The birthday card I was always too scared to write to my mother
My mother would have been 59 today.
Growing up in Germany in the 80s and 90s, I wore tie-dye shirts and purple overalls and saw my mom have raucous parties with her girlfriends in our backyard that involved lots of bushy armpits, cigarettes, and conversations about labor unions and feminism. They wore no bras and laughed loudly. They were the opposite of Spiesser. There is no good translation for Spiesser, but it always felt like my mom meant her own parents, working-class people who always cut their grass and swept the street on Saturdays. Her disdain for conformity meant creativity was encouraged in our home. The stranger the better. My mother bought me art supplies and drove me to painting classes and workshops, let me rearrange my room, paint my walls, refinish my floors, enrolled me in dance, allowed me to dye my hair any color I wanted, and never complained about weird outfit choices.
Her contempt for authority meant rebellion was encouraged, too. I watched a documentary about Gandhi when I was in elementary school. She talked to me about white supremacy, civil disobedience, and feminism. She supported me going to anti-war protests in high school. She let me read any of her books no matter how adult the topic was. I had no curfew. I had no rules.
