About Taxis and Cats
My mother just called to tell me she loved my controversial article about women rights. That’s what I do. I write articles about social, political, cultural stuff, everything. I smiled with pride even when she could not see me. I must say I was concerned about the fact she mentioned she was in a taxicab on her way home. To hers. To mine, when I was a little girl, when I lived in Montevideo. I realized it was not very early there and the fact my mother was alone in a taxi worried me. She hates taxis because she is afraid of the drivers. She is afraid to ride alone in case something happens, like being kidnapped or raped. All women have those fears secretly. It’s funny because my mother is the strongest woman I know. I guess it’s an inherited fear. I had it, too. To taxis and to cats, just like her. Panic. All of it unfounded. She cringes horribly if she sees a cat. I was very scared of both too until I met a guy long ago, who removed this fear of mine by introducing me to his cat Romeo (whom I accompanied until the day it died), and to taxis, because he used to make me go back home late at night on my own by Uber. This last thing I learned promptly, with no anesthesia, showed my friend was not very affectionate with me I guess, or he was rather carefree. He was not even touched by the fact that still at my age, I have a pretty baby face people might want to take advantage of, at least that’s what others say. Or maybe it is the braveness I show in how I walk, even when almost everything scares me a lot. I would have loved for him to say, “Let me know when you arrive safely,” for once. Gentlemen and besties do.
The important fact here is that fears fade, things change, people change just like their circumstances. Even my mother is no longer afraid of taxis; I asked her to let me know when she arrives home.
I cannot help wondering the name or the story behind the successful overcome of her particular fear. Again, life is for those who become bold at some point.
In my case, who knows, maybe I’ll meet another friend someday who takes away my anger against Dylan, not for getting the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature, but for having been part of an original soundtrack in a movie where two children were abused. It has been branded with fire on my brain, and I was only fourteen years old. I still feel nausea. And I definitely would prefer it to be the same friend who rid my fears of cats and the taxis, the one that deconstruct Dylan for me, but you cannot have everything in this life, and the Nobel should have gone to Leonard Cohen if we talk about lyrics and poetry.
I’m going to call my mother and see if she’s home yet.