My mother was the most generous person I’ve ever known; well, except maybe with me. But that is another story. The contentious mother‑daughter relationship is as old as time, so it isn’t even worth recounting. You would yawn and fall asleep.
But outside of me, she would give anyone the shirt off her back if they needed it.
She was the teenager who broke into the Humane Society to free all the animals, because she couldn’t live with the idea of them putting any down. She brought home every homeless animal she found; she even brought home a donkey once.
Yup. A homeless donkey.
Why there was a wild, roaming donkey without a home, I’ll never know. But it found her, and she brought it home.
As a daughter, though, I found this attribute annoying. Because that’s what you do when you’re a daughter; you get annoyed with your mom. In my mind, she was a pushover, constantly taken advantage of by any sob story.
I would often groan, and think: She is so gullible. Why can’t she have more backbone?
One day, while my cousin and my mom were visiting me in Paris, they headed out on their own for a few hours while I had some online work to get done.
Around lunchtime they came back, and my cousin was snickering and laughing at my mom.
My mom said, “Oh, stop that now!”
A million possibilities of what mishap my mother might have gotten into flashed through my head.
Fallen into the Seine?
Stepped in the dog-poo‑land-mines on the streets?
Stuck in the metro doors as they closed?
I asked, “Okay, out with it. What happened?”
My cousin couldn’t contain herself and blurted out, “Your mom got bamboozled!”
Yes. That is actually a word. I looked it up.
I sighed. “How?”
My cousin began recounting the story under the glare of my mom. “Oh, your mom got taken in real good on the Alexandre Bridge. We were just standing there when a woman came walking up and picked something off the pavement near us. It was a gold ring. She tried to hand it to Aunt B, who said, ‘Not mine. It’s your lucky day.’ The woman insisted your mom take it, and as soon as your mom did, the woman asked her for money!”
This wasn’t a new story for me. I’d run into this event myself, as did most who came to Paris. There are roving bands of immigrants in Paris who would target busy tourist areas, trying to get visitors to buy things or hand over money.
My eyes shifted to mom. “Please tell me you didn’t pay her?”
My mom cut in. “Well, I was surprised, and I thought it was a nice gift. But then she asked for ten euros for the ring. I was caught off guard and gave it to her.”
My cousin jumped back in. “But that’s not all! The girl then said, ‘Ten more.’ And your mom gave it to her!”
My cousin doubled over laughing. “She gave her twenty euros for a fake gold ring!”
I shook my head. “Mom! If you’re just going to hand out twenty euros, you could give it to me!”
We can all be gullible at times. Everyone has a story or two. But events occure far more frequently to my mother for one main reason: she believes in people.
And, shockingly, she continues to believe in the basic goodness of people, no matter how often this sort of thing happens to her.
Mom is the kind of person who accepts everyone without judgment.
A trait I, apparently, didn’t inherit.
This apple fell far from the tree.
On another day during her visit, we were walking to the Rodin Museum, and she sat down on a picnic bench to have a cigarette.
There were two homeless people sitting there who asked for one.
She of course shared some cigarettes with each, and then they began to talk. They all fed the pigeons bread, and smoked together, and recounted tales.
I stood there with arms crossed, and tapping my foot, annoyed.
I wanted to get to the Rodin Museum.
But my mom was perfectly happy, sitting on a bench in Paris, chatting with two homeless men.
We learned they were from Vietnam and spoke a little English. They had arrived in Paris about four years earlier and now lived on the streets. They shared stories with my mom about their childhood during the Vietnam War; stories that were rich and fascinating.
Was it all true? Who knows. But it was interesting.
Rarely does a person get the chance to experience a cultural exchange like that. And my mom found it simply by doing something generous and out of the ordinary. She found it by stepping off the typical tourist path. She found it because she treats all people with dignity and equality, no matter who they are.
Be honest with yourself; would you have sat down to chat with them? Would you even stop and give them a cigarette? Or would you walk by, averting your gaze, pretending they don’t exist?
A sense of shame washed over me.
I quit tapping my foot, and sat down.
And, as I sat there watching my mother talk with them, I realized that maybe it’s better to be a sucker sometimes rather than a selfish jerk all the time.