Updated: May 11, 2019
“All men are bastards.” Just one of the lessons my mom imparted from the front seat of her Chevy Impala. “Don’t ever forget that!”
I see her knuckles poking up under the soft leather of her driving gloves when she squeezes the steering wheel. She often gave me life lessons in the car. Often on the run from some upsetting situation or another. Often of course, they were inappropriate for my age.
The all men are bastards lesson came when I was 7 or 8 years old. I didn’t yet have a context for it. But I had a strong sense of who my dad and my grandfathers and both of my brothers were, so I decided my mother was wrong.
Most men are not bastards. At least most men that I know. That includes all of the ones I’ve married, almost married, thought about marrying, lived with, and dated. They're just human. Just human and fallible and messy and complex and good. Just like all the women I know.
And more to the point, I am raising one. And as partial to him as I am, I am certain, this one is not a bastard either.