The Day I Became My Mother

I remember the day I became my mother.

It was in 1981.  I was 26 years old.

MTV had just come into being and I was watching this new phenomena of music videos alone in my living room.

Devo came on with the song Whip It.

I watched the entire video with increasing dismay.

When I could stand it no longer, I stood up and in high dudgeon, announced only to myself, “I cannot listen to someone singing while wearing clay flower pots on their heads!”

Immediately, I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand.

And then, still to myself, I proclaimed, “Dear God, I am my mother!”

Now I’m sure a music afficionado such as my son Ben would haste to reassure that Whip It is not about sado-masochism, as the whipping of the clothes off of a woman in the video suggests, but is actually about something else entirely: something perhaps political, as band members have suggested.

But here’s the thing: I really am my mother.  And I don’t like it.  And I don’t much care what its parodying or satirizing.  Nor do I care whether anyone else takes my opinion on the matter seriously.

I’m 56 now; and knowing that I am my mother is comforting rather than shocking.

A lot can change in 30 years. . . including a girl’s valuation of her mother.

I am my mother.

And that’s a good thing.

Oh, and I still think the clay (plastic, really) flower pots were silly.

And fyi, my mother is the one who turned me on to Cyndi Lauper, right about the time Devo was creeping me out.

Thanks, Mom.

At Last

At last, Etta James is at peace after a life of fame and almost fame and lost fame, of abuse by others and by self, of glorious moments and inglorious periods.

In reading her bio on Wikipedia, I was forcefully struck by sadness at the recounting of her early childhood, filled with revolving caretakers, a largely-absent mother and unknown father, and a man named ‘Sarge’ all-too-willing to exploit Jamesetta (her birth name), who, by the age of 5, was demonstrating her musical ability.

Late at night, Sarge would waken Jamesetta and force her, by beating if necessary, to sing for his poker buddies, sometimes when she was soaked with urine from having wet the bed. Wikipedia

Sarge’s behavior isn’t all that unusual: parents and other adults are often willing to exploit children to their own ends.  Sex trafficking, forced labor and enslavement continue to be worldwide problems.

But even in otherwise loving safe harbors, parents will unthinkingly demand ‘performance’ from their children.  I’m sure I’ve done it myself: say ‘mommy’. . . show them how fast you run . . . draw them a picture . . . 

While it isn’t necessarily exploitation to ask things of our children, when we do it for our own glory or pride, when we fail to consider their desires, their shyness or reluctance, when we demand rather than ask for a ‘performance’ to prove how special we are because our children are in some way special, loving encouragement turns into exploitation.

Even the definition of exploit reveals the bitter irony: when used to refer to something I do to, for, or with myself, it’s a positive, as in I love hearing about Beth’s exploits, referring to tales of adventure or heroism; but when used to refer to my treatment of another, as in Beth exploited Ben’s talents from an early age, it refers to my use of Ben for my own advantage or gain, without counting the cost to Ben.

It is the recognition that what I can do for my own honor or glory quickly becomes dishonorable and vainglorious when I insist it come from another.

In otherwise loving homes, parents are challenging children to play the sports they played, to practice the musical instruments they always wanted to learn, to reenact their childhood dreams, instead of nurturing the children’s own dreams and talents.  That’s exploitation.  And even if there isn’t a beating or a drunken barrage behind it, such behavior is costly.

It denies the image of God beauty of another.

Children are not mini-me’s; they are human beings in their own right.  And far too many are longing for their own ‘At Last’ day of freedom from the exploitative demands of those charged with their nurture and care.