It's Mother's Day of 2020, and I've always been bothered that I know so little about my mother's side of the family. My dad has an extensive family history that he always wants to share, but my mom was always indifferent about her family history. I just found out she's been mispronouncing her own maiden name this whole time (she doesn't speak a lick of Hungarian).
So, I asked her what her parents did. Her grandparents immigrated here (the U.S.A.) in 1900 and her grandfather was a polisher. Her parents were both factory assemblers. They lived very modestly in a tiny house in Bridgeport Connecticut. That house was in our family for at least two generations until my grandma died in 2002. I didn't want to lose the house, but my mom always hated it. She collected a couple of things from the house and essentially abandoned it from there, which bummed me out because I really liked some of the weird stuff my grandma had. There were probably some very valuable antiques in there (my mom is terrible at judging the value of things, and is also not very sentimental).
Come to think of it, the house was probably paid off since her family had it for about 100 years, damn. Believe me, I don't want to live in Bridgeport, my mom worked at a hospital there and there were shankings and bullet wounds being treated everyday. But, what I'd give to have any house ANYWHERE above the Mason-Dixon Line these days.
And, well, then it ends with me. The rest of my mother's entire family is dead, and I don't think her siblings had kids. I'm one of four of her offspring and none of us have children. And, even if we changed our minds, I know I'd certainly adopt. This bloodline ends with us, like a sad metaphor for the dying Hungarian language.
I've gotta give kudos to my mom for breaking the cycle of poverty in her family. I hate the nasty person she is, but I think I should appreciate her more.
