what i learned from my mother
by peggy tabor millin and friends

On March 6, six women gathered with me to write to prompts at a workshop entitled “Mother Time.” For one exercise, I gave the prompt “What I learned from my mother” and instructed them to keep pen on paper and to follow the pen without stopping or editing. We wrote for ten minutes. These spontaneous writings, printed here with the authors’ permission, cut to the truth held between the words, revealing the universal through the particular. They demonstrate how that peculiar mix of adoration and pain we call love extends back through the grandmothers and forward through the daughters. We can find healing in recognizing ourselves as links in a long chain in time and in considering the possibility that the chain forms not a line but spirals into a powerful vortex. I don’t think this mother love experience is lost if we have no daughters. I imagine the larger creative force inhales it deep into its cosmic lungs and with an explosion of destruction creates new worlds, cycles of mother time. Creation-destruction. Love-hate. Push-pull. Heal-wound. Never either-or. Always both-and.

Carolyn Wallace (West Asheville) I learned to be kind, whether I felt like it or not. I learned to feel like it, often. I learned to look into others’ eyes a little bit longer than necessary—to feel if they particularly needed kindness, they always did. I learned to put others needs above my own, often, sometimes too often. I learned to love others through food. I learned a woman’s job was to make others comfortable, whatever the cost. I learned to “have a fit over the visitors”, as my brother used say, after church. I learned to accept whatever others offered with seeming gratitude, often-real gratitude.

I learned from my mother to put the mask on. I learned to feel “at the effect of.” I learned to appreciate beauty in a myriad of forms, a pure high alto voice soaring a little above the rest of the choir in singing that Sunday’s anthem. The beauty of roses, thorns and all, pinks, creamy whites, reds, sunny yellows, in a cut glass vase on a freshly ironed crisp white tablecloth, a couple of errant petals scattered by. The beauty of a perfect coconut cake, made from a coconut my dad had drained, cracked, washed, carefully scraped the hard brown peeling from, and grated by hand, on the smallest grating side, the most difficult, but producing the juiciest morsels. I learned that no amount of “trouble” is too much in preparing food for the people you love most in the world.

I learned, again in rebellion, that freedom was more important to me than the love of the first man I chose and a good name among the neighbors. I learned that I HAD to be me.

I learned not to be a whiner. I learned most of all to squeeze lots of joy juice out of the bright yellow lemons and mix it with whatever I found in the fridge or the garden or life, and that deliciousness comes in many forms if we are open enough, generous enough, artistic enough.

I learned that, on balance, the sweetness of life always outweighs the bitter enough of the time, that joy always returns. Oh, yes and I learned to feed the birds. I’ve learned to see my mother as my sister, a wise woman, a loving spirit, the mother I chose and would choose again. Definitely, gratefully, would choose again.

Kimberly Childs (East Asheville) I learned from my mother how sharp words cut until I shriveled like a punctured balloon. I learned a satisfaction in trumping her by hurting myself before she could. I grasped the knife handle of her words and dug into my own breast, red drops leaking down my pale belly. As I grew and could slap back or grab her wrist to stop her strike, I still needed to discover how to stop slapping myself.
I learned from my mother that a lady leaves food on her plate, wears her pearls next to her skin to keep them from drying out and needs her beauty sleep. She luxuriated in hers, slept next to her bottle while the sun rose beaming in the sky. She crept out of her darkened bedroom blinking into the dazzling light, sheets imprinted on her cheeks, negligee shrouding her full-breasted small body. She’d draw a glass of water from the kitchen tap and sink into the living room couch, look satisfied while lighting up a cigarette.

My bed has been my boat in safe harbor. It is covered with a quilt I made with my own hands and many cushions to succor my angles. My bed table drawer contains a vial of lavender essential oils, a CD player ready to calm me during sleepless nights with the soothing sounds of a CD entitled “Bliss”, a statuette of Kwan Yin, aloe hand lotion and cotton gloves. On the night table are piles of books ready to transport me far away. No mistakes can be made in bed. Time is only dreamed in bed, not lived. Healing takes place in bed. No TV or sharp words. Bed is mother spelled backwards. The nurturing my mother couldn’t give me she taught me how to lavish on myself through my bed.

Peggy Tabor Millin (East Asheville) What I learned from my mother was how to hold back love just in case loving hurt. What I learned from my mother was that if you do enough, work hard enough, you will be enough. What I learned from my mother was how to cure cast iron, steal ashtrays from hotels, and dampen and iron an oxford cloth shirt. What I learned from my mother was to hide anger, endure migraines, and behave before strangers. What I learned from my mother was to notice plants and call them by name, to take pleasure in rich dark earth between my fingers, to recognize the soft-ball stage of fudge, the virtue of making my own clothes, and the economy of hiding the crease of a skirt with rickrack when I let the hem down. What I learned from my mother was to be shy and self-effacing, to embroider, and to keep orderly drawers. What I learned from my mother was to love the expansive barrenness of the desert, laundry drying in the sun, and a good laugh. What I learned from my mother was family matters, some deeds are too horrible to forgive, and some books should remain unopened. What I learned from my mother is that to open the door to the minister in bare feet is a cause for shame and fried chicken has to be made with Crisco in a cast iron skillet. What I learned from my mother was that no matter how far you grow, always remember your roots, wash your nylons at night, and don’t read at the table; ginger ale soothes a stomachache and a cold cloth on the back of the neck a headache, and baking soda can be substituted for toothpaste.

Jeanette Reid (Black Mountain) I learned from my mother that
— facing bushel baskets of beans or peaches or tomatoes to be put up in Mason jars for the winter is not enjoyable;
—the baby who lived six hours, my younger sister in heaven, receives the tenderness we living children in the house never see;
—how you look and behave is infinitely more important than how you feel;
— one can be pleasant and polite on the telephone and mean-spirited and critical when the phone is hung up;
— I never looked right, that I embarrassed her with my awkwardness and irritated her with my questions;
—I never wanted to sew (this from the grim set of her jaw whenever she sat down to make my clothes);
— the tragedy of a failed marriage, of continuing to exist day after day, week after week, can cause one party to escape into alcoholism and the other into bitterness and rancor;
— sarcasm is a knife that cuts the receiver and leaves the user unaccountable;
— becoming a woman, wife, and mother does not just happen, but takes serious intention and hard work.

Mary Olson (Arden)My mother was a bossy lady.  I learned to listen to my children; although there were times we did not agree they always had a voice.

My mother was racist.  I learned to look past color to who the person is.

My mother was a food pyramid cook.  I learned that meatless is good and fresh vegetables are better than Green Giant and that grapes make a great dessert.

My mother was a “keep up with the Jones’” person.  I learned I could like something that no one else does and still feel good about it.

My mother always wore skirts with a slip and girdle.  I learned that not being bound by elastic and layers feels wonderful.

My mother believed there were women’s jobs and men's jobs and never the two should overlap.  I learned that mowing the lawn is peaceful and helping my husband change the brakes on the car very interesting.

My mother sewed only for herself.  I learned that sewing was more rewarding when sewing for my children and grandchildren.

My mother was a stay at home mom.  And that is what she did—stay at home.  She was not active with her children or grandchildren.  I learned it was fun to be involved with each child and what he or she was interested in.  It was okay to run out of time at the end of the day because I spent the time getting to know each stage my child was going through.
My mother was never wrong and never said, “I’m sorry.”  I learned to talk things out with my husband and children, to work through those times when I have made a mistake or been quick to judge.

My mother never gave hugs and kisses or said I love you.  I learned to hug my children when I see them, send them a card or e-mail when I think of them.

I learned so very much from my mother.

Kathy Godfrey (West Asheville) I learned from my mother that the World is an enormous, threatening, confusing, ravenous monster who will fit under my bed at night, and if I should forget myself, forget to hold my limbs rigid, my belly tight, if I should get loose and allow a helpless pink toe or naked little finger to dangle below the cover’s edge, I could be eaten alive. The World could latch onto my baby toe toes and curl itself around my frail frame slowly dragging me down its slippery gullet until I am a temporary lump in its middle. In a week past, forgotten, not even an absence to hold my place, utterly gone.

I learned I can, however, take proper precautions. If I carefully guard against softness or loss or change or challenge or passion or play, if I avoid people and places and things unknown, if I work diligently on my fortress day and night, brick by brick, I can avoid being swallowed down.

I learned that my mother was an excellent teacher and I a student eager to bring her the very best apple. I learned all kinds of ways to avoid pain because she, my oracle, predicted so much suffering for me. I learned that an Oedipal complex can just be what happens when you try so hard to elude your mother’s life, that you fail to notice it latching onto your baby toe, creeping its silent, deadly way up your leg.

Cheryl Dietrich (Arden) I learned from my mother that somehow I’m flawed, that my baby perfection held a germ that would disease me as I grew. She loved me in spite of it, but I always knew about the “in spite of” part. She wanted only the best for me but was resolved to accept the failure I was fated for. With any of my achievements, I could hear a low, sharp intake of breath as she braced herself for the other shoe to drop, for that fatal flaw to mar the accomplishment.

Occasionally I saw an excited flash glint in my mother’s eye, a certain triumphant curve to her lips that seemed to say, “Aha! There it is.” I had no boyfriends in high school, so I must be one of those strange asexual women, a born spinster. Maybe even... her thoughts stumbled over the dreaded word “homosexual,” but she bravely prepared herself to stand by me even so. Later, in my 20s, I had too many boyfriends—was it the monster promiscuity that had been biding its time in my blood all those years? She would be there for me through whatever dreadful doom this flaw led me, even if it meant venereal disease or a bastard grandchild. But I survived my lustful youth unscathed, and her courage went untested.

I married and she prepared loving arms in which to comfort me when my marriage failed. To her amazement—and sincere joy—the marriage lasted. Then there was the time I drank too much, really drank too much, not the one or two glasses of wine that worried her teetotal soul. I got falling down drunk one night and she saw it. I woke up with a horrible hangover and vowed never again. But by then the glint had taken over her eyes, her “Aha!” had a note of relief in it. I was obviously an alcoholic. For a while she calmed down admirably, now that she had my flaw properly identified, labeled, and shelved. Unfortunately, I refused to behave like an alcoholic, so she had to gear up her anxious search again for the flaw that would bring me down.

She died still wondering about this flaw lurking in the dark corners of my psyche, and I took over her search. Recently I recognized the face I saw in the mirror was my mother’s. It hit me that I was never really the one she thought was flawed. It was herself. She didn’t believe she was capable of bearing and raising a happy, healthy daughter. She was convinced, I was tainted by her imperfection, and she had to find it and protect me from it before it destroyed me.

Shortly before she died, she said, “I look back and see all the horrible mistakes I made as a mother. So many things I would redo.” I told her she had nothing to apologize for. Today I think I mean it. Today I want to tell her that neither of us was cursed with a fatal flaw. Today I end the search.