Sitting in my car, waiting in the seemingly endless line of fellow gas customers, I looked in the rear-view mirror and waved to my roommate in the car behind me.  Like millions of other Americans, we had spent all dayóSeptember 11thóin horror, watching the terrorist attacks on New York and D.C.  After spending the afternoon at my parentsí house (punctuated by a trip to the dentist and precipitated by the sadness surrounding the grisly news reports of the day), we decided to stop by the gas station and fill up our cars in case of soaring gas prices.  As I waited in the never-ending line, I contemplated the conversation at dinner: the antics of my tyrannical Grandmother.  At last, I made my way up to the gas station.  The next empty spot was mineóin silent relief I pulled up, popped the cap to the tank, and began to pump my gas. Then the red truck pulled in.

    If the truck had waited in line like every other person lined up for blocks, his truck would have escaped my notice.  However, he pulled in the exit and attempted to pull in front of my roommate, who was next in line for the pump beside mine.  Maybe it was the news from the dentist that I needed a filling; maybe it was the heavy weight of the news of the terrorists strikes. Maybe it was the prospect of even higher gas prices in the future. But it was probably Red Truck Guyís condescending smile. For whatever reason, I snapped:  ìJust what do you think you are doing?î After a pathetic attempt to placate me, suave smile and all--ìHoney, chill! Itíll just take me a minuteîóI let him have it.  I less than courteously explained to him, in language peppered with less-than-ladylike words, just what I thought of his little line-jumping stunt.  Then I proceeded to stand in front of his truck as a human barrier while motioning my roommate to pull in around him.  After thoroughly reaming out my idiotic new friend in his truck, I realized that other cars in line were clapping and honking in approval.  I gave him the ìsingle finger saluteî and winked at him, leaving him to spin off in a cloud of angry dust. It was only later, in the parking lot, that the realization hit me. My head sank to the steering wheel: I am just like the one person that I despise mostóGrandmother.

    Perhaps it seems cruel that I do not particularly like my Grandmother.  However, she was never really a ìgrandmotherî in the traditional sense of the word.  Grandmother makes me think of baking cookies, big family dinners, comfy sweaters, and hugs and kissesóthe description of other peopleís grandmothers.  Grandmother was an entirely different sort of person.

    Born to an aristocratic family in Romania, her life was very different from my own.  Her father, the doctor and general to the King, was a very important man.  He married great-grandmother not because he fell in love with her, but because she was attractive, from a well-bred French family, and would serve as a lovely ornament to dangle off his arm.  Grandmother was brought up in a lifestyle of jewels, furs, and servants to her beck and call.  Family trips included Egypt, Versailles, and the French Riviera.  Children were to be seen and not heard, were also displays of wealth, and were deposited into boarding schools when convenient. When the Romanian government collapsed to Communism, her father married her to a dashing young American soldier and smuggled them, with the equivalent of a million dollars, out of the country. By the time they arrived in America, however, the economy had collapsed and her fatherís money was worthless.  To her horror, her husband was from a dirt-poor, South Georgia farm family. Bitter at the loss of her lifestyle, she spent the rest of her life trying to regain her status, and control the money and people in her life.

    For example, Grandmother picked favorites among her grandchildren.  One particular Christmas, when I was ten or eleven, I could not put a name to it; I just noticed that my other two cousinsóJackie and Jenniócould do no wrong.  Grandmother pointed out to me that both were ballet dancers, and played the piano.  Jackie was an excellent horsewoman, winning ribbons at equestrian competitions.  Their faces were squeaky clean, and their straight hair was neatly pulled back.  Jackie and Jenni got tons of presents, and Grandmother had pictures of them all over her house.  Anything Grandmother asked of them was followed by ìYes, Grandmommy!î and docile acquiescence. They were held up as the shining examples of perfect grandchildren. I was the opposite.

     ìShe looks just like you,î my mother said, to which my Grandmother frowned,  ìI donít see any resemblance at all.î Although I had the exact same face shape and dark eyes and hair (well, at least when she was younger; she has had blond hair for the last thirty years), and the same build, Grandmother failed to see any similarities.  The shape of my eyes, freckles, and curl of my hair seemed irreconcilable differences.  I was also heavier than my cousins. She pulled my cousins close, gave them hugs, and remarked that these two looked just like her.  (In actuality, the only strong physical resemblance was that they were all female.) Grandmother was very proud of the more ìwomanlyî accomplishments of my cousins. If the curls and freckles were not marks enough against me, my clarinet playing and marching band tendencies were.  ìWhy do you insist on playing the clarinet!î she would ask me. ìWhy donít you play a womanís instrument, like a flute or a harp? Something ladylike? You do want to be ladylike, donít you?î My explanation that female clarinet players outnumbered male clarinet players in my band fifteen-to-oneóeffectively disproving her ideas of clarinet masculinityófailed to deter her. She could not understand why I did not dance ballet like my cousins, or play flute. I felt at that moment a gnawing sense of inadequacy.  Held up to my tiptoe dancing, piano playing cousins, I felt clumsy and unattractive, unlike the delicate ìbudding flowers of womanhoodî my cousins were portrayed as. Grandmother never failed to point out my shortcomings, and favor her other two grandchildren accordingly.

    It was not until years later that I understood why Grandmother disapproved of me so much.  Back in the old world, women were brought up to be wivesótrophy wives.  Women were not encouraged to advance in school, but to develop qualities and talents that seemed appropriate for someone of her station.  Usually this consisted of dancing, music and painting.  However, not just any music was suitableóit was ladylike to play the harp, piano, or flute.  Appearance was also critical.  Perfect female beauty was long straight hair, and white skin.  Thus, freckles, curly hair, and clarinets did not fit into this picture. My cousins, with their white skin and more ìladylikeî accomplishments, were going down the same path Grandmother did.  It was becoming increasingly more apparent that I was not; Grandmother was try to redirect me down the ìright pathî with her disapproval.

    One phrase Grandmother lived by was, ìthe ability to destroy is the ability to control.î Seeking complete control over everyone in the family, she attempted to undermine relationships; she went after my parentsí relationship first.  One Christmas, my grandmother announced over the family dinner that my mother (a type one diabetic), was scheming my fatherís death. My mother was allegedly only pretending to be sick with diabetes so she could shock my fatheróto deathówith a heart attack, so she could collect on his life insurance.  (My mother was sickówe were all sickóof hearing my Grandmotherís increasingly psychotic stories.) I remember my mother, white-knuckled, hands fisted, rising from the table and announcing that we were leaving.  My father and Grandmother had unkind words, and we children were soon gathered and swept from the house.

    Grandmother had never liked my mother.  She herself hoarded every penny she owned, and wanted to marry off her son and daughter to wealthy families.  My mom, a nurse, married my father with Grandmotherís blessing, but Grandmother soon set out to bully my mom into line with her views.  If mom was not rich, she had better be complacent. My mother was polite, but never budged.  Grandmother, finding her new daughter-in-law not easily manipulated, soon grew to dislike her. This dislike radiated to the childrenómy brother and me.

     When I was sixteen, Grandmother seemed to hone her controlling rays at me.  Over Christmas dinner (Christmas is the only time we see them; they spend spring and summer in Romania), Grandmother began a full critique of my shortcomings.  ìWhat do you play on your clarinet?î she cooed.  I told her I had performed some pieces by Mozart and Von Weber, to which she snapped, ìIf you had any talent at all, youíd play something by Chopin!î I snapped back that Chopin had plenty of pieces for piano, not for clarinet, and that she couldnít possibly know anything about the instrument by making such a foolish remark.  She continued, ìNo, I wouldnít; not about a manís instrument!î I yelled that all fifteen of our clarinet players were women, so obviously she was wrong on both accounts. My father tried to interrupt, but Grandmother and I would not have it. ìSo just what do you think youíre going to do with your life?î she hissed. ìYouíll never find a husband with that face and attitude!î She pointed out that my cousins were going to universities to find their husbands and study art.

    ìI donít want to find a husband ; Iím going to college and Iím going to be a doctor!î I yelled back. I thought this was the end of the argument, but Grandmother was not to be stopped.  She screamed that this was unthinkable, ridiculous; why didnít I study English or something ladylike instead. Her father, a great man, had been a doctor; why did I have the audacity to think I was of the same merit? She laughed as she saw my ìman-huntingî hopes turn to dust in her mind.  That I was going to be a doctor was beyond her comprehensionóan insult. Arguing with her became ridiculous; my mom, who came to my defense, was thoroughly reamed out by increasingly preposterous and fabricated accusations.  Soon, my mom and I had locked ourselves in the bathroom; my mom called her sister and we did not budge until she picked us up.

    In the five years since, Grandmother and I have come to an understanding. It would be nice to say that Grandmother and I have talked out our differences, but it would not be even close to true. At some point I began to see my grandmother for what she is: a bitter old woman struggling to control her life. She is bitter because her rightful life was taken away from her; she struggles for power because she does not really have any except manipulating the more passive family members. In her mind, she was once powerful, and should have been able to continue her life of luxury.  All America gave her was a dirt-poor farm boy and an outhouse. But her aggressive personality allowed her to survive and pull her family up to the middle class.  If she could successfully instill her values into her children, then the family could ìmarry upî into the upper class world, thus pulling her family full circle.

    I understand why she acts the way she does, but it is unfortunate that Grandmother uses her aggressive personality for destructive purposes.  Her aggressive personality has taken her far, and has achieved the goals she deemed important: she has talked her way out of speeding tickets (primarily by arguing back in French, but her ample bust probably didnít hurt matters), out-talked used car salesmen (getting quite a price break in the bargain), earned herself quite a living as a real estate agent and saleswoman, and she has even taken the Romanian government to court to get back much of her familyís property.  I respect what she can do, constructively, with her willpower. These actions, however, cannot make up for the years she has tormented the family.  She has failed to adapt to American culture, and realize that the values here are very different from her native upper class Romanian culture.  Complicating this are the ideological changes between generations.

    Her inability to see beyond her own ideas has driven a permanent wedge between herself and those she should be closest toófamily. She has successfully alienated herself from her family with hurtful words. It seems she does not realize that by alienating herself, she is alone, miserable, and has missed out on the rich family life she could have had.  Has it really been worth the pain, since she too has been hurt in the process? It would be so neat to pour over the old albums and relive family history: to me the photo albums are a rich, but confusing, record of a life of wealth and prominence. I see the people in top hats and fur coats, stepping out of elegant carriages into the Kingís palace. I wonder at the pictures of my great-grandfather standing, in full dress uniform, next to his planes. The only history I know is the one I can glean from the scratchy handwriting of names and faces, but there is no story there.  At Christmas dinner, Grandmother makes all sorts of Eastern European dishes; I have no clue how to reproduce them.  I see her knitting blankets and whatnot on the couch; not once has she offered to teach me.  How do I tell my future children that they have a rich and exciting history, but that I know nothing of it? Why cannot my grandmother appreciate the choices I have made with my life? I have only the sense that I have been robbed of my history, a profound sense of loss at what could have been, and the guilt the perhaps this loss could have been avoided if I could only have seen past the her petty, hurtful wordsÖ

    But perhaps I have received some sort of indirect approval.  My grandmother, after the ìbathroom incident,î has treated me with a wary eye. She has never again spoken to me the way she did that day; in fact, it seems she does not know what to say to me at all. Perhaps my grandmother saw in that incident her own likenessóa bit of her own strong personality in me. Seeing this likeness before I did, she now respects meólike her, I will not be intimidated, nor will I ever back down from my dreams. (Fortunately for me, this aggressive personality has been diluted over the past generation, but it is there just the same.) This past Christmas she asked me if I still plan to become a doctor.  When I said yes, she simply nodded her head, and said, ìIt must be those good genes. And we know what side of the family those are from.î Although the comment greatly annoyed meógrandmother didnít have the slightest over my decision to become a doctoróI bit my tongue. After all, my tenacious personality has carried me though the years of premedical classes.  Now the set of medical instruments my great-grandfather usedóthe metal scalpels, needles, and pumps in their felt-lined boxóreside in my parentsí home.  I have been informed that one day they will be mine.

    So I sat, at the steering wheel of my car, pondering my Grandmother and trying to make sense of the situation. I realized that I am not exactly like Grandmother.  I do not intentionally manipulate people; I just stand up for what I think is right (or act before I thinkóone of the two).  A fiery disposition is not always bad when kept in check, and it is but one, albeit strong, fiber in the fabric of my personality. I lament over the loss of what could have been a great relationship, one that could have perpetuated a unique culture, and instead has disintegrated into resentment. I write this as a message of hope: hope that young American generations will see themselves in my story and realize sooner those things that I realized too late, and that they will see the greater issues beyond the petty fights. I hope that older generations and cultures canóif not understandóat least respect the choices of younger generations.  I realize that I do not know the answers to this cultural and generational problem. But I will try to be more tolerant of my Grandmother, and realize why she acts the way she does, even if she does not understand me. It is too bad, this loss I feel, but there is no way I can talk to Grandmother as long as she is so bent on alienating herself. I see no way to reconcile with her, since I will not budge or apologize for my beliefs.  I hope other families solve this problem better than I have. And I do hope I can salvage my own relationship before it is too late.