;)
Ma Bell, a Throw Me Prompt
Thursday, January 20, 2011 at 8:00AM I was reading a Throw Me Thursday post by the lovely E. Victoria Flynn last week on the occasion of her mother’s birthday. Please go read it if you like. EVF feels a disconnection, but also seems to imply a sense of forgiveness of her Ma. Reading the post, I naturally began a reflection about my own mother, on the occasion of her birthday. So, with thanks to EVF for the inspiration, here is what came out.
Ma Bell
I cannot call my mother on the telephone to wish her a happy birthday. I don’t know if I would want to if I could. I found a letter I wrote to her in 2006. Both unfinished and unsent, here with some mild editing of names.
Dear Mom,
I told my oldest child about you today. He’s 6. Beautiful, bright, and perceptive. I didn’t plan to tell him. Didn’t plan what to say. I just suddenly had a strong feeling that he should know who and where all of his grandparents were. It was selfish in a way. An impulse motivated by me wanting him to know and understand me better.
So I held him in my lap and talked to him.
I told him that you were funny. Fun to be around. With beautiful brown hair that has a lovely white streak in it. I called you Grandma Cindy.
I told him about dad too. That he was a police officer. Tall with dark hair and blue eyes. Also funny. That he liked to draw. I called him Grampa Mac, and explained why.
I told Sonar X6 that I wished he could know you. That you’d be lovely grandparents—full of good stories and good humor.
And then I told him about the hard part. About how he and his brothers won’t ever have the chance to know you that way.
I told Sonar X6 that your mind was sick. That in your illness you made some bad choices. That one of them resulted in you using a gun and shooting dad with it. That you killed him. And now he’s dead and you live in a prison far away.
I told him that it’s hard to talk about. That it was hard to lose you both. That I miss you both.
He was remarkable. He comforted me. That beautiful boy.
Part of me wants to torture you with the joy and beauty of the things you’re missing. All three boys are delicious. I’ve grown so much with them. They inspire me. They make me want to be the best I can be. And the best of me does not aspire to torture anyone, especially my own mother.
The best of me aspires to be humane to all people. To empathize with each person I meet and to treat him or her with respect and compassion.
It’s relatively easy to be compassionate toward a stranger. There’s no baggage. No heartbreak. No thundering crash as the world crumbles underneath my feet and I’m left choking on the dust and stumbling over the rubble.
With family, with my mother, who has made choices that have shaken my trust in everything I have ever known, compassion is hard to muster. The best respect I have been able to gather is silence.
I know you’ve changed, but I’m not sure I want to know how. I know you have needs, but I’m not sure how or whether they can be satisfied or reconciled or healed. I’m not sure I want to talk with you. Most days I want my life now to remain anonymous for you. To have a barrier that guards my family from the nebulous threat you might pose to us and our understanding of the world. To keep at arm’s length the pain and struggle that connecting with you would involve. To contain the messiness, keeping it sequestered from my life.
You stung me once, in a hurt that has been miserably hard to release. You said I lived in a dream world. I don’t even really know what you meant by it. I suppose it implied to me that I was disconnected from the reality of your life somehow.
Full disclosure: I wrote that letter for me. To help me remember. I don’t think I ever intended to send it to my mother. So if it doesn’t sound like the sort of private letter you’d actually mail to someone, that’s why.
In 2008 I felt compelled to write again. That time the struggle came out not as a letter, but as a blog post. It was the first time I had spoken broadly and openly about my mom to anyone outside of my close confidants. You can read that one here.
When I reflect on these two things I’ve written, my writer brain sees a shift. There is a quiet tender hurt in the pride I felt in talking with the Sonar. There is a bolder desire to move forward and be strong and forceful in the second. The lingering pain seems different somehow. There is more bitterness in the second. In both I show my desire to hold on to the good, even as some form of pain lingers.
I sit here today and know that I have changed.
I clutch close to my heart the parts of my mother that were good and beautiful. I feel like I have allowed some of my long hurt to float free. I still wouldn’t call or write to her. But I can ring a bell, and think of her, and put the words out on the breeze with love.
Happy Birthday, Ma.
Reader Comments (5)
Umm, wow. I had no idea, Dani. And I have no idea what to say. I've tried several times to start this next sentence and really, I have no idea what to say, but I felt this deserved at least some kind of acknowledgment, however inadequate it feels.
My best to you and yours...
Oh, Cab, thank you. There's no inadequacy in your comment. I didn't mean for this post to be an emotional slobber-knocker. Just a pause to reflect.
Setting aside the emotional weight of what you experience(d), the above writing is very clear and honest, which makes it quite beautiful. I don't presume to know your mother, but I can only imagine that she'd be hurt that you're hurt, happy that you're so blessed with a family of your own, and proud of your obvious talent.
Maybe she'll see all that one day; maybe she already knows.
Honesty is really vital, and I've found that it comes with age. We no longer need to hide all our horrible secrets when we realize that everyone has demons they're battling. So I think it's respectable and uplifting that you're able to share your story so publicly. I think it's a sign of maturity and acceptance of EVERYTHING that brought you to where you are; which is why I think we'll be great friends.
"an emotional slobber-knocker"... great phrase. ;-)
I was/am speechless simply because I had no idea this had happened. There's no particular reason I should have had any idea, since we had been out of touch for most of the last 10 years. So it just came as a shock to read this and your 2008 post. And I have no way to empathize with your situation, so naturally anything I say feels hollow to me. The letter you composed and based this post upon is beautiful.
You have had a long time to (begin to) come to grips with this tragedy, and it seems that you are turning it into a motivating factor in your own parenting. I enjoy and appreciate the little glimpses into your life, and hopefully someday I'll get to meet these Sonars I've read so much about!
So, first, this stuff doesn't usually make me cry anymore. And I didn't write the post for sympathy. But all this love is making me a bit teary and warm feeling. Thank you.
Cab, all of this happened a few months after you and Jon came through Pennsylvania that summer. You know, in the olden days, before we all had children and wrinkles. ;)
This has never exactly been a secret in my life, and I'm comfortable talking about it, but it's also not the sort of thing that comes up in casual conversation, so it often goes unreported, especially to new and renewed friends. I really appreciate all of your graciousness and warm acceptance.
At the same time, I hope this doesn't interrupt the silliness. I'm planning a boring old book review for tomorrow and short story for next week. Humor don't fail us now!
Whether you've commented here or on twitter or sent me email, I love you all.