My mother was a sweetheart of a woman. A loving, compassionate, lovely lady, who never said an unkind word about anyone. My Italian Mama. She was highly intelligent; well-read, politically astute. She mothered her 5 children until we were out of grade school, then she worked at a bank as a secretary. But she was so smart and capable, she rose in 10 years to be a vice-president of the bank: supervising most of the people she used to work under.
We disagreed in 2008 about supporting Hillary—she thought it was time for a woman to prove what she can do. She raised my 3 strong, Democrat sisters, all with advanced degrees and families, to reach as high as they dared, and then some.
My brother and I—well she loved and encouraged us in every endeavor, through every fight we had to fight. I am voicing my opinion here, but a mother looks at a son differently than any other woman can or will ever look at him: I was always the boy/man that my mother saw the day I emerged from her womb; the one, full of promise, who would be cherished no matter how many times I might try and fail, from my first shaky steps as a baby, to the day I broke my neck and through those months when I could only move my eyes and tongue.
My Ma—everyone called her Ma—loved the NY Yankees, and my fondest memories were of late summer nights with her dozing on the sofa while I watched the terrible Yankee teams of the late 60s and early 70s, waking her if the Yanks managed a hit.
25 years before she died—proud to have voted for Barack Obama in 08; her last general election—I sent her a birthday card in which I wrote, “Ma, everything good in life that I’ve tried to become is because of you.” If you ever have the opportunity to share such a thought with your mother, I advise you to do so—do it now, while she is still here! That can carry a child through many down days, after your mother is no longer around to look at you or talk to you with the love no other person can give you.
But there was one shameful experience I want to share now, when I was not a very good son or man. I was 12 years old. My dad’s family—6 brothers, including him, and their wives—were having coffee one Sunday evening. Ed Sullivan was on the TV. Martin Luther King had recently been assassinated, and my parents—unlike the rest of my dad’s family—were very hopeful that Dr. King’s message of peace could ease the unrest in our nation.
Somehow, the adult conversation turned to politics and race. Dad’s family was very old-school, and my father generally held his tongue, not feeling the need to argue with his racist siblings. My oldest uncle was not reticent. He used horrible language to describe black people, and after a particularly dehumanizing statement, my Ma could not remain silent.
She gently remarked that my eldest uncle’s words were not fair or Christian. This drove my uncle over the edge of civility. He launched into an ugly, misogynistic attack on my mother. I was frozen; in shock. I had always been taught to revere my uncles and aunts, but now my mother was being verbally abused by my uncle, and my father quietly attempted to get my mother to back down. But she held her ground, which infuriated my uncle—women did not stand up to him! He was always right, they were always wrong. Period.
I wanted to jump in between my Ma and my uncle; to protect and defend her. But I held my tongue, and watched her break into tears, as my uncles looked on her with scorn. My mother had broken the house rules: she disagreed with a man in public.
All these long years later, I still carry the shame of my silence on that Sunday evening. My Ma died in 2010, knowing that I loved her. My Dad has too, has died—the 4 years without her were difficult for him.
As for my eldest uncle: he only recently died. He loved to taunt me with his hatred of President Obama—the only Democrat he ever voted against! A week before he passed away at 95 was the last chance he ever got to bad-mouth Obama to me. The subject was Hillary Clinton. He swore he’d never vote for a woman—they weren’t capable of thinking or leading—and for a 3rd time he’d have to vote for a Republican, as much as he hated to do that!
I told him, “Well, you voted for the loser in the last 2 elections, IF you live to vote again, I guess you’ll vote for the next loser!” He did not care for my remark, but he would not challenge me. I was a man now, entitled to my opinion. Not a 12 year old boy, silent and stunned, watching his mother verbally abused by my uncle, as he was aided and abetted by the scornful looks of his bros.