Tag Archives: mothers

Paul Simon & the Mother-Child Reunion

At 12, I listened to The Concert in Central Park with my mother, cassette wheels spinning in rhythm to snow falling outside. We sang all winter: “Mrs. Robinson,” “America,” “Homeward Bound,” and “The Boxer’s” lie-la-lie chorus. She could never carry a tune, but sang because she loved Simon & Garfunkel, and I loved them because she did. I didn’t know The Concert in Central Park happened the year I was born or that Simon & Garfunkel were no longer a duo. I didn’t understand most of the playlist, but I loved the songs’ mama-pajama beat and their mystery.

Years later, before she died, my mother and I fought about music. I was 20 and home for a weekend and listening to a mix CD one of my roommates made. Who Stopped the Rain came on and my mother said, “That’s my music. I can’t believe you’re listening to my music.” She was remarking on how strange and beautiful it can be when children adopt the best interests of their parents, but I didn’t want to be likened to her. I wanted to be different. I wanted to be my own person, not a copy of my mother, not her life repeated, and I didn’t understand how she was really complimenting me.

I was angry in a way I’d never been before or since. I knew she was dying —I’d made her death real by writing it down in my journal. By giving what was happening to us a name, I sanctified her death with power. No one ever needed to say the word death because I already knew she might not see me graduate college. I already knew she would definitely not see me marry. I already knew she would never know a grandchild. She was still alive, wouldn’t be dead for another year, but I was grieving the mother who was going to die. My grief came out in anger. It came out in fights with her about inane things like her music and my music. It came out in me lying: The cigarettes weren’t mine. The beer bottle caps in the back of my car belonged to someone else. It came out in the only socially acceptable culturally conditioned way I knew, as one woman turning against another.

The summer before, we’d had Dylan tickets, but she was too sick to go. So I went without her, already resenting the many more places I’d have to go without her, a life full of her absence and my presence. I was enraged because she was leaving me, and enraged because I wanted her to leave, which was a thousand times worse than her leaving. To this day, I wish I’d just smiled and sung along with her to CCR, the way we used to when I was a tween, the way we sang to Simon & Garfunkel.

Last week, I saw Paul Simon at Wolf Trap. I danced the whole time with my husband, a man my mother never knew, a man who loves Paul Simon and Dylan, and is my husband nonetheless. The concert overflowed with energy and summer abandon. People danced all over the lawn. We danced from the first song, The Boy in the Bubble, to the last one, The Sound of Silence. We danced in the rain, our umbrellas bobbing to the beat. We danced as the sky blazed red and purple and lightning sizzled beyond the trees.

No question, I thought about my mother. How could I not? I love Paul Simon because his songs entwine life with death, joy with loss, and make plain how each amplifies the other. I know I live with more vigor and vivaciousness because my mother died, because I know how starkly short a life can be. The Wolf Trap performance was the last leg of Paul Simon’s 2016 Tour, a tour that could be his last. I think he gave it everything he had. There was a moment when I looked at the stage, directly into his line of vision, and felt as if his exuberance flowed into the crowd and our exuberance flowed back onto the stage, uplifted him, just as he uplifted us.

I knew I’d have seen this concert with my mother, had she lived. I know that last clause holds all my life’s desires in three words. Had she lived. My mother is dead —her ashes, scattered in the Chesapeake Bay, swam away from me long ago. She was not at my wedding. She does not know her grandchildren. But she is also alive in the same way Paul Simon’s music will be alive long after his last concert.

Her exuberance lives in the music I love, the music we sang and fought about. Her love for me lives in the choices I make each day to be honest and to steer clear of destruction. I do not believe in clear categories of afterlife, but I do believe I am the full sum of my mother’s life. I am everything that eclipses her death. My life, the life I live without her, unfolds in rhythm to all she showed me, and her hope runs beside me, as constant as a heartbeat, as steady as breath.

Watching Hillary Without My Mother

My mother introduced me to Hillary Clinton one afternoon as she watched the news and I read The Hobbit and the Clintons flashed onto our television’s small screen.

“She uses her last name,” my mother said, pointing to the new first family. “Rodham.” Each syllable spread out on her tongue for emphasis: Rod-ham

This was a big deal, and I glanced away from my book, to the television screen, to the woman with big eyes and blonde hair and a gigantic grin. My mother’s gaze never moved from Hillary.

My mother used her own name too, LaSov, after her divorce. Until Hillary Rodham Clinton, I knew no other woman who’d made this seemingly bold move. In all honesty, I knew few women like my mother. She worked when my friends’ mothers stayed home. She wore pantsuits. She never owned a single apron. By first grade, I knew the words sexist and feminist. My mother taught them to me. She used the former to describe a male teacher who insisted girls wear skirts to school concerts.

When Hillary talked about having more important work than baking cookies, my mother applauded. (Our cookies came from a bakery or Pillsbury dough roll.) Still, I barely understood the controversies swirling around this new first lady in 1992, as she shirked gendered assumptions without apology, the same way my mother was teaching me to do. To us, Hillary stood for equality and promise, one dream of second wave feminism coming true. She stood for an America where women could be wives and mothers and leaders, the way men had melded career ambition and family for generations. Hillary blew right past the binaries, all the false dichotomies.

To my mother, Hillary also stood for an America where more could be possible for me, her daughter growing up at a time blessedly different from the pre-Civil Rights era when she came of age. Unlike my mother, who believed she had to be married by twenty-two, and choose between two careers –– teaching or nursing –– I could be anything. Do anything. Marry or not marry.  Just look at Hillary Rodham Clinton, my mother said.

She made sure I listened to Hillary’s speeches and read articles about her trips to China and Africa. We discussed them at the dinner table and between school and basketball practice. The year Hillary became first lady was the same year I declared myself a feminist, like my mother, and plastered my bedroom door with National Organization for Women stickers.

I voted for the first time at age 18 in New York State. No question: I voted for Hillary, then called my mother to tell her the news. We were both ecstatic.

Had my mother lived, I’d have driven 50 miles to her house this week to watch Hillary’s victory speech. We would have ordered Chinese takeout and watched Hillary command that Brooklyn stage again and again. We would have laughed together as the glass ceiling shattered into eighteen million pieces, so much light and possibility now dawning on our country.

I know my mother would have paused the speech somewhere around minute fourteen and said, Do you see? She remembers to thank her mother. We would have listened, breathless, to Hillary’s description of her “biggest rock,” her mother, born the same day Congress voted on the nineteenth amendment. Goosebumps would have risen up on both our arms, as Hillary smiled and the crowd cheered.

But my mother is dead. And I’ve had to learn to mark milestones without her. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I’d give anything to have her back, to be able to drive to her house this week and watch Hillary together.

In the end, I watched Hillary’s speech with one of my dogs curled against my lap and a cat perched beside my arm. I fought tears when I heard her call her mother her “greatest influence,” and listened to her tie her vast achievements to her mother’s struggles. My tears let loose when Chelsea took the stage to be the first person to hug her mother.

Rarely do I see mothers or daughters or mothers and daughters front and center in national politics. This moment feels rare and precious, historic and without comparison. Rarely do I hear world leaders applauding their mother’s influences or discussing their mothers at all. But this is a truth I cling to and a truth that saves me, the truth Hillary voiced at the heart of her speech, the truth that a mother’s legacy can survive death to live on in her child, the truth that a mother’s influence changes the world.

 

 

No Last Goodbye

My mother believed in heaven, not hell. I learned this a few weeks before she died, when I drove her to a dialysis appointment. We knew the end was near, but we both pretended she might live. I felt time closing in on us. There was so much I needed to know. I had no idea where to begin. In the car I blurted out, “Are you afraid to die?”

No. She told me.

As a Jewish woman who came of age in the 1960s, my mother never had a Bat Mitzvah. She could not read Hebrew. She had no clear concept of the afterlife. But she believed hell had been her life on earth. And that is what she said as I drove and cried and watched spring rain drench the windshield of her minivan, a car I’d soon inherit.

She died six weeks after my twenty-first birthday. That morning, my best friend drove me from my D.C. apartment to the house where my mother had lived outside Baltimore. We were both numb with grief, barely able to speak or listen to music. When I saw my mother’s minivan parked outside, I expected to see her appear at the front door, as she did whenever I came home. The door stayed closed, and nausea climbed in my stomach. I could not imagine ever wanting to sleep or eat again. Each step I took felt like a mile.

Truly, I lived on another planet, a world familiar on its surface, but utterly strange at the core. I reread Alice in Wonderland, desperate to find a door leading out of my rabbit hole and back to my mother. I looked for her in other places, too: her red comb that still held strands of her red-brown hair; her pillow that still smelled of her Dove soap; my dreams, where she led me to a house in the middle of a woods, then disappeared.

Jewish custom forbids open caskets, but I sat beside my mother’s coffin the night before her funeral. My grandmother asked that the coffin lid be opened, so that my sister and I could say goodbye to our mother. I kissed her face and forehead,  flinching momentarily at their rock-hard firmness. I wanted her to awaken the way princesses did in fairytales, even though I was far too old to believe in magic. I could not believe she was dead. Gone. Forever.

After the funeral, I followed her coffin to the parking lot, then crawled into the hearse. I could not let her go. My grief was raw and pathological, a torment I would not wish on the worst person I knew. A good friend led me away.

My mother died one month before Mother’s Day, which that year occurred two days after her birthday. I cannot remember how I marked either day, nor do I want to.

There are now 14 years between my mother’s death and me. But I always think of her on Mother’s Day. How can I not? Other than my birthday, Mother’s Day is the holiday that most connects me to her, and reminds me of my life on a faraway planet, of the time when I once had a mother, when I once was someone’s daughter.

I remember setting my alarm and waking up before sunrise to make her breakfasts of scrambled eggs and peanut butter toast. My sister and I gave her cards and handmade friendship bracelets, which she’d tie around her ankles. She’d scrunch her whole face into a smile and exclaim, “I’m the luckiest mother in the whole wide world,” before drawing us to her chest in a tight, all consuming hug, the kind of hug we thought would go on forever. She was the luckiest mother in the world, and we were the luckiest girls.

You would think I’d hate Mother’s Day, but the holiday doesn’t rankle me in the ways one might expect. I don’t wake up wild with grief. I might cry, but that’s because Mother’s Day falls on the most high stress time of my working life. It’s a frenzied end-of-semester day for me, a day of grading and dog-walking and rushing to get lunches packed and dinner on the table. This year, I’m able to squeeze in brunch with my sister, and I’m unfathomably grateful for time with her, given her own demands of a full-time career and full-time mothering.

Like my friends who still have their mothers, I’m irritated by the gender stereotypes Mother’s Day embodies, the pinkwashed sentimentality that implies women are delicate and soft and devoted to caretaking. Mother’s Day denies our complexity and renders women like me invisible, since I have neither a mother nor a child.

And yet, I love Mother’s Day, because I loved my mother.

Her laugh and smile and exuberance come back to me on this day, remind me of how important it used to be that I wake up early and thank her, make her feel appreciated and loved. I still feel her presence when I am kind and appreciative, when I go out of my way to help a person who is struggling, when I sit with a person who is staring down a staggering loss.

I will never get to tell my mother how much she meant to me. She will never get to see her legacy live on in me. She will never know her grandchildren, or see the homes her daughters have made, or the flowers I plant in my garden to remember her.

This is how I survive beyond my mother, and how I choose to celebrate Mother’s Day. Even though she cannot see or hear me, even though she exists now only in my memories and choices, I say, “Thank you,” as if she is sitting right here beside me, waiting to pull me to her chest, and remind me how purely I have been loved.

Thank youThank you.  Thank you.