Rebelling
At 17 I escaped, cast off her strictures
(imposed by secret signs across rooms: to fix my hair, how to sit, when to stay silent …)
along with the gloves, hats, stockings
the fear, the conformity.
I learned to cross my legs at the knee. I learned to laugh loud.
She shuddered, calling it 'coarse'.
I was glad she was dark. I was fair, resembling Dad’s side.
Until one day someone said, 'You look so like your mother!' Then the mirror said so too.
I dreaded her forties-housewife life; kept my career long after marriage and kids.
(Forgetting her secretarial job when I was a teen – at a time when married women simply didn’t. Dad, afraid of being thought unable to provide, reluctantly agreed: better than her boredom, depression. A valued Office Manager, she finally retired in her seventies, when her path was no longer brave or unusual.)
I deplored her conservative taste in clothes, furniture, politics and art.
When I was newly adult, unhappy, her house was my haven, a place to self-indulge. I knew: wherever she was, was my home. I could just arrive.
Fearful, even phobic, she never learned to swim or drive a car.
I learned both. A timid swimmer, I hate waves, hate getting my face underwater. I swim in still pools or rivers, from the neck down. A scared driver, I stick to places I know. Otherwise I do much silent praying.
Once socially active, in age she preferred the phone, or for friends to visit her. She shocked me by watching Days of Our Lives; even explaining it to me. (If I was visiting, I had to sit through it too.) She borrowed a bundle of romance novels from the library every week. 'How could she?' I thought. 'A supposedly intelligent woman.'
Now in this pandemic, old and widowed, I stay home alone watching Netflix, or reading romance novels on my Kindle.
She lived to be two years older than I am now. Travelling hastily to her bedside, I was with her on Christmas Eve, as she died.
My Christmas letter, finally telling her all the reasons I was glad and grateful for her, arrived after me, three days later.
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369 words for Weekly Scribbings #55: "What You Resist, You Become" at Poets and Storytellers United.
I love the way you opened up in this piece, Rosemary, as if freeing yourself from the strictures all over again! I love that she was always there when you needed her and that you could just arrive. Funnily enough, my mother never learned to drive, and I never saw her swim. I’m a scared driver now and stick to places I know. But parent-child relationships are so different these days: manners and propriety are no longer important; parents encourage children to be themselves.
ReplyDeleteMy Dad had much freer ideas and encouraged me to be me – but still, in some respects, within the confines of accepted 'ladylike' behaviour of the time.
DeleteI think it so important that when we mature we are ourselves not a copy of parents or anyone else for that matter. The saddest part is realizing later that they made mistakes and could have done better.
ReplyDeleteYes, it's quite a moment when one realises they are not gods, not perfect.
DeleteI remember the first time I was surprised when I caught a glimpse of my reflection when walking down a city street. By the expression of dissatisfaction on it, I thought my mother had magically appeared. It's always startling when time and its echoes catch up to us.
ReplyDeleteThat 'expression of dissatisfaction' tells us a lot!
DeleteLove the comparison / contrast in this piece, Rosemary. Awesome work.
ReplyDeleteMore and more these days, I see that I'm my father. And people have always said I look like him, too, though I've only seen that in the last decade or so. I really kinda bugs me. We never really bonded. He always used to introduce my (4) siblings before me (even though I was the second-oldest). When he finished praising the others (by name, mind you), he always jerked his thumb at me and said (sneeringly), "And this one here writes poetry."
Ouch! There may be ways in which you resemble him, but I bet you learned kindness, fairness and unconditional love from his very lack of them.
DeleteAppreciation of our families often comes too late...I know it did in my case and is something I will always regret. Your mother looks beautiful
ReplyDeleteYes, she was beautiful-looking.
DeleteHow much we want to be different from our mothers and then find out how similar we are. There are ways in which I would love to be my mother and ways I know I will never measure up to the standard she set. She's a tough act to follow. I really like how you come to an understanding and even appreciation of all the things that made your mom who she is even if they weren't the same for you.
ReplyDeleteIt took a long time, Lori! But I'm glad I got there, too.
DeleteYour story was so honest and retrospective. I've tried very hard to always be a safe place for my daughter, and to remind her frequently that I am so proud of the woman she has become. I wonder, when her years are long on her shoulders what she might write of me!
ReplyDeleteI'm sure she will remember you as loving and talented.
DeleteI relate to this in many ways. Glad you shared this story.
ReplyDeleteThen I'm glad, too.
DeleteIt was quite confronting to write it, but it's good to be able to look back and perceive all the complexities.
I really like the structure you chose for this one, Rosemary, how clearly it shows every thing that makes you like your mother. The love for romances made me smile.
ReplyDeleteAh, it was a complex relationship!
DeleteRosemary, this is so lovely, intimate, honest. Thank you for sharing. Our mothers had much in common, never learning to swim (which no doubt influenced my fear of water) and the driving thing .. Mother learned to drive out of necessity when my father passed away. She did not work outside our home until then as well .... She maintained grace and beauty until the day she died .. in my arms.
ReplyDeleteIt's salutary to realise my parents lived through two World Wars and the Great Depression, and in my Mum's case migration from India to Australia when she was in her early teens.
DeleteMy dad died when he was 97, a bit older than I am now. The secret being big stuff now is age 11, not 17. Our granddaughter sneaks makeup at our house, of course we don't say yay or nay, but do chew on her when she gets the towels red wiping it off. Mom was also a secretary, moved to our Capital city, Lincoln, Nebraska. But she quit and only did farm work after she married Dad.
ReplyDelete..
You must be enjoying your grand-daughter! Yes, I think kids grow up a bit younger now, or maybe it is that they are brought up less strictly. Obviously, I think a greater measure of freedom (with sensible limits for safety's sake) is a good thing.
DeleteExcellent contrast in this, Rosemary. I was always rebellious,
ReplyDeleteand in later years I realized how many times she was right.
I remember a psychotherapist once telling me that the habit of rebelliousness could be dangerous – but it took me many years to understand the truth of that.
DeleteRosemary (this is my younger sister's name) this is marvelous. I sunk into it and FELT it. I love these prompts which make us dig and write things we otherwise may have not. This one is a true treasure.
ReplyDeleteThank you. You make me glad I persevered with it.
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