I make myself understood in my mom

Today is International Women's saffron Day and I intend to honor those who should be honored - not so much the women who sit and philosophise about inequality's condition on a chair somewhere in an architecturally designed offices high above the ordinary people's heads in tidningsdrakarnas glass palace.
In the late 60s replied her acquaintance at a newspaper ad that my dad's friend was sitting in a Polish newspaper: Swedish man of sound financial standing looking woman who is good in the kitchen. Mom and Dad were married. He was the former tailor, but had saddled on and worked as a municipal official. She came to Sweden with empty hands, a nationality other than Swedish, dumb man and woman. She had, therefore, ethnicity, disability and gender ascents in the new country where she would get through. Mom came down. Despite all. Laboriously toiled her up for the hills far from the flat easily rolled kontorslandskapens blankbonade floor. Beyond jämställdhetsivrarnas eye-catcher as she scoured through with mop the County Board dark corridors. Emptied the trash. Dusted shelves. saffron Mil after mil. Day after day.
Mom was a little disappointed. The promised "orderly economy," it was not worth much (not according to her own story, anyway). My father was often away on association and church missions. He never had money. Mom launched his own political solution to the wage harmonization: she confiscated dad's salary every month and portioned out 20 crowns for him every week in allowance for tobacco and newspapers. She baked homemade bread - we never acted bread (which earned her rock hard hands that no qualified massage saffron therapist in the world can match - pinches the vise).
But the substantive requirements, the eternal cleaning process in the CAB's endless corridors took their toll. Halfway up the hill so gave up her knees and shoulders more. She was worn out. She was reassigned to a place without workmates. saffron Deaf and alone. She found herself not in it. Took battle. The employer won every battle. She left there in the exclusion of crude himself - sick leave, only to become ill pensioner. But still, she saw always that no material taken me and my sister. Today she is a bit over 70. She has never taken anything for granted. Her whole life has been a struggle. Against the authorities. In a world that does not hear or understand her language. Towards a world that valued what she did or what she was - not Swedish, deaf and woman.
I make myself understood in my mom's roads. The world who did not understand her, to understand her through me. There, she did not have the words to describe what she lived, where I'll give sound to the words. Her experience will be my passion.
Open letter to Prime Minister Fredrik Reinfeldt: Where is your press conference on Nazi violence?
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