Today is Mother’s Day where we honor perhaps the most complex human and relationship we will ever have in our lifetime.
I cannot nor will go into the complex tragic, joyous, frustrating relationship I had with my Mother. She has long been dead now over 35 years and what is passed is just that in the past and nothing can change what transpired but I can change how I manage my emotions with regards to her and our relationship. My Father is now just over 10 years dead and with him I will always have complex tragic memories and with that tucked among them some good as he too was equally complex and tragic figure whom, like my Mother I never really knew or understood. That carries forward into all my relationships, past and present, as I do not trust, understand the nature of what they need and what I need from them in which to make it whole and fruitful so I choose to not pursue any. I have run from job, to home, to persons in which to avoid conflict and drama that seems to define almost ALL relationships, be they personal or business. Anyone who thinks otherwise needs to watch more, listen more and say less. Observing the interactions of others can be quite telling even when little is said.
Needless to say I will not be attending any Brunches today or well any other day. Actually I cannot think of anything more boring and the late Anthony Bourdain was quite dismissive of the practice and many Chef’s have been quite honest about how they are often cost prohibitive for their Restaurant and yet are dependent upon them. In other words – Lose/Lose. And that pretty much sums up my own feelings about the experience of sitting en masse and trying to connect to others whose commonalities seem to be either work or family related. It has become almost to near impossible for individuals to make friends not related via work or familial, be that through birth or marriage. It explains why people are so pro finding a mate as it secures a “friend” for life without all the daily effort in which to maintain it; thus explaining the high divorce rates as well.
I am rarely if ever lonely; however, I can find myself bored of my own company. I attend a great deal of Arts and Entertainment but I do so alone. And upon occasion I have had random encounters that were fulfilling and gratifying in which to alleviate the boredom and bring me positive reminders of the goodness of humanity. I am afraid that has happened less and less and with that I feel it has accelerated that once dormant push to extricate myself and move on. I came to Jersey City with great hope and expectation that this would be my forever home. I could not be more wrong and largely it came in the same way it did in Nashville, over time and spending time observing and learning and attempting to make effort into building community. And that comes from the most central of all community building, the public education available. And with that I did what I did in Nashville and found the history behind their system despite most of New Jersey having a superior system across the State, excluding largely poorer faces of color and those who English is not their first Language. A reality that is across the Nation and this story in the New York Times discusses how Climate Change is another factor in how that diaspora is the most affected by decisions and lack of funding parallel another human kind of disaster. I can assure you that it will not get better and it is clear that our lessons have never been learned. It is also why I want to leave the area, as even NYC costs of living there has now exceeded the worth. When you examine what the simple payback is, you realize it is all output with very little in return. Lack of affordable housing the primary one and the focus on youth. (Again the youth means 21-35 not the actual youth of the City who have equally atrocious segregated schooling) This seems to be the standard bearer when it comes to all relationships and it also tells you that it may not be worth it. I see the City different now that I am inside and looking through the window that being outside looking in. It is not aging well in any sense. Covid took a life and strangled that city in ways that will take decades for it to recover. The aged population that is the largest cohort (Developers believe otherwise and with that the costs of living regardless of age is absurd) and with that I find the aging not aging well in the City. It should not be Sex and the City it should be Old in the City. I see hunchbacks, stoops, walkers, canes, wheelchairs, mobility issues, hearing problems and yet youthful skin and faces and expensive clothing on bodies that are falling apart. It is not pretty in the least. We all want to age and die in dignity and what I see in the streets, in the theaters, the bars and shops are elderly who can afford to die at home but there is nothing dignified by any of it.
And to think that young people are going to relocate there and live in micro units pay well over half their salary in rent to experience this is absurd. The geriatric set cannot support the Arts and while every now and then I see full houses at the Phil, Carnegie Hall or the Metropolitan Opera it is largely White, well over 65 and the few that are privileged enough to go upon occasion, but not season ticket holders who have large purses for large donations. These orgs are bleeding money and desperate for a new Audience who simply do not have the means. And that is across the Country but here if you can make it here you better have a lot of money and be able to burn it if not spend it.
And that is what Mother’s Day is about birth, rebirth and family. If you have none as I do then it is about the self and self care. I find that in the cultural options in Manhattan, the NY Phil was amazing this Friday with a set of Mozart along with an altered Beethoven piece thanks to the second time around termination of two players accused of sexual assault. That is one thing that also never seems to get old. And a finale of the Met Opera’s Madam Butterfly. The story of a young as in 15 years old young, orphan girl ofa once good family sold off to marriage to an American Soldier. She embraces his culture and beliefs much to the chagrin of her own remaining family and in turn gives birth to a Son whom the Sailor never met as he left shortly after consummating his marriage and his “Bride” to return to the States. Three years later she awaits his return in desperation and once again near poverty when he arrives with his American wife to see what was his past and now his destiny. The production was full on Met and it was cast with two amazing Singers whose range and Chemistry was not unlike the powerful Romeo and Juliet I saw last month. The Met has its clunkers as I once again saw Fire in the Bones and yep it still was a mess, the Second Act an improvement on the first but despite the presence of a much better Baritone in Ryan Speedo Green it still was to say the least underwhelming. I have much to compliment Terrance Blanchard for tackling this but there needs to be a stronger editing hand to much of the new Opera as it lacks a cohesion, see the Hours as an example of that and the term “hot mess.”
But we all need more to fulfill us and when you see check after check be written and you walk on the streets and see shit (both Human and Animal) literally everywhere. The failures of our infrastructure and the adjacent bodies of Government simply failing to provide basic services (well its tough when everyone from former Presidents to current Senators being on trial and Mayors and others fighting investigations) you can see where the money is being spent, and none of it good. And all of them had Mothers who wanted it better for their Sons and their Daughters and that is not always the case anymore. We can only ask for what we need and want and hope we can reconcile the two. That will take a hell of an Accountant I believe. I am not sure we can afford even one of those.
Maybe we all want Better Mothers who can fix all of this.
Watch Out for the Better Mother
May 10, 2024
By Pamela Paul Opinion Columnist The New York Times
Sometimes, particularly in a public parenting setting, I will play the Better Mother. This is the mother who stands attentively outside a music audition, serenely listening to the notes emanating from within. She realizes the parent next to her said “Haydn,” not “Biden.” When her child emerges, the Better Mother isn’t sprawled on the floor playing Spelling Bee but instead greets him with encouraging commentary on the second movement. Also, she has brought a snack.
The Better Mother understands the lacrosse match (game?), cheering at appropriate moments in ways that hearten rather than humiliate. She knows the coach and chats amiably with team parents about various maneuverings on the field, nimbly expanding the conversation to school committees and after-school events. She did not bring a book.
The Better Mother ensures her kids have dress shoes that aren’t two sizes too small. She bakes. She reads official emails from school and camp from beginning to end. She knows which teachers your kids are supposed to get and whom to email if they aren’t gotten. She always brings a water bottle.
She is not the mother who didn’t know there was a school concert and has to sneak in as the lights go down. She knows which side of the field her child is playing on and possibly which position. She never texts at a stoplight with her child in the car.
She is empathic but not overbearing, affectionate but not treacly, wise but not smug, concerned but not anxious. She is the mother who knows danger but never checks in on a child for the wrong reason.
Sign up for the Opinion Today newsletter Get expert analysis of the news and a guide to the big ideas shaping the world every weekday morning. Get it sent to your inbox.
The Better Mother is, by definition, a better mother than I am.
She can be a total stranger spotted at the museum or a familiar face at a birthday party. Either way, she is a natural star in the play for which you haven’t quite memorized your lines.
Most mothers — and fathers — probably have a personal vision of their own competition, depending on one’s skill set or lack thereof. For me, it depends on the context, my mood, the child in question and the spectrum of parental figures in the vicinity, even sometimes on which TV show I last watched or what book I’m reading.
For a period, I decided that a better mother than I was Mary-Kay Wilmers, a former editor of The London Review of Books, a woman I’ve never met but read about in “Love, Nina,” a memoir by Nina Stibbe, who served as a nanny to Wilmers’s two precocious sons. Wilmers surrounded her children with clever British eminences like the playwright and novelist Alan Bennett and the biographer Claire Tomalin, as well as the critic John Lahr. Raised among brilliance, her boys became sharp wits themselves, biting and slightly wicked in their humor.
As I didn’t have any storied literary figures lighting up my dinner table, I simply let loose all my own most caustic comments, the kinds of uncharitable thoughts you usually reserve for like-minded adults. Alas, without elegant British companions, I was merely encouraging a rude sarcasm. My error was highlighted in the presence of another Better Mother, my friend Robin, whose children looked strangers in the eye upon meeting, shook hands firmly and managed civilized niceties.
No one is suggesting you have to be the Better Mother — merely that you can play her in public at your discretion. When you’re surrounded by a bunch of slacker parents or all-out bad moms or you’ve had a busy week and need an extra boost, you can simply slip on the role, ideally in public, for a Sunday afternoon. Yes, I am saying you can fake it.
Mother’s Day brings forth the Better Mothers in droves, when they accept all due adulation. On such occasions, regardless of what kind of mother you are in reality, you can damn well play the part.
And who’s going to be the wiser? The ones we think of as Better Mothers could be big fakers themselves, women who shove unevenly microwaved Trader Joe’s items before their kids for dinner and call it a night. They could be the ones who post about their teenagers on TikTok or slap their toddlers in Target when an iPhone camera isn’t in the vicinity.
Or they could just be like most parents, occasionally too tired to read aloud, not hugely interested in seventh-grade algebra or simply not in the mood to play.
It is possible the Better Mothers are no better than the rest of us. Only our children know the truth.
Off the Rack Publishing 