On Grandmothers

It all started with an NHK documentary I watched as a child.  The Japanese maestro of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Seiji Ozawa was highlighted on this show.  My parents and I crowded around the television taking in his words, the music, the awe he inspired.  The camera zoomed in on a statue in downtown Boston (one I have yet to find) and I knew right then and there, someday I would live in Boston.

Fast-forward twenty or so years and I'm talking to a friend about this revelation, that I will some day live in Boston.  "People are rude in Boston," he says.  "Really.  My cousin lives there.  He's impressed by what Bostonians do and say.  Well, impressed isn't the right word, I suppose.  People there take rudeness to a new level.  Even the grandmothers are bitchy."

I scoff.  He is wrong.  Not about how an entire population of a city, or so his cousin points out, can be rude.  My objection is about grandmothers.  Grandmothers are not, cannot be rude.  He is simply wrong.  His cousin exaggerates.

These were the days I measured grandmothers by mine.  No one would dare accuse my grandmother of being rude.  Ever.  I assumed all grandmothers were kind, patient, supportive, giving, and treasured.  My grandmother was.  Others must be the same.

I was idealistic, young, and naive.  I lacked real-world experience.  I was fortunate enough not have spent time around (many) truly rude people.  And I was idealistic.  (That part warrants another mention.)  I refused to believe there were rude grandmothers in the world.  Collectively, surely they must be like my grandmother.  As a group, they simply were not capable of rudeness.

Oh youth.  When we finally did move to Boston in 1997 we were met by aggressive drivers, opinionated people who spoke their minds freely (which usually meant they were pointing out how I was wrong), and finally, rude people.  I was shocked.  Was my friend right?  No.  Grandmothers in Boston would not be, could not be rude.  Right?  The rest of these people, maybe.  Not grandmothers.  Please, not grandmothers.

And so the bubble was burst.  One after another, rude grandmothers showed up in front of me, turning left from the right hand lane, flipping me off when I honked at them.  In the grocery store, their cart in the middle of the isle blocking everyone, my "Excuse me"s met with eye-rolling and "Well, just move around me then."  She might as well added, "You little snot" to the end of that sentence.

Twenty more years after my friend told me of his cousin's words, still unwilling to believe all grandmothers everywhere were capable of rudeness I made my way back to Japan.  The land of politeness, consummate service, and kindness, surely grandmothers here personified grace.  In the two years I spent up north in the Tohoku region, I had yet to come across a rude grandmother.  Hoping the American sentiment of freely expressing one's own opinion was what caused grandmothers (at least in Boston) to be okay with their behavior I hung onto hope.  So far so good.

All good things must come to an end.  The resolution, the glory I felt in my correctness came crashing down one day as I stood in line at a bakery in Tokyo, the place that sells the most wonderful milk bread.  Never mind that eating this bread requires penance at the gym (which I refuse to submit to), today I would partake and indulge.

The line was long on this day.  My tray in hand, the milk bread roll resting safely on top, I'm minding my own business when I feel a tap.  I turn around and see an older woman, a grandmother standing there looking up at me.  In perfectly clipped British English she says, "Are you here," and she points to the floor, "to pay?"
"I am," I reply confused.  Why else would we all be in line?
"Que up then," she snips, and then adds, "Properly."

What?  Qu'est que le hell does that mean?  Oh grandmother.  You managed to ruin all hope I had about your kind.  I resolve to admit I have been wrong my entire life.  Angry most of all that she's the one who crushed my faith I am this close to taking out my anger on her, and for a very quick moment think about saying something like, "Well, aren't you a short, snappy little thing."  But, I don't.  Instead I ignore her and stand my ground properly in que, same place I've been standing all along, and mourn the truth I've refused to acknowledge.

Yes, even grandmothers can be rude.  Alas.  So it is.