Please Tell My Mother...
My mother and I are so different that it sometimes astonished me that we're related. My mother is more of a girl, into fashion, appearances. popularity and reality shows whereas as I rate somewhere around 47 on the Ripley's Believe it or Not weirdness scale. My mom likes to shop and find fashionable clothes, I like to shop... for books and cds. My mom likes sappy romantic comedies, I like Akira Kurosawa and Stanley Kubrick. For a long time I resented my mother. I felt that she was overbearing and was trying to hard to make me a younger version of her... and then I realized something.
My mother is a cleaning woman. She goes into people's homes and cleans up. There were times as a kid that I was a little ashamed of her job. I felt it was somehow degrading or unworthy of her. She's had some of her customers for decades, especially the elderly folks. I've grown up knowing them, playing in their houses, vacumming or reading their books. There are two in particular who stand out in my mind. Mr. Smith, who's at least 80 and Joan who was in her seventies. I always loved going to Mr. Smithl's because he had a whole wall of books and National Geographics. When I was a kid he would send boxes of books home with my mother for me. Joan's house was my favorite. It was an old house, with a big front porch and squishy old furniture. The best part was that Joan collected turtle figurines. When I was 6 I got a pet turtle, George, (he's still living). When I saw Joan's collection, I started my own.
Joan died a short while ago. She'd been sick for a long time. My mother had taken her to doctor's appointments, checked her medications and all the other little things. She asked for nothing in return. My mother called me to tell me she had died. I could hear in my mom's voice how sad she was and how angry. Joan's daughter in law had come in and thrown out all of the journals Joan had kept. And my mother thought this horrible and cruel. My mother spoke about what a good lady Joan had been and how much she had always liked me. And then she told me how old Mr. Smith had gotten and how sick he was. And I had an epiphany. My mother didn't clean houses because there was nothing else she could do or because the hours let her be home with my brother and I when we were kids. She did it because she loved people. Because she liked taking care of them, loving them and protecting them. She did it because she was one of those people with a heart so big that she had to find more people to bring into it. And I knew, that as long as I lived I could never be that kind and giving. All I could do was try to give even a little back.
Maybe that's part of growing up. Being able to see your parents as people. To step back and see them for what they truly are... not the person who made you do your homework or wear a dress. Maybe adulthood is being able to put aside prejudice and the memories of old hurt and just see the beauty and the goodness that's inside everyone.
I've finally seen my mother. Defender of the weak, protector of the elderly and the best mopper on the planet. There is no way to say thank you for these things. How do you say to someone, "Thank you for showing me what it takes to be a great person?" or "Not all heros get medals, some just are and don't expect anyone to notice."? Is there any way to tell someone how happy you are that they shaped you? That you are an okay person because of them? If there's a way voice these feelings I haven't figured it out yet. So, all I can say is this, I am proud to be my mother's daughter.
My mother is a cleaning woman. She goes into people's homes and cleans up. There were times as a kid that I was a little ashamed of her job. I felt it was somehow degrading or unworthy of her. She's had some of her customers for decades, especially the elderly folks. I've grown up knowing them, playing in their houses, vacumming or reading their books. There are two in particular who stand out in my mind. Mr. Smith, who's at least 80 and Joan who was in her seventies. I always loved going to Mr. Smithl's because he had a whole wall of books and National Geographics. When I was a kid he would send boxes of books home with my mother for me. Joan's house was my favorite. It was an old house, with a big front porch and squishy old furniture. The best part was that Joan collected turtle figurines. When I was 6 I got a pet turtle, George, (he's still living). When I saw Joan's collection, I started my own.
Joan died a short while ago. She'd been sick for a long time. My mother had taken her to doctor's appointments, checked her medications and all the other little things. She asked for nothing in return. My mother called me to tell me she had died. I could hear in my mom's voice how sad she was and how angry. Joan's daughter in law had come in and thrown out all of the journals Joan had kept. And my mother thought this horrible and cruel. My mother spoke about what a good lady Joan had been and how much she had always liked me. And then she told me how old Mr. Smith had gotten and how sick he was. And I had an epiphany. My mother didn't clean houses because there was nothing else she could do or because the hours let her be home with my brother and I when we were kids. She did it because she loved people. Because she liked taking care of them, loving them and protecting them. She did it because she was one of those people with a heart so big that she had to find more people to bring into it. And I knew, that as long as I lived I could never be that kind and giving. All I could do was try to give even a little back.
Maybe that's part of growing up. Being able to see your parents as people. To step back and see them for what they truly are... not the person who made you do your homework or wear a dress. Maybe adulthood is being able to put aside prejudice and the memories of old hurt and just see the beauty and the goodness that's inside everyone.
I've finally seen my mother. Defender of the weak, protector of the elderly and the best mopper on the planet. There is no way to say thank you for these things. How do you say to someone, "Thank you for showing me what it takes to be a great person?" or "Not all heros get medals, some just are and don't expect anyone to notice."? Is there any way to tell someone how happy you are that they shaped you? That you are an okay person because of them? If there's a way voice these feelings I haven't figured it out yet. So, all I can say is this, I am proud to be my mother's daughter.
posted by Rachel at 1:43 PM
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