The first time I met Bita, she told me to call her Mamma. The second time, she punched me.
I had been driving around with too-long pants too long, when I saw Alterations by Bita in a tiny shopping center. Seemed convenient. After she straight-pinned my hems, I asked her last name.
She spoke with a strong accent, "You not can say it. No worry. You just call me Mamma. That what everyone call me."
I stopped by yesterday after casting my ballot. We did our business, and before leaving, I asked her where she was born. She looked a little confused, so I tried again.
"Uh, where are you from?"
"Oh," she said. "Iranian."
She gestured to the "I Voted Today" sticker on my shirt and asked, "Who did you give it to?"
I had been so saturated with the phrase "voting is a privilege" that its meaning lost meaning. Voting is not merely our endorsement or support. It is not what we say. It is something we possess. And it is part of us that we literally give.
I told her Obama, her face brightened, and she punched me in the chest.
"Good," she said. "You kids do good. Change good."
