Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

men don’t cry

usual, produced her weapon of personal mass destruction: the blame game. Aim. Fire! “Your grandfather was a revolutionary who fought to free his country. A brave and courageous man. We were ten children fed on dry bread and we walked barefoot without complaining. You only have to look at everything he did to raise us. Do you think we fretted about whether he loved us?” “All right, mum, I know that story of yours off by heart. You weren’t allowed to play outside. And he took you out of school at thirteen. So what kind of life is that anyway? A horror movie?” “That’s got nothing to do with it! We were living in a different era then. And he took me out

of school because he needed me to look after my brothers and sisters. He raised us to be good people!” “D’you really think you raise your children to be good people by locking them up?” “Nobody’s locking you up!” “Yes they are! You never let me do anything. I’m not even allowed to wear jeans!” “Is that what’s making you unhappy? Because we don’t want you dressing like a cowboy?” “It’s called fashion! You don’t understand. Take Julie’s mum, she’s got a young attitude, when she’s with her daughter, you’d think they were two girlfriends…” “Two giiiiirlfriends?” My mother loves dragging out a syllable to exaggerate

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