It’s Mother’s Day. Mine died a long time ago, but I still carry
some of her teachings with me. Some would rest on one side of the political
spectrum and som on the other. I try not to judge.
She carried through life, as did almost all women with similar
ancestry and background, the belief that somehow a creator had made the white
race superior to others. I’m not sure she would have willingly accepted a man
of color as the President of the United States. Of course, I’m not sure she
would have willingly accepted a man with multiple divorces either, given some
of the things he has said publicly. We can only speculate.
She only ever spoke of two gay men, best as I can remember. One was a
former schoolmate, and she considered his behavior more with bemusement than
with fear, hatred, or bigotry. The other was Liberace, and I don’t think his
sexual orientation mattered much to her. As far as any others, she detested
rude behavior more than about anything, including sexual preference.
Oh, and I’ve mentioned before, she had no use for those whom
she referred to as “religious fanatics.” Now she wasn’t referring to genuinely
religious people. She was referring to those mirthless, meddling, mendacious,
merchandisers of hatred and fear, who intruded upon her life, like the
unfortunate soul who dared reprimand her because she didn’t send her children
to a “revival” on a school night. She watched, late in life, with horror, a
beloved relative being taken in by a charlatan TV evangelist. (I know that I
repeat myself). I think she would have strangled the man had she ever gotten
her hands on him.
She told me the most interesting thing once, when I was
distraught about losing a girlfriend. I’ll never forget it. She stopped her
ironing and snapped me to attention, as only she, with her five-feet-four of raw power,
could do. Then she said, “Love? Let me tell you something. When I married your
daddy, I wasn’t in love with him. I was courted by some much more appealing
boys than him. And the von Tungelns were considered a little odd in the
community anyway. I married him because I knew if I did, I would never have to
go hungry again. I knew he would work. And I knew he would help take care of
me.” I wasn’t ever sure how much help she would have needed, but it’s nice to
know she felt safe.
She continued. “So, I married him. We sharecropped and
picked cotton by day and butchered hogs when we finished. On the weekends he
would peddle meat from the back of a panel truck in Pine Bluff. We made enough
money to buy a grocery store and struggled with that 14 hours a day. Bessie
Shannon said we were so dumb that it took both of us to drink a coca-cola.”
She stopped and made sure I was listening. “Then do you know
what happened? I woke up one morning and found out that I worshipped the ground
he walked on.”
I’ll never forget that.
So, on Mother’s Day, I recall the one literary passage that
I’ve always felt best summed up my sainted mother and her sisters. It is from the
Betty Smith novel, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
The author describes the young heroin’s mother and aunt, the Rommely women, trying
to survive bitter poverty and despair in a strange city: “They were all
slender, frail creatures with wondering eyes and soft fluttery voices [but]
they were made out of thin invisible steel.”
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| If it turns out there is a heaven, and if you happen to get there. Take my advice if you will. Don't cross this woman. |
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