs, like the ones policemen carry.

“So let’s see it! Open your bag.” I had only removed this weapon from its packaging a few minutes before her arrival, unwilling to get caught empty-handed again. When she asked, I rolled my eyes with the
confidence of the president of the National Rifle Association and pulled the weapon out of my purse.

“Good. I’d prefer the pepper spray, but that’s better than nothing.”

“See? I don’t know why you keep asking me…” I smirked, satisfied.

“Okay, okay, I stand corrected.”

“I mean, it’s a little bit insulting. What do you think, I’m
lying
to you?”

I could tell she felt guilty, and I made a show of placing the Kubotan back into my purse.

I then promptly forgot about the weapon entirely. This happens almost every time she visits, and given how frequently we see each other, I’d calculate that there’s a 60 percent chance I’m unknowingly armed at any given moment. It’s a miracle I haven’t unintentionally maced a friend or a baby or something.
I’m profoundly uncoordinated.

However, there was one time I wished I had my mother’s insane weapons with me: on a trip to Texas for work. My first night there I walked into a restaurant
and ran right into a real-life cowboy. He was a perfect gentleman, but as he opened the door for me, his coat lifted to reveal the ornate pearl handle of a gun tucked into a holster on his belt. I was stunned. This was the first time I had ever seen a gun being carried by someone who wasn’t a policeman. The fact that there was only a foot between me and a weapon that could blast a hole through my body resulted in some hefty pit stains. Again, this man was lovely; he even said, “I hope you enjoy your time in Texas, ma’am,” but I was incredibly uncomfortable.

In Texas, people seemed to wear guns the way I wear Spanx—99 percent of the time they’re hiding under my clothing, and I feel unsafe without them. The rest of that week I felt like I saw weapons every time a jacket swung back or a pant leg hiked up too high. Given my anxious disposition, I’m not sure how many of those were actual firearms versus actual belts and socks.

The next week I traveled to Dallas to visit one of my closest friends, Russell, whom I’ve known since I was seven years old. He moved to Dallas for a job with
Glenn Beck, the man deemed too crazy for
Fox News
, but I was in no position to complain. I was going to take full advantage of the free accommodations in a new city for a quick vacation. My last night there, we were feasting on takeout and arguing about gay marriage when I noticed a black case on the breakfast bar in his kitchen. I asked Russell what it was.

“Oh, that’s my gun. I picked it up on the way home. Just got it cleaned. Thanks for reminding me; I need to put it in the safe.”

“WHAT?! YOU BOUGHT A GUN?! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!”

Et tu, Brute!?!?!
He picked up the case and showed me his Glock 19, a black nine-millimeter semiautomatic weapon. I was stunned. This wasn’t just a random cowboy in rural Texas, this was one of my best friends, whom I love and respect. For some reason, seeing Russell brandishing this weapon ignited a panic.
Guns and crazy people are everywhere!!! (Not you, Russ. I love you.)

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised by this, Kate.
It’s insane to me that you walk around New York with
nothing
to protect yourself.”

I remember thinking:
Am I the only person on the planet without a weapon? Perhaps my mother was right. I mean, I’m not talking about going out and buying a bazooka, but maybe a lipstick shiv makes sense.

The next morning I waited in the security line for my flight back to New York, contemplating whether I would actually be able to pull a weapon on someone, no matter what the circumstance. After unloading my bags onto the conveyor belt, I walked through the scanner. The TSA agent manning the machine flagged me for an additional pat-down because of my baggy sweatshirt. I was grateful my mother wasn’t there to point out:
Well, if you had worn the little tight black dress, you wouldn’t have a gloved hand halfway up your hooha! You should always dress up when you travel. You never know who you might meet!
The TSA employee in possession of that gloved hand gave me the all clear, and I turned toward the X-ray conveyor belt to pick up my laptop and bags. A frowning uniformed man was
holding my belongings at the end of the X-ray belt, and as soon as I turned, he made eye contact with me and waved me toward him.

Again, my baseline level of anxiety is pretty high, so as soon as our eyes met, my heart rate spiked, and I imagined possible scenarios.
Had I forgotten to throw out the water bottle I had been sipping in the Uber? Had I left that weed Mark asked me to carry in my bag two months ago? Had someone planted a bomb in my purse without my knowledge—was I going to take the fall?!

The TSA agent gestured toward my bags. “Are these your belongings?” I nodded, saliva pooling in my mouth. “I’m going to need to take a look inside this bag.” He felt around the inside of my purse with latex-clad hands and pulled out the hot pink Kubotan that I had so smugly deposited there weeks before.

SHIT!!!!!! How was I going to explain this? Oh no, sir, that’s not mine. I just had to lie to my mother about carrying it! Mothers, am I right?

“Oh wow. I’m so sorry about this, sir. I—I completely forgot that was in my purse.”

“You
forgot
that you’re carrying a weapon while going through airport security?”

“I honestly did. Again, I’m so sorry. This is so silly…”

“This is not a joke.”

My neuroses took over, and I flashed-forward three days: me in a Texas women’s correctional facility with a cowgirl prison wife named Peggy forcing me to brew toilet wine.

“I know, I can’t believe this is happening. I really did forget it was in my purse. I even flew with it from New York on my way here, and I didn’t realize.”
Foot, meet mouth
.

“You realize you just admitted to a federal violation…?”
Foot, meet large intestine.

“No! I just meant that this is all a big mistake. I’m really so sorry about this. Is there any way you can just take the thing and I can go?”

“Well, we’ll have to see. I’ve seen some of these extend out into clubs, and if it’s that type of Kubotan, you’re going to have to come with me.” He fiddled with the hot-pink weapon and walked over to the other officers clustered around the X-ray machine to confer.

Yep. Definitely going to jail. Would I even make a good prison wife? Shit, maybe I’d have better luck with the guards. Would that make me a rat? No, Peggy, I would never betray you, baby. I’ll get you all of the prison cigarettes; just don’t shiv me.

The TSA agent who had detained me returned, clearing his throat and holding out the hot pink Kubotan.

“Ma’am, it is a serious offense to try and carry a concealed weapon on an aircraft.”

“Yes, sir, again I’m incredibly sorry. It really was a mista—” He raised his other hand as my jailhouse fantasy escalated.

“Now, this doesn’t extend into a club, but if it had, I would have had no choice but to detain you. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded, grateful it hadn’t been the pepper spray.

“We’re going to let you go ahead and fly today, but we’re confiscating this weapon. And don’t let this ever happen again.”

“I promise, sir. It won’t.” I swung my bags over my
shoulder and raced past one of the female TSA agents who looked remarkably like my prison wife, Peggy.

As I landed at JFK, I thought maybe this brush with Homeland Security would give my mother pause. Hell, maybe I could even convince her to stop sending me tampon knives (don’t Google it). Perhaps this near-arrest would be the testicle to break the Castrator’s blade. I powered on my phone, and my mom was already texting me.

Nope.