When Asked How I Was Inspired By My Mother

It may not be not what you think

That’s me on Mama’s lap looking longingly at the shiny array of Christmas bows

My mother raised me, well, all four of her girls, to make our beds, to be prompt for dinner, and to do our homework before we watched TV. She ran a tight ship.

While this probably doesn’t sound very remarkable, please consider the setting. As a girl, my late mother fell in love with a singer, and upon hearing or speaking that singular aspect of her resume, she has always been swift to add that she never expected, or wanted, to be the wife of an entertainer. She thought she’d married a 19 year old Tennessean who aspired to be an English teacher, ironically, the job that I embraced for years. Fame was unexpected. My mother worked passionately to nurture an environment for her daughters that would at least feel somewhat normal, and that’s what makes the household routine that she envisioned and acted out unique.

Bedtimes, bath times, trips to church and holiday traditions were by design predictable and comforting (and somewhat stifling). Although I will never understand Mama’s need to clean the plastic place-mat under my plate 10 minutes before I had finished my teriyaki chicken, her signature sense of order and discipline were present and appreciated when I worked in my Middle School classroom where these traits were not only valuable, they were essential.The gift that Mama had for imagining most crises before they happen is not really the quality that comes to my mind when I think about how I have been inspired in her presence.

When I was asked by a reporter how Shirley Boone had been an inspiration to me, the memory that invaded my mind took me back to my years as a freshman in college. This moment in our history together is more on track with the woman she was becoming, the Mama (and great-grandmother) destined to evolve into an embracing, safe harbor.

After decades of being parented with precision, having decisions made, for the most part, on my behalf, I was floundering at school, torn between the disciplines of my childhood, and the vast array of options available to an inexperienced 19 year old girl, suddenly on her own in Malibu. I focused as well as I could on my studies, but the anxiety that came with school, along with the newly acquired pressure to self-realize, was formidable. Unraveling, and feeling invisible, afraid and confused, I had no idea who I was, or wanted to be. The early months of my college experience made me question my previous, family-centered identity, offering no real alternative, at least, not fast enough for me to acclimate. As a temporary strategy, I took up smoking, as self-actualized students do.

Devastated that my college days were more frightening and uncomfortable than relaxed and festive, as I had anticipated, I remember calling Mama in tears, and she swiftly met me for lunch somewhere in Santa Monica. Waiting for lunch to arrive, I vividly remember thinking this might be hard on her, but I wanted to be authentic and have a real conversation, so I pulled out my Marlboro Lights, and in one swoop, I put one authoritatively in my mouth, and lit a match. My traditional Christian mother sighed, asked for God’s grace under her breath, smiled at me, and the conversation continued.

What makes this memory special enough to be the image of her presence in my life?

I guess it’s the fact that she didn’t lecture me.

She didn’t remind me about how God might feel about me contaminating my body. She didn’t even appeal to me as a mom who was very concerned about her daughter’s well-being. (I was suffering from a stinging awareness of these salient points already.)

In an intuitive moment, she recognized that our relationship had evolved, and she evolved with it. She loved me the way that I came to her: raw and self-justified, vulnerable and yet, terribly, painfully afraid.

She sensed that I needed her to listen and care, without a lecture, and she morphed into a different kind of mother right before my eyes. She melted my resistance to being open with her, cementing a foundation for many, many similar talks that would follow over the years.

Decades later, when my 16 year old son left home, suddenly and unannounced, raw and self-assured, vulnerable and terribly afraid, and I had already exhausted myself, unsuccessfully attempting to dictate what he should do and who he should be, I knew that it was my turn to adapt…to morph…and mercifully, our conversation continued.

When I picture my mother’s response upon reading this anecdote, I imagine her smiling and saying, “Of ALL the moments we’ve shared in our lives together, couldn’t you have remembered anything else?”

Nevertheless, I am assured that my mother has come to know me not only as her daughter, but as a person.

She’ll understand.

Happy Birthday, Mama.