Da jeg vidste at jeg kom her for at tale til jer, tænkte jeg, "Jeg skal ringe til min mor." Jeg har en lille cubansk mor -- hun omkring så stor. 1,20. Ikke større end summen af hendes figurlige dele. Kan I følge mig? (Latter) Jeg ringede til hende. "Hej, hvordan går det, skat?" "Hej mor, jeg skal tale med dig." "Du taler allerede med mig. Hvad er der i vejen?" Jeg sagde, "Jeg skal tale til en masse rare mennesker." "Du taler altid med rare mennesker, bortset fra da du tog til det Hvide Hus." "Mor, kom ikke for godt i gang!" Og jeg fortalte hende at jeg skulle til TED, og hun sagde, "Hvad er problemet?" Og jeg sagde, "Jamen, jeg ved det ikke helt." Jeg sagde, "Jeg skal tale til dem om historier. Det er 'Teknologi, Underholdning og Design.'" Og hun sagde, "Jamen, du designer en historie når du finder på den, det er underholdning når du fortæller den, og du kommer til at bruge en mikrofon." (Latter) Jeg sagde, "Du er dejlig, mor. Er far der?" "Hvad er der i vejen? Er de guldkorn der falder fra mine læber som lemminger ikke gode nok til dig?" (Latter) Så kom min far. Min far, han er en af de gamle sjæle, I ved, -- gammel cubansk mand fra Camaguey. Camaguey er en provins på Cuba. Han er fra Florida. Han blev født der i 1924. Han voksede op i en hytte med jordgulv, og bygningen var den slags der blev brugt af Tainos, vores gamle Arawak forfædre. Min far er på samme måde hurtigtænkende, super sjov, og så vender han skarpt og efterlader en åndeløs. "Papi, hjælp." "Jeg har allerede hørt din mor. Jeg mener hun har ret." (Latter) "Efter det jeg lige har fortalt dig?" Hele mit liv, har min far været der. Så vi talte sammen et par minutter, og han sagde, "Hvorfor fortæller du dem ikke hvad du tror på?" Jeg elsker det, men det har vi ikke tid til. God fortællekunst er at udtænke en historie som nogen vil lytte til. En fantastisk historie er kunsten om at give slip. Så jeg vil fortælle jer en lille historie. Husk på, at denne tradition kommer ikke til os fra Avalons tåger, tilbage i tiden, men endnu videre, inden vi begyndte at kradse historier ned på papyrus, eller vi lavede piktogramer på vægge i klamme, fugtige grotter. Dengang, havde vi en trang, et behov, til at fortælle historien. Når Lexus vil sælge en en bil, fortæller de en en historie. Har I set reklamerne? Fordi hver af os har dette behov, for en gangs skyld -- bare en gangs skyld -- at fortælle vores historie og blive hørt. Der er historier man fortæller fra scenen. Der er historier som man måske fortæller i en lille gruppe af mennesker med noget god vin. Og der er historier som man fortæller sent om natten til en ven, måske en gang i sit liv. Og så er der de historier vi hvisker ind i et Stygiansk mørke. Jeg fortæller jer ikke den historie. Jeg fortæller jer denne. Den hedder, "Du Kommer til at Savne Mig." Den handler om menneskelige forbindelser. Min cubanske moder, som jeg lige introducerede kort for jer i det korte karakter oprids, kom til USA for et tusinde år siden. Jeg blev født i 19 -- det kan jeg ikke huske, og jeg kom til dette land med dem i kølvandet på den cubanske revolution. Vi tog fra Havana, Cuba til Decatur, Georgia. Og Decatur, Georgia er en lille by i Syden. Og i den lille sydlige by, voksede jeg op, og jeg voksede op med at høre disse historier. Men denne skete kun for et par år siden. Jeg ringede til min mor. Det var en lørdag morgen. Og jeg ringede om hvordan man laver en ajiaco. Det er et cubansk måltid. Det er herligt. Det er pikant. Det får spyttet til at skumme i de små hjørner af munden -- er det nok? Det gør ens armhuler fugtige, I ved? Den slags mad, ja. Dette er den sansende del af programmet, folkens. Jeg ringede til min mor, og hun sagde, "Carmen, du bliver nød til at komme, be' om. Jeg skal til indkøbscenteret, og du kender din far nu, han tager en lur om eftermiddagen, og jeg bliver nød til at gå. Jeg skal løbe et ærinde." Lad mig lave en parentetisk pause her og fortælle jer -- Esther, min mor, stoppede med at køre for flere år siden, til hele byen Atlantas kollektive lettelse. Enhver udflugt i bil med den kvinde fra da jeg var barn, folkens, indeholdte naturligt blinkende, blå lys. Men hun var blevet ferm til at undgå drengene i blåt, og når hun endelig mødte dem, åh, havde hun vidunderlig, jamen, kontakt. "Fru, var du klar over at du lige kørte overfor rødt?" (Spansk) "Taler du ikke engelsk?" "Nej." (Latter) Men i sidste ende, blind høne finder også korn, og hun endte i færdselsretten, hvor hun tuskede med dommeren for at få rabat. Det er en historisk afmærkning. Men nu blev hun halvfjerds, og hun holdte op med at køre. Og det betød at alle i familien skulle melde sig til at tage med hende og få farvet hår, I ved, den mærkelige blå farve der matcher hendes polyesterbluse, I ved, samme farve som Buicken. Nogen? Okay. Små prikker på benene, hvor hun laver hendes broderi, og hun efterlader små sløjfer. Rockports -- det er de til. Det er derfor de kalder dem det. (Latter) Dette er hendes ensemble. Og dette er kvinden der vil have mig til at komme en lørdag morgen når jeg har meget at lave, men det tager ikke lang tid fordi cubansk skyld er en tungtvejende ting. Jeg bliver ikke politisk overfor jer, men … Så, jeg tager hen til min mor. Jeg kommer. Hun er i carporten. Selvfølgelig, har de en carport. Den slags med et bølget tag, I ved. Buicken holder parkeret udenfor, og hun klirrer og rasler med nøglerne. "Jeg har en overraskelse til dig, skat!" "Tager vi din bil?" "Ikke vi, jeg." Og hun rækker ned i sin lomme og trækker en katastrofe frem. Nogens fortællekunst. Interaktiv kunst. Man kan tale med mig. Åh, et kørekort, et fuldstændig gyldigt kørekort. Udstedt, åbenbart, af motorkontoret i hendes eget amt, Gwinnett. Forbandede idioter. (Latter) Jeg sagde, "Er det den ægte vare?" "Det tror jeg." "Kan du overhovedet se?" "Det må jeg åbenbart kunne." "Åh gud." Hun stiger ind i bilen -- hun sidder på to telefonbøger. Jeg kan ikke engang finde på denne del, fordi hun er så lille. Hun arrangerer en paraply så hun kan -- slask! -- smække døren. Hendes datter, mig, landsbytossen med iskagen midt i panden, står stadig der, måbende. "Kommer du? Kommer du ikke?" "Åh gud." sagde jeg, "Ok, fint. Ved far at du kører?" "Tager du pis på mig?" "Hvordan gør du det?" "Han skal sove på et tidspunkt." Så vi forlod min far der sov trygt, fordi jeg vidste han ville slå mig ihjel hvis jeg lod hende tage afsted selv, og vi sætter os ind i bilen. Sætter den i bakgear. Halvfems ud af indkørslen, i bakgear. Jeg tager sikkerhedsselen på foran. Jeg trækker dem ind fra bagsædet. Jeg slår dobbeltknuder. Jeg mener, jeg har en mund der er lige så tør som Kalahari ørkenen. Mine knoer er hvide af at holde fast i døren. Ved I hvad jeg taler om? Og hun fløjter, og endelig laver jeg denne slags vejrtrækning -- I ved, den? Kun et par kvinder siger uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Okay. Og jeg sagde, "Mor, vil du ikke sætte farten ned?" Fordi nu er hun kørt på Highway 285, ringvejen rundt om Atlanta, som nu omfatter -- der er syv vejbaner, hun er på dem alle, ikke. Jeg sagde, "Mor, vælg en vejbane!" "De giver en syv vejbaner, så forventer de at man bruger dem." Og der smutter hun, ikke. Jeg tror ikke et øjeblik på at hun ikke har været ude uden at blive stoppet. Så, jeg tænker, hey, vi kan tale. Det vil være en afledning. Det vil hjælpe min vejrtrækning. Det vil gøre noget for min puls, måske. "Mor, jeg ved du er blevet stoppet." "Nej, nej, hvad taler du om?" "Du har et kørekort. Hvor længe har du kørt?" "Fire eller fem dage." "Ja. Og du er ikke blevet stoppet?" "Jeg fik ikke en bøde." Jeg sagde, "Ja, ja, ja, ja, men kom nu, kom nu, kom nu." "OK, jeg stoppede ved et lyskryds og der er en fyr, du ved, omme bagved." "Havde denne fyr tilfældigvis, ligesom, en blå uniform og et forfærdet ansigtsudtryk?" "Du var der ikke, begynd ikke." "Kom nu. Du fik en bøde?" "Nej." Hun forklarede, "Manden" -- jeg skal fortælle det som hun gjorde, fordi man mister noget hvis jeg ikke gør det, I ved -- "han kom hen til vinduet, og han gør en ting som dette, hvilket fortæller mig at han er temmelig gammel, I ved. Så jeg kigger op og jeg tænker, måske vil han stadig synes jeg er lidt nuttet." "Mor, gør du stadig det?" "Hvis det fungerer, fungerer det, baby." Jeg siger, 'Perdon, yo no hablo ingles.' Jamen, tænk engang, han havde været i Honduras for fredskorpset." (Latter) Han taler med hende, og på et tidspunkt siger hun, "Så, du ved, det var det. Det var det. Det var færdigt." "Ja? Hvad? Gav han dig en bøde? Gav han dig ikke en bøde? Hvad?" "Nej, jeg kigger op, og lyset, hun ændrer sig." (Latter) I skulle være forfærdede. Jeg ved ikke om hun tager pis på mig, lidt ligesom katten der slår til en mus, slår til en mus -- venstre potte, højre potte, venstre potte, højre potte -- men nu er vi nået frem til indkøbscenteret. I har alle været i indkøbscenteret i helligdagene, ikke? Tal til mig. Ja. Ja. I kan sige ja. Publikum: Ja. Carmen Agra Deedy: Okay, så ved I alle at man nu er kommet ind i helvedes parkeringspladsens, og beder til den helgen med evig tilgængelighed der i takt med at man tilslutter sig den slangeagtige række af biler der kryber frem, en gut tænder for bremselyset lige som man kører op bag ved ham. Men det sker for det meste ikke, vel? Først siger jeg, "Mor, hvorfor er vi her?" "Du mener, ligesom, i bilen?" "Nej, lad -- hvorfor er vi her i dag? Det er lørdag. Det er i helligdagene." "Fordi jeg skal bytte din fars undertøj." Ser I, dette er en slags machiavellistisk tankegang, som man virkelig skal -- I ved, i mit sind er det en kaningård, denne kvindes sind. Har jeg lyst til at gå ind, fordi medmindre jeg har Ariadnes tråd at fastgøre -- er det nok metaforer for jer? -- et eller andet sted, kommer jeg måske ikke ud. Men I ved. (Latter) "Hvorfor skal vi tage fars undertøj med tilbage nu? Og hvorfor? Hvad er der galt med hans undertøj?" "Det vil chokere dig." "Det vil ikke chokere mig. Hvorfor? Hvad? Er der noget i vejen med ham?" "Nej, nej, nej. Det eneste der er i vejen med ham, er at han er en idiot. Jeg sendte ham i forretningen, hvilket var min første fejltagelse, og han gik ind for at købe undertøj, og han købte underbukser, og han skal købe boxershorts." "Hvorfor?" "Jeg læste det på intersnettet. Man kan ikke få børn." "Åh gud!" (Latter) Olivia? Huh? Huh? Nu er vi krøbet endnu en meter, og min mor siger endelig til mig, "Jeg vidste det, jeg vidste det. Jeg er en indvandrer. Vi laver en plads. Hvad siger jeg til dig? Lige der." Og hun peger ud af passagervinduet, og jeg kigger ud, og tre -- tre -- baner længere henne, "Se, Chevyen." Man vil grine, man man ved det ikke -- man er så politisk korrekt, har I lagt mærke til det? Korriger den anden retning nu, det er i orden. "Se, Chevyen -- han kommer denne vej." "Mor, mor, mor, vent, vent, vent. Chevyen er tre baner væk." Hun kigger på mig som om jeg er hendes, I ved, hendes debile barn, kretinet, den som hun skal tale meget langsom og tydeligt til. "Jeg ved det, skat. Stig ud af bilen og stil dig hen på parkeringspladsen til jeg kommer derhen." Ok, jeg vil have en stemme. Kom nu, kom nu. Nej, nej. Hvor mange af jer har en gang -- I var et barn, I var en voksen -- I stod på parkeringspladsen for at holde den for en anden? Se, vi er en hemmelig klub med et hemmeligt håndtryk. (Latter) Og efter flere års terapi, klarer vi det fantastisk. Vi klarer det fantastisk. Vi klarer det fint. Jamen, jeg sagde fra overfor hende. Dette er -- I ved, man skulle tro at jeg nu er -- og stadig siger fra? Jeg sagde, "Under ingen omstændigheder, mor, du har gjort mig forlegen hele mit liv." Selvfølgelig er hendes svar, "Hvornår har jeg gjort dig forlegen?" (Spansk) Og hun taler stadig mens hun sætter bilen i frigear, trækker håndbremsen, åbner døren, og med en friskhed der er utrolig for en kvinde i hendes alder, hopper hun ud af bilen, smider telefonbøgerne ud, og hun går rundt -- hun bærer på sin billige Kmart taske -- rundt om forenden af bilen. Hun har også en utrolig hastighed på land for en kvinde af hendes alder. Inden jeg ved af det, er hun smuttet hen over parkeringspladsen og ind mellem bilerne, og folk bagved mig, med den slags sædvanlige religiøse godgørenhed som helligdagene bringer med sig, wah-wah wah-wah. "Jeg kommer." Italienske håndsignaler følger. Jeg rykker over. Jeg lukker døren. Jeg efterlader telefonbøgerne. Dette er nyt og hurtigt, bare så I -- er I stadig med os? Vi venter på de langsomme. OK. Jeg begynder, og dette er hvor barnet siger til mig -- og historien fungerer ikke hvis jeg fortæller jer om hende inden, fordi dette er mit lakoniske barn. En korthed, korthed med alt ved dette barn. I ved, hun spiser små portioner. Sprog er noget der skal tildeles i små fonemer, I ved -- bare små hmm, hmm-hmm. Hun har en ond notesbog med spiralryg og en pen. Hun håndterer stor magt. Hun lytter, fordi det er det mennesker der fortæller historier gør først. Men hun pauser af og til og siger, "Hvordan staver du det? Hvilket år? OK." Når hun skriver redegørelsen om cirka 20 år, så tro ikke på et ord af det. Men dette er min datter, Lauren, min bemærkelsesværdige datter, mit grænsende til Aspergers barn. Velsignet være dig, Dr. Watson. Hun siger, "Mor, du skal se!" Når dette barn siger jeg skal se, I ved. Men det er ikke som om jeg ikke har set dette gerningssted før. Jeg voksede op med denne kvinde. Jeg sagde, "Lauren, ved du hvad, giv mig en opsummering. Jeg kan ikke." "Nej, mor, du bliver nød til at kigge." Jeg bliver nød til at kigge. I bliver nød til at kigge. Vil I ikke se? Der er hun. Jeg kiggede i rådvild ærefrygt: hun står, med de Rockports let fra hinanden, men fast. Hun holder den billige Kmart taske foran sig, og hun bruger den. Hun holder flere tons stål imod udelukkede med styrken af hendes lille personlighed, i den kælling-agtige stemme, og siger ting som, "Bak tilbage, kammerat! Nej, den er reserveret!" (Latter) Klar? Vær klar. Her kommer det. "Nej, min datter, hun kommer i Buicken. Skat, sæt dig op så de kan se dig." Åh gud. Åh gud. Endelig kommer jeg -- og nu er dette Syden. Jeg ved ikke hvilken del af landet I bor i. Jeg tror vi alle i hemmelighed elsker historier. Vi vil alle i hemmelighed have vores tæppe og vores bamse. Vi vil rulle os sammen og sige, "Fortæl mig den, fortæl mig den. Kom nu, skat, fortæl mig den." Men i Syden, elsker vi en god historie. Men mennesker er holdt ind til siden, jeg mener, de er kommet ud af den kø, og de har åbnet bagagerummet, fundet havestolene og de kølige drikkevarer frem. Der bliver indgået væddemål. "Jeg holder med den lille dame. For søren!" (Latter) Og hun dirigerer mig ind med små salsa bevægelser. Hun er, trods alt, cubaner. Jeg tænker, "Speeder, brems. Speeder, brems." Som om I aldrig nogensinde har tænkt det i jeres liv? Ikke? ja. Jeg holder ind. Jeg sætter bilen i frigear. Motoren kører stadig -- min, ikke bilen. Jeg hopper ud ved siden af hende og siger, "Du bevæger dig ikke!" "Jeg skal ingen steder." Hun har et sæde på forreste række til en græsk tragedie. Jeg kommer ud, og der er Esther. Hun holder fast i tasken. "Que?" Som betyder "hvad," og så meget mere. (Latter) "Mor, har du ingen skamfølelse? Alle folk ser på os," ikke? Nogle af dem skal man finde på, folkens. Branchehemmeligheder. Gæt engang? Nogle af disse historier former jeg lidt, her og der. Nogle, der er lige der, lige der. Læg dem lige der. Hun siger dette til mig. Efter jeg siger -- lad mig genopfriske jer -- "har du ingen skamfølelse?" "Nej. Det opgav jeg sammen med nylonstrømper -- de binder begge for meget." (Latter) (Bifald) Ja, I kan klappe, men så er I omkring 30 sekunder fra slutningen. Jeg er lige ved at knække som en skrøbelig gren, da nogen pludselig prikker mig på skulderen. En dristig sjæl. Jeg tænker, "Dette er min unge. Hvor vover hun? Hun hoppede ud af den bil." Det er OK, fordi min mor råber af mig, jeg råber af hende. Det er et smukt hierarki, og det fungerer. (Latter) Jeg vender mig om, men det er ikke et barn. Det er en ung kvinde, en smule højere end jeg, svagt grønne, underholdte, øjne. Sammen med hende er en ung mand -- mand, bror, elsker, det er ikke mit job. Og hun siger, "Undskyld mig, fru" -- det er sådan vi taler dernede -- "er det din mor?" Jeg sagde, "Nej, jeg følger efter denne lille, gamle dame rundt på parkeringspladser for at se om de stopper. Ja, det er min mor!" Drengen, nu, han siger. "Jamen, det min søster mente" -- de ligner hinanden utrolig meget, det er et vidende blik -- "Gud, hun er skør!" Jeg sagde, (Spansk), og den unge pige og den unge dreng siger, "Nej, nej, skat, vi ville bare vide endnu en ting." Jeg sagde, "Hør engang, vær så venlig at lade mig tage mig af hende, OK, fordi jeg kender hende, og tro mig, hun er ligesom et lille atomvåben, I ved, man skal bare håndtere hende virkelig varsomt." Og pigen siger, "Det ved jeg, jeg mener, jeg sværger, hun minder os om vores mor." Jeg lægger næsten ikke mærke til det. Han vender sig mod hende. Det er en halv-hvisken, "Gud, jeg savner hende." De vender sig så, skulder mod skulder, og går væk, tabt i deres egen dagdrømmeri. Minder om en eller anden irriterende kvinde der ejer af deres DNA. Og jeg vender mig mod Esther, der vugger på de 'ports, og siger, "Ved du hvad, skat?" "Hvad, mor?" "Jeg gør dig vanvittig sikkert i cirka 14, 15 år mere, hvis du er heldig, men efter det, skat, kommer du til at savne mig." (Bifald)
When I knew I was going to come to speak to you, I thought, "I gotta call my mother." I have a little Cuban mother -- she's about that big. Four feet. Nothing larger than the sum of her figurative parts. You still with me? (Laughter) I called her up. "Hello, how're you doing, baby?" "Hey, ma, I got to talk to you." "You're talking to me already. What's the matter?" I said, "I've got to talk to a bunch of nice people." "You're always talking to nice people, except when you went to the White House." "Ma, don't start!" And I told her I was coming to TED, and she said, "What's the problem?" And I said, "Well, I'm not sure." I said, "I have to talk to them about stories. It's 'Technology, Entertainment and Design.'" And she said, "Well, you design a story when you make it up, it's entertainment when you tell it, and you're going to use a microphone." (Laughter) I said, "You're a peach, ma. Pop there?" "What's the matter? The pearls of wisdom leaping from my lips like lemmings is no good for you?" (Laughter) Then my pop got on there. My pop, he's one of the old souls, you know -- old Cuban man from Camaguey. Camaguey is a province in Cuba. He's from Florida. He was born there in 1924. He grew up in a bohio of dirt floors, and the structure was the kind used by the Tainos, our old Arawak ancestors. My father is at once quick-witted, wickedly funny, and then poignancy turns on a dime and leaves you breathless. "Papi, help." "I already heard your mother. I think she's right." (Laughter) "After what I just told you?" My whole life, my father's been there. So we talked for a few minutes, and he said, "Why don't you tell them what you believe?" I love that, but we don't have the time. Good storytelling is crafting a story that someone wants to listen to. Great story is the art of letting go. So I'm going to tell you a little story. Remember, this tradition comes to us not from the mists of Avalon, back in time, but further still, before we were scratching out these stories on papyrus, or we were doing the pictographs on walls in moist, damp caves. Back then, we had an urge, a need, to tell the story. When Lexus wants to sell you a car, they're telling you a story. Have you been watching the commercials? Because every one of us has this desire, for once -- just once -- to tell our story and have it heard. There are stories you tell from stages. There's stories that you may tell in a small group of people with some good wine. And there's stories you tell late at night to a friend, maybe once in your life. And then there are stories that we whisper into a Stygian darkness. I'm not telling you that story. I'm telling you this one. It's called, "You're Going to Miss Me." It's about human connection. My Cuban mother, which I just briefly introduced you to in that short character sketch, came to the United States one thousand years ago. I was born in 19 -- I forget, and I came to this country with them in the aftermath of the Cuban revolution. We went from Havana, Cuba to Decatur, Georgia. And Decatur, Georgia's a small Southern town. And in that little Southern town, I grew up, and grew up hearing these stories. But this story only happened a few years ago. I called my mom. It was a Saturday morning. And I was calling about how to make ajiaco. It's a Cuban meal. It's delicious. It's savory. It makes spit froth in the little corners of your mouth -- is that enough? It makes your armpits juicy, you know? That kind of food, yeah. This is the sensory part of the program, people. I called my mother, and she said, "Carmen, I need you to come, please. I need to go to the mall, and you know your father now, he takes a nap in the afternoon, and I got to go. I got an errand to run." Let me parenthetically pause here and tell you -- Esther, my mother, had stopped driving several years ago, to the collective relief of the entire city of Atlanta. Any vehicular outing with that woman from the time I was a young child, guys, naturally included flashing, blue lights. But she'd become adept at dodging the boys in blue, and when she did meet them, oh, she had wonderful, well, rapport. "Ma'am, did you know that was a light you just ran?" (Spanish) "You don't speak English?" "No." (Laughter) But eventually, every dog has its day, and she ended up in traffic court, where she bartered with the judge for a discount. There's a historical marker. But now she was a septuagenarian, she'd stopped driving. And that meant that everyone in the family had to sign up to take her to have her hair dyed, you know, that peculiar color of blue that matches her polyester pants suit, you know, same color as the Buick. Anybody? All right. Little picks on the legs, where she does her needlepoint, and leaves little loops. Rockports -- they're for this. That's why they call them that. (Laughter) This is her ensemble. And this is the woman that wants me to come on a Saturday morning when I have a lot to do, but it doesn't take long because Cuban guilt is a weighty thing. I'm not going political on you but ... And so, I go to my mother's. I show up. She's in the carport. Of course, they have a carport. The kind with the corrugated roof, you know. The Buick's parked outside, and she's jingling, jangling a pair of keys. "I got a surprise for you, baby!" "We taking your car?" "Not we, I." And she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a catastrophe. Somebody's storytelling. Interactive art. You can talk to me. Oh, a driver's license, a perfectly valid driver's license. Issued, evidently, by the DMV in her own county of Gwinnett. Blithering fucking idiots. (Laughter) I said, "Is that thing real?" "I think so." "Can you even see?" "I guess I must." "Oh, Jesus." She gets into the car -- she's sitting on two phone books. I can't even make this part up because she's that tiny. She's engineered an umbrella so she can -- bam! -- slam the door. Her daughter, me, the village idiot with the ice cream cone in the middle of her forehead, is still standing there, slack-jawed. "You coming? You no coming?" "Oh, my God." I said, "OK, fine. Does pop know you're driving?" "Are you kidding me?" "How are you doing it?" "He's got to sleep sometime." And so we left my father fast asleep, because I knew he'd kill me if I let her go by herself, and we get in the car. Puts it in reverse. Fifty-five out of the driveway, in reverse. I am buckling in seatbelts from the front. I'm yanking them in from the back. I'm doing double knots. I mean, I've got a mouth as dry as the Kalahari Desert. I've got a white-knuckle grip on the door. You know what I'm talking about? And she's whistling, and finally I do the kind of birth breathing -- you know, that one? Only a couple of women are going uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Right. And I said, "Ma, would you slow down?" Because now she's picked up the Highway 285, the perimeter around Atlanta, which encompasses now -- there's seven lanes, she's on all of them, y'all. I said, "Ma, pick a lane!" "They give you seven lanes, they expect you to use them." And there she goes, right. I don't believe for a minute she has been out and not been stopped. So, I think, hey, we can talk. It'll be a diversion. It'll help my breathing. It'll do something for my pulse, maybe. "Mommy, I know you have been stopped." "No, no, what you talking about?" "You have a license. How long have you been driving?" "Four or five days." "Yeah. And you haven't been stopped?" "I did not get a ticket." I said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, but come on, come on, come on." "OK, so I stopped at a light and there's a guy, you know, in the back." "Would this guy have, like, a blue uniform and a terrified look on his face?" "You weren't there, don't start." "Come on. You got a ticket?" "No." She explained, "The man" -- I have to tell you as she did, because it loses something if I don't, you know -- "he come to the window, and he does a thing like this, which tells me he's pretty old, you know. So I look up and I'm thinking, maybe he's still going to think I'm kind of cute." "Ma, are you still doing that?" "If it works, it works, baby. So, I say, 'Perdon, yo no hablo ingles.' Well, wouldn't you know, he had been in Honduras for the Peace Corps." (Laughter) So he's talking to her, and at some point she says, "Then, you know, it was it. That was it. It was done." "Yeah? What? He gave you a ticket? He didn't give you a ticket? What?" "No, I look up, and the light, she change." (Laughter) You should be terrified. Now, I don't know if she's toying with me, kind of like a cat batting back a mouse, batting back a mouse -- left paw, right paw, left paw, right paw -- but by now, we've reached the mall. Now, you have all been at a mall during the holidays, yes? Talk to me. Yes. Yes. You can say yes. Audience: Yes. Carmen Agra Deedy: All right, then you know that you have now entered parking lot purgatory, praying to that saint of perpetual availability that as you join that serpentine line of cars crawling along, some guy's going to turn on the brake lights just as you pull up behind him. But that doesn't happen most of the time, right? So, first I say, "Ma, why are we here?" "You mean, like, in the car?" "No, don't -- why are we here today? It's Saturday. It's the holidays." "Because I have to exchange your father's underwear." Now, see, this is the kind of Machiavellian thinking, that you really have to -- you know, in my mind, it's a rabbit's warren, this woman's mind. Do I want to walk in, because unless I have Ariadne's thread to anchor -- enough metaphors for you? -- somewhere, I may not get out. But you know. (Laughter) "Why do we have to take pop's underwear back now? And why? What is wrong with his underwear?" "It will upset you." "It won't upset me. Why? What? Is something wrong with him?" "No, no, no. The only thing with him is, he's an idiot. I sent him to the store, which was my first mistake, and he went to buy underwear, and he bought the grippers, and he's supposed to buy the boxers." "Why?" "I read it on the Intersnet. You cannot have children." "Oh, my God!" (Laughter) Olivia? Huh? Huh? By now, we have now crawled another four feet, and my mother finally says to me, "I knew it, I knew it. I'm an immigrant. We make a space. What I tell you? Right there." And she points out the passenger window, and I look out, and three -- three -- aisles down, "Look, the Chevy." You want to laugh, but you don't know -- you're that politically corrected, have you noticed? Correct the other direction now, it's OK. "Look, the Chevy -- he's coming this way." "Mama, mama, mama, wait, wait, wait. The Chevy is three aisles away." She looks at me like I'm her, you know, her moron child, the cretin, the one she's got to speak to very slowly and distinctly. "I know that, honey. Get out of the car and go stand in the parking space till I get there." OK, I want a vote. Come on, come on. No, no. How many of you once in your -- you were a kid, you were an adult -- you stood in a parking space to hold it for someone? See, we're a secret club with a secret handshake. (Laughter) And years of therapy later, we're doing great. We're doing great. We're doing fine. Well, I stood up to her. This is -- you know, you'd think by now I'm -- and still holding? I said, "No way, ma, you have embarrassed me my entire life." Of course, her comeback is, "When have I embarrassed you?" (Spanish) And she's still talking while she puts the car in park, hits the emergency brake, opens the door, and with a spryness astounding in a woman her age, she jumps out of the car, knocks out the phone books, and then she walks around -- she's carrying her cheap Kmart purse with her -- around the front of the car. She has amazing land speed for a woman her age, too. Before I know it, she has skiddled across the parking lot and in between the cars, and people behind me, with that kind of usual religious charity that the holidays bring us, wah-wah wah-wah. "I'm coming." Italian hand signals follow. I scoot over. I close the door. I leave the phone books. This is new and fast, just so you -- are you still with us? We'll wait for the slow ones. OK. I start, and this is where a child says to me -- and the story doesn't work if I tell you about her before, because this is my laconic child. A brevity, brevity of everything with this child. You know, she eats small portions. Language is something to be meted out in small phonemes, you know -- just little hmm, hmm-hmm. She carries a mean spiral notebook and a pen. She wields great power. She listens, because that's what people who tell stories do first. But she pauses occasionally and says, "How do you spell that? What year? OK." When she writes the expose in about 20 years, don't believe a word of it. But this is my daughter, Lauren, my remarkable daughter, my borderline Asperger's kid. Bless you, Dr. Watson. She says, "Ma, you got to look!" Now, when this kid says I got to look, you know. But it isn't like I haven't seen this crime scene before. I grew up with this woman. I said, "Lauren, you know what, give me a play-by-play. I can't." "No, mama, you got to look." I got to look. You got to look. Don't you want to look? There she is. I look in bewildered awe: she's standing, those Rockports slightly apart, but grounded. She's holding out that cheap Kmart purse, and she is wielding it. She's holding back tons of steel with the sheer force of her little personality, in that crone-ish voice, saying things like, "Back it up, buddy! No, it's reserved!" (Laughter) Ready? Brace yourselves. Here it comes. "No, my daughter, she's coming in the Buick. Honey, sit up so they can see you." Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. I finally come -- and now, it's the South. I don't know what part of the country you live in. I think we all secretly love stories. We all secretly want our blankie and our Boo Bear. We want to curl up and say, "Tell it to me, tell it to me. Come on, honey, tell it to me." But in the South, we love a good story. People have pulled aside, I mean, they've come out of that queue line, they have popped their trunks, pulled out lawn chairs and cool drinks. Bets are placed. "I'm with the little lady. Damn!" (Laughter) And she's bringing me in with a slight salsa movement. She is, after all, Cuban. I'm thinking, "Accelerator, break. Accelerator, break." Like you've never thought that in your life? Right? Yeah. I pull in. I put the car in park. Engine's still running -- mine, not the car. I jump out next to her going, "Don't you move!" "I'm not going anywhere." She's got front seat in a Greek tragedy. I come out, and there's Esther. She's hugging the purse. "Que?" Which means "what," and so much more. (Laughter) "Ma, have you no shame? People are watching us all around," right? Now, some of them you've got to make up, people. Secret of the trade. Guess what? Some of these stories I sculpt a little, here and there. Some, they're just right there, right there. Put them right there. She says this to me. After I say -- let me refresh you -- "have you no shame?" "No. I gave it up with pantyhose -- they're both too binding." (Laughter) (Applause) Yeah, you can clap, but then you're about 30 seconds from the end. I'm about to snap like a brittle twig, when suddenly someone taps me on the shoulder. Intrepid soul. I'm thinking, "This is my kid. How dare she? She jumped out of that car." That's OK, because my mother yells at me, I yell at her. It's a beautiful hierarchy, and it works. (Laughter) I turn around, but it's not a child. It's a young woman, a little taller than I, pale green, amused eyes. With her is a young man -- husband, brother, lover, it's not my job. And she says, "Pardon me, ma'am" -- that's how we talk down there -- "is that your mother?" I said, "No, I follow little old women around parking lots to see if they'll stop. Yes, it's my mother!" The boy, now, he says. "Well, what my sister meant" -- they look at each other, it's a knowing glance -- "God, she's crazy!" I said, (Spanish), and the young girl and the young boy say, "No, no, honey, we just want to know one more thing." I said, "Look, please, let me take care of her, OK, because I know her, and believe me, she's like a small atomic weapon, you know, you just want to handle her really gingerly." And the girl goes, "I know, but, I mean, I swear to God, she reminds us of our mother." I almost miss it. He turns to her on the heel of his shoe. It's a half-whisper, "God, I miss her." They turn then, shoulder to shoulder, and walk away, lost in their own reverie. Memories of some maddening woman who was the luck of their DNA draw. And I turn to Esther, who's rocking on those 'ports, and says, "You know what, honey?" "What, ma?" "I'm going to drive you crazy probably for about 14, 15 more years, if you're lucky, but after that, honey, you're going to miss me." (Applause)