The irritable exchange with my 14-year-old granddaughter ran through the entire evening like pesky thread someone was pulling out of the fabric of our family.
The occasion was the graduation of her brother, Cole. We were part of a crowd flooding into Mariucci Area at the University of Minnesota, along with the parents and relatives of 450 other seniors graduating from one of the large local high schools. Our counterpoint began as Sofie, her mom and dad, and other family members entered the arena for the ceremonies. Several Somali women passed us as we made our way through the doors.
There are many Somali women in Minneapolis in recent years, most of whom arrived since Sofie was born. They wrap their hair with veils, they seem to be universally slender and, with a certain style I envy, wear long, narrow skirts. As they passed, I commented to Sofie on how attractive their dress was.
I added, without thinking: "I've been buying those skirts recently. Local stores stock them because of the new demand. I call them my immigrant skirts."
Sofie looked aghast. "I think that's a terrible statement." "Why?" I asked, no doubt blinking in surprise. "Because we have immigrants from a certain culture who wear skirts, skirts are now available to all of us."
"I can't believe you said that," she said. It is tiresome to be corrected by one's grandchildren but I am used to it. However, I still did not understand her point. What had I said that was disrespectful? I had simply stated a fact.
Twice later in the evening Sofie brought up the topic, and was combative with my dogged resistance to admit I should not have said what I did.
"What's wrong with what I said?"