At the grocery store I’m plagued by a common dilemma but not, “what shall I make for dinner?” My quandary is more perplexing: what’s an acceptable level of rudeness I can exhibit to a total stranger who asks an outrageously personal question?  

A plump middle-aged woman whose hair looks as though she’s on fire stalks me through deli meats and imported cheeses. After the counter clerk hands me the wild salmon I ordered, I make my way to produce where she ambushes me between organic broccoli crowns and bok choy.    

“Excuse me, can I ask you something?” she sputters near a whisper. I half expected her to ask me if I had an extra tampon or when I had my last period. But it wasn’t her words but the tone of her voice that captured my attention.     “Yes,” I said, caught off guard too quickly to be rude. She continues. 

“Well, are you his real mother?”  She asks. She motions her head toward my two-year old son riding shotgun in the shopping cart. Her saucer sized aqua eyes flutter, their lids weighted with blue shadow. The redhead’s actual question was just as personal as the one I might have imagined. The delivery was slow as she elongated “real,” until it mimicked a cat’s squeal.   

  I look inside my shopping card, unsure whether she asked me this question or if I simply misunderstood. My synapses fire into full auditory mode. After a short hesitation I realize I’ve gotten in touch with my irritation.  

“No, I’m his fake mother!” I snap at her but am, at once, sorry for my rudeness I no longer obsessing about hers.  

We adopted our younger son when he was two days old. The process of becoming his parents felt totally natural and uncomplicated to us, felt as natural as family can get. This year, that younger son celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday. That younger son no longer rides in 

the front of my shopping cart either. Whenever our schedules mesh and he’s low on cash, Michael likes to accompany me on my grocery-buying excursions. Besides having coffee together as we make our way through the aisles, it’s a fail-proof approach to getting me to cover his gourmet food indulgences. Difficult as it is for two of us to comprehend, we still do get plenty of “those looks” – Michael’s label for them.  

Our son is a buff handsome guy close to six feet tall, who looks more like a mature man in his thirties than a twenty-something American.  His mature masculine appearance is an amusing contrast to my five foot, two inch frame. In public, we banter. Michael slings a muscular paw over my shoulder and unselfconsciously kisses the top of my head.  When he’s in good humor or we haven’t seen each other for a while, he’ll blurt out, “Gee mom, I love you!” And then, to my amusement, “You’re such a cute little mommy!” He developed that expression when he was little and knows it an expression guaranteed to make me laugh. 

Periodically I’m still approached by strangers waiting in the wings Are they assuming I’m a “cougar” with my young stud-muffin?  They pounce immediately after Michael wanders off to sample some imported treats. In sotto voce, “Is that your son? 

The moment I respond in the affirmative, the comeback – more often than not is, “Really?” It’s not as though Michael is Asian or bi-racial, not as though he’s Inuit or Aborigine – nope, nothing that exotic! My son’s genetic origins are Italian, dark Irish and Basque plus he’s been raised Jewish. When he was young and we’d attended synagogue together, his presence went unnoticed among the increasingly diverse population Jews epitomize.  Whatever happened to embracing Israel Zangwill’s metaphorical phrase about America’s diversity and blending – “the great melting pot.”? 

 I do wonder exactly why do total strangers really care about whether I’m Michael’s “real” mother, a question I must assume really means “biological” or “birth mother?”  

 Nuttier than these strangers’ questions is that I wonder why I feel the need to render a civil reply. My first thought:  my mother insisted that one person’s rudeness doesn’t justify my rudeness in response. But my next thought: Is it possible that many of us who’ve created families though adoption, feel an urge to convince those unfamiliar with the process that our children do not sprout horns and need no exorcising (well, at least most of the time they don’t) .   

What stimulates strangers to be inappropriately inquisitive? Maybe bad manners, social Ineptitude,  or is personal curiosity responsible? Alternatively, perhaps humans simply have an overwhelmingly instinctive need to see connections within families. It could also be that adoption has become more main-stream than ever before, no longer shrouded in secrecy it’s a fair game topic.  

After so many years spent fielding the personal question I’ve termed “strangers asking stranger questions” I’ve finally arrived at a solution. The best response to surprise interrogations?  Convert the inappropriately inquisitive into the appropriately embarrassed. I’m now a woman of a certain age comfortable issuing my own inquiry. A simple, “Why does it matter to you?” has been working magic.  

© Marlene Samuels