sketch: Jonathan
Sep. 22nd, 2005 01:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serenissimaThe first time I met Jonathan, I wasn't sure if I was looking at a man or a woman, until I heard his voice as he asked me for directions to a particular office. Jonathan's hair is short but poofy -- I would even say bouffant -- and is bleached to a gingery gold color. I think he was dressed in pink that day; he seems to favor bright colors, and he often wears shorts that stop at mid-thigh, rather than the knee-length shorts that are marketed to men. He accents his outfit with a gold necklace. He wears glasses.
Most days I hear Jonathan before I see him. His voice carries clearly as he wheels his mother up and down the hall every morning, singing and cooing to her in baby-talk Spanish. I wave when they pass the door to my office. Jonathan's mother is small but not bony-looking. Her hair is pulled back in a little gray ponytail, probably arranged by Jonathan. Her eyes are bright and brown. She watches what goes on around her but never speaks. Once or twice I have heard her make a sound somewhere between a grunt and a cry.
Jonathan is happy to have a friendly chat. He will tell you about shopping for his mother's clothes: the fleece booties, so warm and soft, were just ninety-nine cents a pair, and that silky blouse cost $1.99 but looks ten times as expensive. He will tell you that he and his mother have been the best of friends for years, and how they used to go shopping together after he came out to her. He will tell you that his mother brought up her sons to respect women always, and that she made sure all her children, sons and daughters both, learned how to cook and sew and clean. He will tell you that she likes a glass of gin.
Jonathan will tell you that he has learned so much about taking care of his mother that he could start work as a nurses' aide. I have seen him spooning cereal into her mouth, then checking around the gums with his finger to make sure nothing is left that she could choke on.
I have never asked Jonathan what exactly is wrong with his mother.
Most days I hear Jonathan before I see him. His voice carries clearly as he wheels his mother up and down the hall every morning, singing and cooing to her in baby-talk Spanish. I wave when they pass the door to my office. Jonathan's mother is small but not bony-looking. Her hair is pulled back in a little gray ponytail, probably arranged by Jonathan. Her eyes are bright and brown. She watches what goes on around her but never speaks. Once or twice I have heard her make a sound somewhere between a grunt and a cry.
Jonathan is happy to have a friendly chat. He will tell you about shopping for his mother's clothes: the fleece booties, so warm and soft, were just ninety-nine cents a pair, and that silky blouse cost $1.99 but looks ten times as expensive. He will tell you that he and his mother have been the best of friends for years, and how they used to go shopping together after he came out to her. He will tell you that his mother brought up her sons to respect women always, and that she made sure all her children, sons and daughters both, learned how to cook and sew and clean. He will tell you that she likes a glass of gin.
Jonathan will tell you that he has learned so much about taking care of his mother that he could start work as a nurses' aide. I have seen him spooning cereal into her mouth, then checking around the gums with his finger to make sure nothing is left that she could choke on.
I have never asked Jonathan what exactly is wrong with his mother.
