The language of Motherhood

The language of mothers is the same all over the world I learned yesterday. I was sent back to a pre-teen age being lectured about the dangers I would face, at an age where I thought I was un-touchable, by my Mom when an Afrikaans woman and her daughters stopped their car on the street as I was walking home after sunset with my laundry. Not having anywhere to do the laundry in my hotel, and having gotten down to the last few pieces of clothing that I had brought over with me, I decided to carry up my laundry to work yesterday morning in my suitcase so that I could wash my clothes in the SEF interns house where they have a washing machine (as I learned earlier, hand-washing was not for me). By the time my large load of laundry was completed and I had packed it all back up into my suitcase it was 6:30 and, being winter, the sun had already set. Living about a mile away from the intern house I was rolling my suitcase down the hill when a car stopped with a white woman and her two young girls. Poking her head out of the window the woman asked if I was O.K. “Yes, I am fine, I just finished my laundry” I responded. She asked if I wanted a ride and I said no I will be fine, I was almost where I needed to be, but she insisted on taking me to my hotel. While in the car I was lectured of the dangers of walking alone in the dark, that this was not the US, and I must never do it again. I responded meekly with yes ma’am, and promised I would never do it again. She deposited me at my hotel and as I walked towards my room I couldn’t help but feeling the guilt of a young girl who had disappointed her mom by making a poor life decision. I guess moms really all do speak the same language, no matter where they live.