Chapter 61
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route
April 4, 1994
Paris, France
Fair Kate,
The Ramonas had a soaking wet weepathon when I told them about Book Clubs for Bosnia. And my own waterworks went into overdrive when I finally got Mom’s letter. You’re right. She doesn’t hate me. She told me how much my apology meant to her. The sickening part was I could tell it surprised her. Not that I misjudged her but that I was sorry for misjudging her. That made me feel like the worst daughter in the world. Especially since she wrote how after she got her master’s degree she wanted to write about social problems but the only jobs the newspapers would offer her were in the women’s sections writing about hemlines and food. Women weren’t given serious opportunities back then. But after a while she realized the day-to-day people she met were as important as Dulles and de Gaulle. Maybe even more important. She wrote, “There’s more peace to be made over a curry buffet than at a treaty table.” She discovered she could actually tell people’s stories in a deeper way than if she was a regular reporter. A reporter gives ONLY facts, but through food she gets to write about curiosity, passion, hope, and every other human emotion you can think of. I never knew she was so proud of her job. Whose fault is that? Misjudge not indeed!
Speaking of. You’re sorely misjudging yourself if you don’t think you do anything to lift people’s spirits. Let’s start with Bumpa. Not every granddaughter would drive all over town buying macrame supplies. And what about how you work so hard to find just the perfect books for people. Not to mention my mixtape which I play whenever I get a case of the Gloomy Gerties.
I’m cutting this short because I have a computer class today. I’m learning a program called FileMaker Pro so I can make a database of all the universities I’ve contacted.
Nonjudgmentally yours,
Frida