About My Mother

“Mother.” The word is possibly one of the most emotionally loaded collection of letters in any language. Matrem, Mam, Mor, Móðir, Máthair, Madre, Mère, Moeder, Matka, Mutter, More, мать, μητέρα, الأم, 母親, 어머니, مادر, 母親,umama, والدہ, Mẹ, מוטער and אמא, all mean the same, and there are more, far more before we even get into diminutives such as Mama, Mamma, Mommy, Mammy, Mom, Ma,Mum,Mummy, Mater, and, naturally, just “Mother.” That they all start with the letter “M” or with “M” sounds, is interesting, as well. There is probably some well-researched reason for this. But the important thing is that almost anyone will recognize the word in almost any language, no matter who says it or how. This may well be our deepest human totem.
Historians tell us that the most common outcry from badly wounded soldiers on any battlefield, anywhere and during any war, is “Mother,” in one language or another. For most of us, it, or some version of it, was the first word we learned, associating as we most often did with nurture, comfort, love, security, and, of course, food and the hopefully beatific face of the woman who bore us and will rear us. Throughout our lives we have called it, yelled it, shouted it, whispered it, muttered it, used it as a curse or a cry for help or salvation; we have used it in affection, anguish, pity, sympathy, joy, anger, gratitude, exasperation, frustration, desperation. Much moreso than “Father,” which has nearly as many variants although it’s not used nearly so often, “Mother” arrives on the tongue and ear laden with connotations that evoke deeply rooted emotions, sometimes tinged with guilt, regret, nostalgia. Possibly no other word in any language is so evocative, so revered, so explosive.
But none of this is to say that Mothers are all wonderful creatures. In an abstract sense, the word, in American culture, conjures Norman Rockwell-inspired images of gray-haired, rosy-cheeked woman well past middle-age, costumed in gingham apron or “Mother” Hubbard bonnet, her hands filled with steaming foodstuffs fresh from a carefully cleaned oven and spotless kitchen. One might also think of a heeled and hosed, well-coiffed young woman standing in front of an ultra-modern kitchen, chic dress, string of pearls, and, perhaps, a casually held ladle in one well-manicured hand. One thinks of Whistler’s Mother, or Mother Theresa easily when the word is randomly used. Some might think of the Queen Mother, of “Artemus,” perhaps, or of Mary, the Mother of God.
One seldom thinks of a dirty and frightened female in Asia or the Middle East, crouching in a field or the bombed out rubble of a building, clutching her starving children in the face of unimaginable violence, or of an African bushwoman brushing the flies away from her severely diseased kids or clutching them to her ravaged bosom as she flees from one refugee camp to another. One doesn’t like to think of the drugged-out teen, lying on a gurney and awaiting delivery of a child she will give up because she cannot feed or clothe it. But all of these are Mothers, too. And the commitment they have to being Mothers is evident in their eyes, in the desperation of their willingness to die rather than abrogate the responsibilities that come with being Mothers.
But not all Mothers are loving, nurturing, and caring with an instinctive protective impulse toward their off-spring. One considers Joan Crawford, for example, or Ma Barker. We all acknowledge that some, even many Mothers drink too much liquor and beat their children bloody, lock them in dark closets, burn them with cigarettes, whip them with belts, cut them with razors, starve them, and heinously murder them for any of a variety of psychotic reasons. These images of “Mother” shock us, because they contradict our natural inclination to think of “Mother” as a positive, even nearly holy thing in our lives. Even people who don’t have any idea who their Mothers might have been have a soft spot for the shadowy figure who gave them life, who carried them in a womb for nine months or so, and who brought them into this world. It’s not too much to say that even the most abused children in the world still revere “Mother,” if not their own, then at least the concept that surges within them when they consider it.
At the same time, almost no crime known to man is worse than matricide, the killing of one’s own Mother. Our inclination is to believe that no matter how horrible a Mother might actually be, she doesn’t deserve to be killed by her own child, even though, when we deeply consider it, some do.
Somewhere I once wrote, “Mothers have no idea of the harm they do, usually in the name of good.” I think this is true. I know of Mothers who are nearly as abusive as those who brutalize their children, although they’ve never physically harmed them. Often they do it with love—too much love—and protection—over protection—and control—total control of a child’s life and fate. Psychological abuse is seldom considered when it’s done in the name of Mothering. Still, it’s probably not an accident of semantics that the root of the word “smother” is “Mother.” One considers “Stage Mothers,” for example, or even the woman in the supermarket who goes into paroxysm of hysteria should some fellow patron fire up a smoke while within twenty-five feet of her toddler. And there’s the Mother who walks her kid to the door of the school, even the high school, even the college. I know of a Mother who came with her son to the university and dutifully sat outside the classroom in the hallway while he was in class—there was absolutely nothing wrong with him, physically. I worried, though, about his mental state. I also know of Mothers who accompanied their children on their honeymoons, even pack their children’s bags, who will, even after years of marriage, come over daily and cook meals and do laundry for their offspring, as if only they can do it properly. And I have heard of Mothers who have killed themselves when their child died of some dread disease or accident, merely to remain close to him or her in the afterlife. There are even those who pay scads of money to charlatans who claim to be able to conjure the spirit of a dead child to assuage the heart of a grieving Mother; and in some cases, there are children who do the same, hoping merely to hear, one more time, the soothing voice of their Mother. Some Native American mothers would slice off a finger when they learned of their son’s death in battle. Others would refuse to eat, gave away all their earthly possessions, and wandered out away from the tribe to perish.
Motherhood is one strong bond; it may be our strongest bond.
Activist Mothers campaign for safe car-seats, strollers, baby beds, and children’s clothing. They work hard to ensure that no harmful ingredients are in the food they serve their children, that no lead paint is used in hundreds of miles of their babes. When one of their progeny falls on the playground, they are lightening quick on the spot, armed with a bag full of unguents and bandages, should the skin be broken, and screaming like banshees should the fall have been the result of another child’s rambunctiousness or some poor unwary adult’s carelessness. In their minds, they’re already running hot water and fetching out bottles of peroxide to bathe a toddler’s scrape or scratch. Mothers go rabid when some other child threatens to harm—either physically or emotionally—one of their own brood, and they fly into hysterics should a child of theirs wander off out of sight for even the shortest period of time. They organize to stamp out drunk-driving, campaign to keep their children safe from salaciousness and the realities of life’s darker corners, although some will toss a handgun in their purses, just to ensure safety when out with their young. Of course, that sometimes works out badly, but it won’t stymie the instinct. Mothers. They’re protective, guarded, defensive, and almost insanely dedicated.
When some less-than-perfect Mother forgets her child in a hot car for a few minutes, it makes the evening news. When some tragedy strikes and a thoroughly reprehensible juvenile delinquent is killed on the street, possibly while transacting some illegal business, his Mother’s will be the face that peers into the camera, averring that he was a good boy, just misunderstood, misled, misinformed, that the multiple convictions and frequent jail time of the past were not his fault, entirely, and they certainly weren’t hers. In her eyes, he could do no real wrong. After all, she was his Mother.
Soldiers go off to war and leave Mothers behind to worry and weep, sometimes to grieve forever when their sons and, these days, daughters do not return or when they come back damaged in some horrible way. College students do the same thing, only the worries are different and their wounds are seldom mortal. They merely come home changed in some way that does not coincide with their Mothers’ notions of what they should have turned out to be. That, in some cases, is a fate worse than death, at least for Mother.
Mothers of slain warriors, though, are celebrated, truly worshipped. Mothers are given places of honor at funerals, weddings, and other celebrations involving their children. To be a Mother is, possibly, the greatest thing a human being can be, and it has, truly, always been thus. Eve, of course, was the first biblical Mother, and this redeems her sin in a way; of course, her boys ignored her hard-learned lessons, and one of them launched us off into a catastrophic direction from which we’ve not entirely found our way back. Penelope, while often seen more as a wife than a Mother, was, after all Telemachus’ Mother, and without his dispatch to bring home the wandering Odysseus, there could never have been a vengeful reunion to reward her patience. (Motherhood is about nothing if it’s not about patience.) Our anxiety, though, was less about Penelope’s long-suffering fidelity than to the possibility that her noble son would have been disappointed in her.
The roles of Mothers in mythology, in history and in literature is too great even to summarize. About all we can say is that Mothers have always been with us. They always will be, so long as there is an “us.” Fathers come and go, but Mothers are forever. We often find ourselves feeling sentimental and sad for our Mothers. Most of them do suffer, even the worst among them, and much of their misery comes from us. But that doesn’t stop more than half of us from becoming Mothers, if we can; nor does it stop the rest of us in abetting them in that effort.
When my children were young, my wife worked a grueling nightshift, and I took over all parental duties. I jokingly called myself “the Motherfather.” I was careful to pronounce it properly, though. I didn’t want to be misunderstood. It was a joke, naturally. I was the father, not the Mother, no matter what I did, and the kids knew that. It’s instinctive.
And, like everybody else, I had a Mother. I was fortunate. My Mother loved me and cared for me and gave me everything she possibly could of herself. It’s not too much to say that she sacrificed herself for me—and for my brother, of course. She had a hard life, my Mother. She saw herself fortunate, though, because she was a Mother. She deserved better children than I and my brother became. All Mothers deserve better children than they get. It’s a constant source of regret, I think, for all of us, when we consider how unworthy we are to have Mothers.
Being a Mother is possibly the best thing a human being can be. What is more sacred or significant than giving life to another.