Happy Mother's Day

My mother is a very complicated person. It’s interesting the kind of perspective you get with time and age. She and my father’s divorce was final when I was 4, and she gained an independence that I think had been lurking in her for years, just waiting for a chance to emerge and be put into action. She is frighteningly intelligent, probably the brightest person in our family, a family of pretty damn smart people. She will scoff at this, but I really do believe it to be true. My mom is dedicated, passionate, stubborn, set in her ways, and will NOT be moved from her opinion. She’s a role model for SO very many other people, I can’t even count all of the people who have approached me over the years to tell me how inspirational she is, how much she’s helped them, and how lucky I am to have her as a mother. There were times that was a little bit difficult for me to reconcile…my mom doesn’t always connect in an outwardly emotive manner towards the ones she truly loves, her children and her family. It’s taken me years to understand and realize that just because she doesn’t express her feelings in the same way I do, or at length in the manner that I do (I am my father’s daughter), doesn’t mean that those emotions aren’t there. And it doesn’t make her love me less, she’s just shown it in different ways.

As my mom kind of got her “sea legs” as it were, she discovered the things that she felt passionately about. Justice. Peace. Fighting against having the MX Missile tested in a section of Nevada in which the Shoshone Native Americans lived. Talking about it now, she tells me how absolutely terrified she was at that time, and she truly believed we wouldn’t live to see adulthood. The Russians had the bomb, it was the height of the cold war, and she was truly scared. But instead of staying home and just staying blindly afraid, she did something. She demonstrated. She joined (and helped found?) an organization called CALC, Clergy and Laity Concerned. No one can organize like my mother when she’s got a bee in her bonnet about something. She worked really, really hard. From my perspective at the time, I felt cheated. She wasn’t home much. She made sure I had what I needed, but I wanted her time and attention and there were times when that just didn’t happen often enough for me. Now, I went with her on trips that had to do with her mission…when I was ten we drove all the way to Tennessee to a convention. I saw a great deal of the country. I got to take a childhood friend with me. Not exactly a vacation, but looking back now, I wouldn’t have changed it. However, perhaps that’s where my aversion to extremely long car rides stems from.

When I was in high school and my 20’s, our relationships had its highs and lows…we did have lovely times carved out for just the two of us, since my siblings were both out of the house by the time I was in high school. We went to see the ballet on a regular basis, which is one of the reasons I adore dance so much today. The American Ballet Theatre, The Joffrey Ballet, and the Dance Theatre of Harlem. That was our special time together, and we did it once or twice a year. One year, just by pure luck, we got front row seats to Giselle, put on by the American Ballet Theatre. Then over the loud speaker, it was announced that the lead dancer that night had been changed, and would be danced by….Mikhail Baryshnikov! In the front row!! I can’t remember how old I was, 15 or 16, but I believe we both squealed. That was one of those nights I will never forget. She would have been closing in on 50 at that time. When that beautiful man came out and danced the lead, and the entire audience audibly gasped at each leap, I looked over at my mother. She had the exact same expression I did that night. Wonder. Giddiness. Awe. She looked so young that night. She looked like me. We also took one day each year to play hooky and went to Catalina Island for the day. We’d walk around Avalon, eat a lovely lunch, sit on the beach and relax…sometimes we’d fish. These were awesome things she did for and with me, and I don’t know if she knows how fondly I remember them now.

When I began high school, she had a calling. In addition to working full time, she joined seminary in Claremont to become an Episcopal priest. At the time to me, it seemed like it came out of nowhere, but my mother always had a deep spiritual life, I just didn’t really know about it. I remember long timelines, written on butcher paper taped up to the walls for her to memorize. I remember her having to learn to read the Bible in Greek. In short, she busted her ass, I don’t even know when she slept. There were nice evenings when the house was quiet, we’d light a fire, she would make homemade bread (which I can still smell and was so good it just needed a little butter and it tasted like cake), and we would sit in the living room together and study to classical music. This didn’t happen as often as it might have, as my high school grades will attest to. But when it did, it was lovely. Calm. Peaceful. And we were both working towards something, together. It felt good.

However, as is the case with most teenage girls, I didn’t feel like my mom had the foggiest idea who I was, and I knew for a fact she didn’t know what I was up to. Sneaking out…drinking. Drinking a LOT. Ditching class like it was my job. For some of this time, we had housemates, people who lived with us, renting out the available rooms. There was communal money for food, and it was kept in a red Chinese silk coin purse in a drawer in the buffet in our dining room. My best friend and I would often ditch school, run home, grab a $20, and go have pizza. We never bought booze with it, because we had another way to acquire that for free. I’ll leave that story out for now. My mom also didn’t really understand the things that were important to me…growing up in the 80’s in Pasadena, I was into makeup, clothes, jewelry…girly crap. Well, as a matter of fact, I’m still into makeup and clothes! It’s just part of who I am. I think she was baffled, and as a result, would sometimes let some snide remarks fly, and my sister, 8 years my senior, would often join in. I wasn’t innocent either though, and there were a lot of arguments.

I wrote a story a long time ago that I need to find. When we were growing up in Pasadena, we had roaches in our kitchen. Disgusting of course, but seemingly, oddly normal at the time. When we’d enter the darkened kitchen and turn a light on, the whole countertop would scurry. I would scream like the girl I was…my mother, unruffled by my theatrics would give me a quick eye roll, and then charge in with her teeth clenched, smacking as many roaches as she could get to with her bare hands. I would watch in a combination of horror and admiration…there really wasn’t much she was afraid of, truly. She was the spider killer. She was the person who set the rat traps in the basement. Years later when she was ordained, I walked up to the altar and she put those same hands on my head and gave me a beautiful blessing, and I felt it. The same hands that could wipe out a dozen cockroaches with pure ferocity in about 30 seconds. When I left home, I would often become hurt by my mom’s lack of contact with me. She wouldn’t often call me at college, send me care packages, or letters to just check in. It made me sad. I once brought it up to her and her response was, “You have my phone number.” Ouch. When I would get her on the phone, she didn’t want to hear about my life, she wanted to talk about her parishioners, and their children. I wanted my mom to be interested in me. But you know, not all moms are created equal, they aren’t cookie cutter, nor are they meant to be. It’s taken me a long time to recognize and accept this, and it really is okay. She does not like large, fancy gatherings. At my college graduation, she split before she ever saw me in my cap and gown because she was afraid of missing her plane…turns out she had plenty of time. At my wedding, she told me she was going to take off, and I asked her if she’d stay just a little longer so she could see us leave. She said no and left. It hurt my feelings. Through the years, I have truly felt like these things meant she didn’t care about me, or like me particularly. I understand now that it’s not the case…she absolutely loves me. She just does it differently than most, and shows it differently than most.

About three years ago, we had a dreadful, ugly falling out. I really wondered if our relationship could ever be repaired. At looking back over the things that transpired that weekend, I can pinpoint SO many things that I could have done differently. The root of so many of my problems with family members has come from me scrambling like a manic lunatic to please everyone else, doing things I don’t want to do, agreeing to things I disagree with, and just working myself into such a lather, staying silent, and then exploding. To the other people, it seems out of nowhere, because they aren’t mind readers, nor should they be expected to be. I exploded at my mother after plodding along, and not speaking up. Her feelings were truly hurt, but again, emotions and expressing them are areas that were difficult for her. So she really lashed out at me, and I was really messed up about it for a long time. However, since then, things have changed dramatically, and for the better. I set my boundaries, and they’re clear as day from the get go. If I’m asked to do something I don’t want to do, guess what? I say “no” instead of seething inside and giving myself a damn ulcer. And my dear mother, now in her 70’s has been nothing but sweet and supportive of me since we reconciled. It seems as though each year that goes by, it gets better. She’s told me I’m a wonderful mother (!). She’s told me I’m a talented writer (as she very much is). She’s backed me up in times of pain, helping me to put things in perspective. Once she’s spoken her mind though, she’s done….she doesn’t kick it after it’s dead like my dad and I did. She tells me she loves me, is proud of me, and knows I’m doing God’s work with the kids I work with every day. Granted, it was awkward when I got the phone call my dad had died, and she was visiting at the time. I just retreated into an odd zone in my mind…but mom just appeared somewhat flummoxed and paralyzed. Looking back, I feel bad for her position. It was as though she knew she should do or say something, but was just stuck, and was probably really concerned about possibly saying the wrong thing. So her nose started to bleed. She’ll probably maintain it’s because of the dry air up here, but she’d already been here for a couple of days and was fine. I believe her nose bled at the news that the father of her children had died, and not knowing what words to say, her body reacted instead.

So while not perfect, (and whose mother is, really?) I have learned so very much from her. She is strong. She follows her passions, and is supporting my writing, even though I warned some of it might hurt her feelings. She’s somewhat awestruck that all three of her children have successful marriages. She adores her grandchildren. And from a very young age, she truly did teach me how to care about people who had less than we did, and how to demonstrate that. I was too little to remember, but she told me that when busing started in the early 70’s, we made signs that said, “Welcome!!” for the black kids who were coming over to our neighborhood school, while some people were actually there to protest them coming. I was bused over to a school in a predominantly black neighborhood for K-3rd grade. Pssst…guess what? They’re just people! Equality, justice, fairness, and love for ALL people, regardless of race, money, sexual orientation, or religion…these are all things that my mom taught me. Dad did too, but mom was more active, more passionate, and more deliberate. Did her passions take time away from me as a child? Yes, they did. She may have done things a little differently if she could go back now, I don’t know. But the lessons are still there, and they stuck. And they are the ones that I am trying to teach to my own children, particularly my daughter who is old enough to understand. THIS is why we sent money to Japan. THIS is why I have never allowed myself to be mistreated by a man, nor will my daughter. THIS is why we’re becoming more involved and my 10 year old daughter is volunteering (appropriately) with an organization our church is involved in, rescuing and housing girls who have been trafficked for sex. THIS is why my children pray every night for people who have less than we do. Sure, we’re the parents, and we’re teaching them these things, and church helps. But that sense of justice, and what’s truly right and wrong, I get from my mother. And I don’t think I’ve ever told her that.

Thank you, mom. I love you. I'm proud of you. Happy Mother’ Day.