As someone once said, “If it’s not one thing, it’s the mother.” Our mothers loom over our lives as no one else does. Even (especially) the absent mothers, the terrible mothers, the sick and broken ones. They’re all there, lurking about in our writing. When we’re writing memoir it can be difficult to see them outside their role as mother. But writing our mothers can help us imagine who they are when they aren’t just our moms — when they’re girls, when they’re falling in love, or when they’re dreaming themselves into being.
I’d like to recommend a terrific book by Patricia Foster called All the Lost Girls: Confessions of a Southern Daughter. As Philip Lopate writes: “Taking a cue from James Baldwin, who found the innocence of privileged white Americans appalling, Patricia Foster has recounted her own trajectory from clueless small-town Southern girl to a hard-won loss of innocence about the reality of racism, in this stunningly written, unique and vital memoir.”
Thirteen years ago the Feminist Press published my memoir about taking care of my mother in her old age. It was — as memoirs generally are — about so much more. It was about growing up in the shadow of this brilliant, talented musician who was adored by countless people who benefitted from her teaching and her music. It was about the misery that my envious father put her through. It was about raising my own daughter at the same time my mother needed me, and it was about my own very difficult marriage that fell apart during this time. Oh, and the cancer…
This year Joe and I re-published the book with a new epilogue and under a new title: My Mother’s Requiem.
My mother was born on March 20, 1918. She would be 106 today if she were still alive. So I decided I’d put the e-book on sale for today only for 99 cents. If you want to read it, you can find it at my Shopify Store — or on Amazon.
Here’s a short excerpt:
With Celina gone to school, Hank missing in action, and the dog dead, I spend more and more time at The Sanctuary with my mom. Her memory plays tricks on both of us.
One time when I come over, her hair has just been cut and styled. It’s a gorgeous thick silver halo.
“Your hair looks lovely this color,” I tell her.
“Well, I never did dye it,” she says.
I laugh and say, “Yes, you did, Mom. In fact, sometimes I dyed it for you. You’ve never been fully gray before you lived here.”
She looks at me in surprise.
“Really? Well, I suppose if I were to write my memoirs, it would be mostly fiction.”
Are you writing about your mother? Or a mother figure? Feel free to share a snippet!