I was eldest child of a narcissistic and competitive mother and afforded all rights and privileges inherent in the title. In reality, I was my mother’s unwilling sparring partner, her litmus test and the measure by which she perceived that all others judged her success….or failure.
I have been told that I was a little adult, perfectly
behaved, well mannered and mature far beyond my years. In stories I’ve heard of my childhood, this
is illustrated time and time again. I
was the good child. I was the daughter
that my parents could rely on to do the right thing. I was the one who took on the mantle of caring
for and protecting my sister two and a half years my junior.
Years ago, I read in my baby book the chores I had at Age Two:
1.
Set the table
2.
Clean the
crumbs under the table after dinner
3.
Unload the
silverware from the dishwasher
4.
Separate the
laundry
5.
Fold the
laundry
On the one hand, this could be a charming list of chores
that a two year old was, in fact, assisting with alongside a patient parent who
held ultimate responsibility for completion of the task. Knowing my mother and how she interacted with
me, however, I am certain that I held ultimate responsibility and was chastised
were I not to complete the task…flawlessly.
I look at the few pictures I have of my childhood and, it is
clear, I was not generally a happy child.
Pictures taken with my mother show her monitoring my performance for the
camera – am I smiling well enough? Am I
being a good reflection on her? My
favorite picture of me as a child, however, is one in which I was two, maybe
three years old. I am dressed in my
marigold flowered Sunday dress, pristine white tights and an expression on my
face that can only be described as a passively resistant pout. As usual, my mother is in the picture looking
the part of a resplendently perfect mother and I, in a display of immaturity
equal to my years, am refusing to participate in the exercise of perfection for
the camera. While I do not know this as
fact, I like to think of it as me resisting in the only way I knew how at the
time. I was Gandhi leading the Indians
in disobedience against the salt tax. I
was Martin Luther King marching against segregation. I was a three year old, pushed to the edge by
one too many picture perfect poses, poking out her lower lip and refusing to be
pretty for the benefit of yet another photograph.
It was the early start of my slow and tidal rebellion
against the constraints of being my mother’s daughter.
~ Mk Michaels, 2007
This article has appeared on Rebelle Society.
http://www.rebellesociety.com/2014/07/20/gandhis-family-portrait/
This article has appeared on Rebelle Society.
http://www.rebellesociety.com/2014/07/20/gandhis-family-portrait/
I was deeply moved by your words. You've inspired me to write a reply and share an anecdote about my mother.
ReplyDeleteI was only 15 and had been travelling overseas for almost 7 weeks. As I was about to reach the luggage carousel, I was surprised to see 'ma mere' waiting for me. As I walked towards her I was filled with trepidation. Before I reached her she said: "What happened to your hair?" Actually what she said sounded more like "What 'appened to your 'air?" ~ she is French after all.
Thank you for your kind and insightful comment, Hobnobbin.
DeleteIt often seems we spend a portion of our adulthood healing from our childhood. I feel certain your mother's comment was not what you wanted to hear after having been apart for any length of time, let alone 7 weeks, as a young woman. I hope you have come see her comment as something based in your mother's fears rather than anything to do with you and, in this, started to let go of the pain of that moment.
No worries. I forgave her for not being the mother I wanted her to be 20 years ago. I know she did the best she could with what she had, as do we all. It's all a matter of perspective...and a sense of humor helps a lot.
ReplyDeleteHaving said that, what I find most interesting, is that your blog inspired me to write something at all! Finally, I am writing again! (It took me 30 minutes to write & edit that hair anecdote.)
You are my muse ~ a goddess of inspiration, a source of knowledge contained in poetic lyrics and myths. Thank you, Mk
Excellent ~ writing is such a gift and it is often such a wonderful release. Enjoy your reconnection with words!
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