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Saying
Goodbye PAGE
TWO: Theoretically, my mother should have had at least a fleeting appreciation of my work; it was, after all, obsessively all about me. I couldn't even take a picture of a sunset unless my shadow was in it. I spent the rest of the holiday trying to get her to look at one of my photographs, at least. At first, I suggestively left a box of photographs on the kitchen table. She moved it to a pile on the stairs, indicating that it -- and the laundry it was resting on -- needed to be put away in my room. I tried a more aggressive approach. I sat at the dining room table and spot-cleaned my prints. She walked into the room, surveyed the photographs on the table, and told me to clean up my mess before my father got home. Finally, I asked her straight out if she wanted to look at some of my pictures. She said she would when she had a moment of free time. She was watching Wheel of Fortune when the conversation took place. Even with the most open of hearts, standing in line at the Baltimore Washington Airport with a pocket full of her cash was not the time to begin an audible critique of my mother's parenting skills. It would have been more productive if I had used that moment to ask her to strap my luggage to her back, cradle me in her arms, and carry me to my seat. "Never ask to see any of my work." The accusation was standing between us. The PA system crackled and a thick Bawlmer accent announced boarding for my flight. My fellow passengers swarmed us. I box-stepped from side to side, weaving in and out of bodies, trying to keep eye contact with my mother. The
doe-eyed stare and the puckered circular lips that constituted her
surprised expression made her look young and childlike. A deep grief
filled the rest of her face, aging her almost beyond recognition.
The combination gave her the appearance of an adolescent kitchen
witch. Slowly a sadness crept over her and extinguished the shock.
As it did, I realized that she was consciously avoiding more than
my photography. And that was the problem. In the past few years,
she had progressively slowed her questions about my personal life,
the neighborhood I lived in, how I picked my hairstyle, the schools
I attended, and finally the work I made. The finished product of
my life was becoming harder and harder for her to pretend to like.
As a result, we had attached ourselves to the performances we each
knew we could pull off -- she forever in the role of the aloof mother,
and me stuck as the dependent daughter. Neither of us wanted to
acknowledge the disappointments that were becoming part of our relationship.
And that moment was not the time to invite them out. I shrugged
and smiled, "It's no big deal. Don't worry about it. I don't
really care." She smiled back with relief. We awkwardly hugged,
and promised to keep in touch.
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I
wasn't expecting the smirks and knowing shrugs that indicated I
had just confirmed a rumor that had been circulating for months.
A circle of people stood around me alternately judging and feeling
sorry for me. It had never occurred to me that something was wrong
with my relationship with my mother. I thought I would spend the
evening drinking eggnog and spreading holiday cheer, not stand in
the middle of the room, sweating down my back, with the painful
realization that there is no such thing as a mother's unconditional
love. Finally, Dana stepped in and attempted to save me. "Don't
worry everyone, it's not that she doesn't care about her work. It's
just that she doesn't know how to pretend to like it."
