Oh this is so wonderful, especially for those of us who had primarily conflicted relationships with our difficult mothers. Mine has been gone a long time. It has always been hard for me to praise her or to see her in a positive light. That is an act of generosity I can not seem to manage. I tried to write a piece imagining us as mother and adult daughter of indeterminate ages, having tea in a Paris department store and looking at scarves (something she would have relished.) The piece was dead. Inert. I could not imagine--or give life to-- a scenario in which I enjoyed her company. So congratulations to you on making Toby vivid to us.
Laurie, you are really blessed to have had a mother like that. These days my mother would have been in jail for beating me. Your story was an ache like a spear driven through me: oh, what did I miss? It's something that's hard to get over, even at my advanced age. Thanks, though. Beautiful!
These narratives of reconciliation and detente are as painful as they are fascinating for me to read. The emotional and physical abuse delivered by my raging parents in the name of installing the fear of the almighty evangelical (gentile) god has had consequences.
Laurie's mother 'liked to live in the reality she’s invented, and I do exactly the same thing. We do not want to believe a thing can be, even though the thing is staring us in the face.’
For me, getting beyond the damages requires replacing my parents' version of reality.
I am now reading Zoe Schlanger's The Light Eaters and hit the passage citing radical discoveries about plant genetics. Research found that the genetic code was not a strict mechanically determinative script for plant life but rather more like stage clues for an improvisational performance. This inspires me.
I am sorry for your pain. I did not have a mother like this. Not really. That's the sport of writing. Or I did have a mother like this, in your reading of her. xxL
The right piece at the right moment. It’s my father’s face I see (and his mother’s, my Nana). It’s the most exquisite comfort. The idea of withholding praise is not unknown in my Gentile family, but when my father was in his last days, and dementia erased his stern reserve, I learned what he really felt.
I'm not sure non-Jews will understand this as much as other Jews (me) the whole kinahora thing and child raising through withheld praise has its own flavor in Yiddishkeit. It's not out and out abuse but pierces deeply into a lifetime of self-doubt. Yet years later we can interpret it as a form of love. Especially after having had the opportunity of raising my own child without this backward form of encouragement and watching him flourish with the fertilizer of positivity and love I could generously pour on. Thank you.
I could relate to your essay on several levels. I was the youngest girl born to my parents. My sister did everything "right" - marry well, have kids, stay home, go to church, take care of my Mom in her old age, etc. The only thing I did "right" was marry - but I married someone who, like me, was not excited about having kids. All I accomplished was earn three degrees, have a successful international career and own my own consulting business. When my mother wrote a Christmas letter, it listed all the above accomplishments of my sister, the many professional accomplishments of my brother, and then, as an after thought said, "Linda lives in Illinois with her husband Jim". I still talk to her 30 years after her death. I guess I always will. She talks about my sister.
I love this. My mother was smart as a whip but life was harder for her than it was for me. She once remarked about a book I wrote, “I tried to read it but I kept falling asleep.” Wonder what she’d think of my situation now?
I loved this latest post on trans-generation haunting. when we dead awaken! It’s a terrific account of what happens when the potentially menacing irrationalities of, in this case, the shtetl encounter the liberatory movements of the sixties and after, particularly the power of women’s writing to beckon in a world of uncertainty and unknowingness where stubborn fixities and outright denial and those that embodied them are reimagined and given new voices. I also admire the way the shifting energies of fear and envy that animates the Toby character finds its voice. My sense is that it was poor Toby, who must have envied the narrator the experience of new love at the age of sixty after her own great loss, who really felt like the poor slob. And hurled it outwards. Perhaps to hurt a whole generation?
Profoundly beautiful and moving, Laurie. Thank you for sharing your mother with us. (And I'm glad your father recognized you for the awesome thinker you are)
Oh, Laurie, you have done it again, written something so beautiful and necessary and funny and well, true. "It’s a fake sense of not knowing things. It’s a show you put on for the reader, so they won’t think you are a know-it-all, a smarty pants, a show off." Your mother is kvelling wherever she is, Laurie. It is the living who get to read your beautiful words in the right order.
I think she is kvelling. Then she'd say, "Do you think I'm smart?" I'm please you pulled out that line. It was the prompt for writing this. I had been talking to Richard about whiting something about what I do, I mean as a writer what is going on here, since many people think I am doing B, and I think I am doing A. I don't like to write about the meta, and so this piece popped out to dramatize the idea of faking things on the page for the reader's enjoyment, and Richard said, "You've given them even more reason not to believe you are doing what you're doing."
“You’re Laurie Stone’s mother?” I think your mother (kinahora) misunderstood the compliment. I'm sure the young woman on the bus was pleased and delighted to meet her.
Not knowing is a power. I am a psychotherapist and not knowing is one of our most important skills. It comes as a surprise, and sometimes a disappointment, to our patients who think we know all the answers and are just witholding them. Of course not knowing means just that we know we must ask questions. Just the the thing for a writer.
I'm happy you and your mother are finally getting on, it's taken quite a bit of writing. Love, your poor slob. XX
Thanks, dearest beauty.
Oh this is so wonderful, especially for those of us who had primarily conflicted relationships with our difficult mothers. Mine has been gone a long time. It has always been hard for me to praise her or to see her in a positive light. That is an act of generosity I can not seem to manage. I tried to write a piece imagining us as mother and adult daughter of indeterminate ages, having tea in a Paris department store and looking at scarves (something she would have relished.) The piece was dead. Inert. I could not imagine--or give life to-- a scenario in which I enjoyed her company. So congratulations to you on making Toby vivid to us.
I understand. xxL
Laurie, you are really blessed to have had a mother like that. These days my mother would have been in jail for beating me. Your story was an ache like a spear driven through me: oh, what did I miss? It's something that's hard to get over, even at my advanced age. Thanks, though. Beautiful!
These narratives of reconciliation and detente are as painful as they are fascinating for me to read. The emotional and physical abuse delivered by my raging parents in the name of installing the fear of the almighty evangelical (gentile) god has had consequences.
Laurie's mother 'liked to live in the reality she’s invented, and I do exactly the same thing. We do not want to believe a thing can be, even though the thing is staring us in the face.’
For me, getting beyond the damages requires replacing my parents' version of reality.
I am now reading Zoe Schlanger's The Light Eaters and hit the passage citing radical discoveries about plant genetics. Research found that the genetic code was not a strict mechanically determinative script for plant life but rather more like stage clues for an improvisational performance. This inspires me.
I am sorry for your pain. I did not have a mother like this. Not really. That's the sport of writing. Or I did have a mother like this, in your reading of her. xxL
The right piece at the right moment. It’s my father’s face I see (and his mother’s, my Nana). It’s the most exquisite comfort. The idea of withholding praise is not unknown in my Gentile family, but when my father was in his last days, and dementia erased his stern reserve, I learned what he really felt.
This is truly beautiful and deeply appreciated.
Makes me happy to hear!
I'm not sure non-Jews will understand this as much as other Jews (me) the whole kinahora thing and child raising through withheld praise has its own flavor in Yiddishkeit. It's not out and out abuse but pierces deeply into a lifetime of self-doubt. Yet years later we can interpret it as a form of love. Especially after having had the opportunity of raising my own child without this backward form of encouragement and watching him flourish with the fertilizer of positivity and love I could generously pour on. Thank you.
Gave me an idea. Thanks, Laurie.
I could relate to your essay on several levels. I was the youngest girl born to my parents. My sister did everything "right" - marry well, have kids, stay home, go to church, take care of my Mom in her old age, etc. The only thing I did "right" was marry - but I married someone who, like me, was not excited about having kids. All I accomplished was earn three degrees, have a successful international career and own my own consulting business. When my mother wrote a Christmas letter, it listed all the above accomplishments of my sister, the many professional accomplishments of my brother, and then, as an after thought said, "Linda lives in Illinois with her husband Jim". I still talk to her 30 years after her death. I guess I always will. She talks about my sister.
Congratulations on your life--and your freedom to live it.
I love this. My mother was smart as a whip but life was harder for her than it was for me. She once remarked about a book I wrote, “I tried to read it but I kept falling asleep.” Wonder what she’d think of my situation now?
Every word you wrote was a question to her about her life. xxL
I am a poor slob. And that’s okay by me. To have had a beautiful mother who called me horrible things perhaps gave me a sense of humor. Who knows.
Wherever it came from, it's the best gift possible. xxL
And the mark to me of a trustworthy person.
Yes. Absolutely. Kind of fun, when you get there. The Ghost of Parent Past. You can look and say to yourself, a jerk. But mine own.
❤️❤️❤️
I found this really moving -- the fiction layering the perspectives sliding through remade memories. Those tiny phrases that lodge. x
Thanks, Jan.
I loved this latest post on trans-generation haunting. when we dead awaken! It’s a terrific account of what happens when the potentially menacing irrationalities of, in this case, the shtetl encounter the liberatory movements of the sixties and after, particularly the power of women’s writing to beckon in a world of uncertainty and unknowingness where stubborn fixities and outright denial and those that embodied them are reimagined and given new voices. I also admire the way the shifting energies of fear and envy that animates the Toby character finds its voice. My sense is that it was poor Toby, who must have envied the narrator the experience of new love at the age of sixty after her own great loss, who really felt like the poor slob. And hurled it outwards. Perhaps to hurt a whole generation?
Profoundly beautiful and moving, Laurie. Thank you for sharing your mother with us. (And I'm glad your father recognized you for the awesome thinker you are)
Oh, Laurie, you have done it again, written something so beautiful and necessary and funny and well, true. "It’s a fake sense of not knowing things. It’s a show you put on for the reader, so they won’t think you are a know-it-all, a smarty pants, a show off." Your mother is kvelling wherever she is, Laurie. It is the living who get to read your beautiful words in the right order.
I think she is kvelling. Then she'd say, "Do you think I'm smart?" I'm please you pulled out that line. It was the prompt for writing this. I had been talking to Richard about whiting something about what I do, I mean as a writer what is going on here, since many people think I am doing B, and I think I am doing A. I don't like to write about the meta, and so this piece popped out to dramatize the idea of faking things on the page for the reader's enjoyment, and Richard said, "You've given them even more reason not to believe you are doing what you're doing."
“You’re Laurie Stone’s mother?” I think your mother (kinahora) misunderstood the compliment. I'm sure the young woman on the bus was pleased and delighted to meet her.
Of course. That's why it's in the piece.
Not knowing is a power. I am a psychotherapist and not knowing is one of our most important skills. It comes as a surprise, and sometimes a disappointment, to our patients who think we know all the answers and are just witholding them. Of course not knowing means just that we know we must ask questions. Just the the thing for a writer.