I'm so taken with how many people resonate with this experience of a distance forming between them and their mothers. Our memories are our own, but sometimes there's a vibration that allows us to enter someone else's memories. I guess we call that art.
I have often wanted to write about my “childhood in Hell,“ but I never knew how to do it somehow because I had so many negative feelings that I felt that anything I wrote would be too upsetting to the reader… Or boring. What you write here is inspiring as are the thoughts of some of the other readers. I’m not sure whether one has to get over one’s bitterness over what one another one here called “sad parenting“ and in my case, alcoholism and personality disorders, or whether writing – – as I suspect – – is a way of healing from these things by learning to see them from a balanced perspective. I keep a blog—sporadically—but am never able to write about “them.”
Amidha.....I appreciate your meeting me in the place of revealing as you have done. I want to suggest that part of the struggle is being overwhelmed by the enormity of the subject. What could be bigger than one's childhood, one's family? It might be helpful to write something narrowly focused on one memory like my story of my father picking up the big stick. It can be as long or as short as you like as long as you stick with the one story. You might even focus on one word that resonates for you when you think about your family. Let me know if any of this is helpful.
I wonder if you have access to any whispers of the love they felt for you even if they didn't know how to fully express it. How many generations do you think will feel all that pain and sorrow seeping down?
Susie, loved reading this story! My mother was a good cook and creative. She would make fried rice often when I was about seven and throughout my childhood. This was 1956 and Chinese Restaurants were just beginning to appear. At least it seemed that way. We took a trip with my more well to do Aunt Betty and Uncle Ray to China town in Boston. Ray, not so wide open to the experience, called the bean sprouts “white worms!” A meat and potatoes man, I’d bet. Here’s the thing making fried rice with added scrambled eggs and a small amount of diced meat of some sort was a very economical meal! My mother raising myself and younger brother, Joel on her own was most definitely on a budget! We were living neither my grandmother at the time. My mother also baked bread and cakes and toll house cookies! She did give me the bowl to scrape when she was finished. There was not much dough to enjoy though as she made sure to make use of most of it in her recipe! I remember later on when my grandmother let me have the very generous left overs in her frosting bowl! Sugary heaven! I don’t remember my mother ever hugging me when I was a child. In fact at the start of my “ hippie days” in the late 60’s I introduced hugging to my family! After a while, they embraced it! Something new! Yes, we can do this!
Tara...I love that you introduced hugging to your family. Someone should do research on the effect of our cohort on the way the previous generation learned to express itself. Before that, apparently, a lot of it took place in the kitchen.
Exquisitely written deep dive into your early environs. Remarkable that you, one of my favorite huggers, a warm caring and attentive friend, had to learn so much of it on her own. Mighty good learning. Brava. As always.
Such a joy to hear from you. I must have studied up to learn about hugging. How many hugs per day would you prescribe? I'm thinking a dozen or so, but maybe more to make up for covid.
I don't have a daughter so this is what I know...plus my observations of my mother with my grandmother and my sister. A hefty sprinkling of resentment all around.
Baking is great. It always seemed there was too little of it. My mom was a young mother, 21 when I was born followed by three more siblings so that my mom had four kids by the time she was 25. Later, we added two more.
I try to remember every family has its own dysfunction. My mom lost both her parents by the time she was 5. My dad, an only child, lost his dad when he was five. How do parents learn what they never had. In my more charitable moments I remember the good things, the striving I learned from my mom, and that most people do the best they can with what they have. Unfortunately so many don’t have enough. Keep sharing.
I also remember baking with my Mom, licking the bowl and the beaters. In our house, food was love and my Mother threw herself into it. I knew I never wanted to be a slave to the kitchen, but I was nourished by the delicious meals and the love poured into them.
Yes, baking has it all. Doing the work, especially together. The aromas in the kitchen. The reward of eating the sweet stuff both during the process and when it's finished. Maybe gardening with a loved one has that wide range of pleasures...but growing up in Manhattan, I didn't get to experience that one.
Touched me deeply. Ahhh… what we remember, what we forget.
I'm so taken with how many people resonate with this experience of a distance forming between them and their mothers. Our memories are our own, but sometimes there's a vibration that allows us to enter someone else's memories. I guess we call that art.
A courageous, beautiful, deeply honest essay. Thank you, Susie.
Much appreciated, Jinks. I've learned a lot from you about accessing these memories.
I have often wanted to write about my “childhood in Hell,“ but I never knew how to do it somehow because I had so many negative feelings that I felt that anything I wrote would be too upsetting to the reader… Or boring. What you write here is inspiring as are the thoughts of some of the other readers. I’m not sure whether one has to get over one’s bitterness over what one another one here called “sad parenting“ and in my case, alcoholism and personality disorders, or whether writing – – as I suspect – – is a way of healing from these things by learning to see them from a balanced perspective. I keep a blog—sporadically—but am never able to write about “them.”
Amidha.....I appreciate your meeting me in the place of revealing as you have done. I want to suggest that part of the struggle is being overwhelmed by the enormity of the subject. What could be bigger than one's childhood, one's family? It might be helpful to write something narrowly focused on one memory like my story of my father picking up the big stick. It can be as long or as short as you like as long as you stick with the one story. You might even focus on one word that resonates for you when you think about your family. Let me know if any of this is helpful.
Such a beautiful remembrance--almost like a reverie.
My parents, Holocaust survivors, were not able to show affection. Sad parenting was a hallmark of many of the survivors.
Thank you for your lovely memoir.
I wonder if you have access to any whispers of the love they felt for you even if they didn't know how to fully express it. How many generations do you think will feel all that pain and sorrow seeping down?
Susie, loved reading this story! My mother was a good cook and creative. She would make fried rice often when I was about seven and throughout my childhood. This was 1956 and Chinese Restaurants were just beginning to appear. At least it seemed that way. We took a trip with my more well to do Aunt Betty and Uncle Ray to China town in Boston. Ray, not so wide open to the experience, called the bean sprouts “white worms!” A meat and potatoes man, I’d bet. Here’s the thing making fried rice with added scrambled eggs and a small amount of diced meat of some sort was a very economical meal! My mother raising myself and younger brother, Joel on her own was most definitely on a budget! We were living neither my grandmother at the time. My mother also baked bread and cakes and toll house cookies! She did give me the bowl to scrape when she was finished. There was not much dough to enjoy though as she made sure to make use of most of it in her recipe! I remember later on when my grandmother let me have the very generous left overs in her frosting bowl! Sugary heaven! I don’t remember my mother ever hugging me when I was a child. In fact at the start of my “ hippie days” in the late 60’s I introduced hugging to my family! After a while, they embraced it! Something new! Yes, we can do this!
Tara...I love that you introduced hugging to your family. Someone should do research on the effect of our cohort on the way the previous generation learned to express itself. Before that, apparently, a lot of it took place in the kitchen.
Exquisitely written deep dive into your early environs. Remarkable that you, one of my favorite huggers, a warm caring and attentive friend, had to learn so much of it on her own. Mighty good learning. Brava. As always.
Such a joy to hear from you. I must have studied up to learn about hugging. How many hugs per day would you prescribe? I'm thinking a dozen or so, but maybe more to make up for covid.
All mother and daughter dances are complicated as far as I know. With many layers.
I don't have a daughter so this is what I know...plus my observations of my mother with my grandmother and my sister. A hefty sprinkling of resentment all around.
Baking is great. It always seemed there was too little of it. My mom was a young mother, 21 when I was born followed by three more siblings so that my mom had four kids by the time she was 25. Later, we added two more.
I try to remember every family has its own dysfunction. My mom lost both her parents by the time she was 5. My dad, an only child, lost his dad when he was five. How do parents learn what they never had. In my more charitable moments I remember the good things, the striving I learned from my mom, and that most people do the best they can with what they have. Unfortunately so many don’t have enough. Keep sharing.
My family looked good which confused me over a period of many decades. It's only now, very late in the day, that I'm able to see the sadness.
I also remember baking with my Mom, licking the bowl and the beaters. In our house, food was love and my Mother threw herself into it. I knew I never wanted to be a slave to the kitchen, but I was nourished by the delicious meals and the love poured into them.
Yes, baking has it all. Doing the work, especially together. The aromas in the kitchen. The reward of eating the sweet stuff both during the process and when it's finished. Maybe gardening with a loved one has that wide range of pleasures...but growing up in Manhattan, I didn't get to experience that one.