Have Mother, Will Travel

by Claire Fontaine

  I’m sure that’s why of all the places I’ve visited Nepal stayed with me the most. I was fascinated and unsettled by how openly and unceremoniously death, grief, abuse, and poverty were displayed. I think often of the kathe children, how they roamed the city streets, competing with starving dogs for scraps of food in garbage heaps. Meeting the kids at Rabin’s orphanage was all the more powerful because we’d had three days of seeing firsthand the fate they’d been spared from.

  I remember falling asleep that night thinking about a short story I read in college by Ursula Le Guin called, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” Omelas is a beautiful Utopian city with a happy and prosperous population, save the fact that a nameless and naked child lives beneath the city, abandoned and locked in a basement. Even one kind word or gesture toward him would end Omelas; that is the balance required, the misery of one for the happiness of all.

  The story stayed with me for days, not for the reason my philosophy teacher assigned it—an allegory weighing the benefits of utilitarianism (the greatest good for the greatest number of people)—but because Le Guin so vividly described the boy. I actually had dreams about him, crouched in a dark corner, a belly stretched tight from malnutrition, and skin scabbed over from living in his own filth.

  The story affected me because I knew it wasn’t fictitious, and it came back to me in Nepal because that boy was literally staring me in the eye. In America, far fewer kids live in such abject poverty, but millions of boys and girls—here and around the world—live equally bleak emotional lives. Often in plain sight, too; when families and communities willfully ignore abuse, they re-create Omelas by keeping peace for all at the expense of one. Although “peace” being kept is debatable; one need only look at crime and drug statistics to see that abused youth don’t go quietly into the night.

  I wrote my first book to help give voice to survivors of abuse, and, for two years following its release, I loved hearing other people’s stories, sharing my own with lawmakers and policy-influencers, learning from child therapists, scientists, social workers, and child advocates. Child abuse can be a heavy field to be immersed in, and I was right in sensing I needed a break when I moved to New York. But I deliberately continued veering away from it, because I felt that someone my age shouldn’t enjoy child-abuse conferences as much as happy hour with friends. I thought I’d regret not having “enough fun” in my twenties, although I’d often left speaking engagements on cloud nine. Interesting that my mom got herself stuck because she thought someone her age “should” own their own home; we both let numbers create false rules and benchmarks for us rather than making choices dependent on where we were at personally, not chronologically.

  Viktor Frankl’s book Man’s Search for Meaning is enduringly popular for a reason I clearly failed to grasp: creating meaning, rather than pursuing pleasure, leads to a happy life. Fun and happiness are by no means mutually exclusive, nor do they always equal each other. I do want to return to that field, although I have no idea when, in what capacity, or how it’ll ultimately look for me: a full-time career, volunteer work, helping change laws, creating public awareness of its prevalence and long-term effects and cost.

  I never in a million years thought I’d see being abused positively (particularly before I’d healed from it) but there’s no changing the fact that it happened, and I’ve come to accept and even appreciate how it’s affected my outlook on life. It added a complexity that makes the world both more beautiful and uglier than I think I would otherwise see it, like increasing the contrast in a photograph so the darks get darker and the brights even brighter.

  Trusting Aware Happy Loving Authentic Powerful Compassionate Serene

  These words overlay the pale, nude woman in the lush mountain meadow that represents me; she’s squarely in the middle of my vision map. Five months after that morning on the beach I feel these qualities in myself, or at least the possibility of them, in a way that had long eluded me.

  To the right is a picture of a bottle of champagne and people celebrating, a symbol of letting go of my “waiting for the other shoe to drop” mentality, which has prevented me from celebrating much in my life. Having experienced weeks of pleasure with Mia, and alone, just because, has been new for me, and I’ve loved every minute of it. There are always other shoes in the air—that’s life; and they will drop; no one escapes that. I’ve come to think that it’s just ducky to celebrate for no other reason than that right now, at this moment, no other shoe has dropped.

  Near a photo of me are images of authors, books, and women I admire, including Le Brun and Jane Austen. The words “love in action” are superimposed upon a woman at a laptop. I know I’ll return to fiction, with great joy, and with no less commitment to my purpose to create awareness. I want my words to matter as much as entertain.

  Thanks to Mia, I have a Just a Matter of Good! section (“Mother, where are your hobbies, things you enjoy?”): knitting, hiking, fencing, movies, things I love to do but haven’t made time for.

  My home area consists of a table full of food and loved ones under a huge tree surrounded by gardens, a huge room full of windows with only a big, champagne-colored velvet sofa and chair, a broad glass coffee table and reading lamps, a desk looking out on a dewy, green view. And a gorgeous hotel room overlooking a big city, for feeling at home wherever I’m at.

  I’m just never going to be a very surrendery person. I’m a live wire, for better or worse, so I’m making my health and wellness section about “want to,” not “should.” There’s a small image of a woman meditating on a mountain peak, and lots of big images of runners (I’ve never run a block in my life, but I want to), hikers, and outdoor athletes.

  A big pair of hands, palms open, with the word Give anchors the bottom in what I call my G section (God, Gratitude, Give, Grace). I want to broaden my concept of authenticity. Being true to who I really am is obviously essential, but without acknowledging the web of relationships I live in, it can also become an excuse for self-absorption, for seeing others solely through the filter of my needs and wants. Which can lead to the kind of disconnect I have with my mother.

  I’ve spent a lot of time here thinking about how we raise our daughters, within the context of culture and history, particularly how my generations shifted the focus from “we” to “me.” I’m not so sure it was a good thing. Ask a person who’s been trashed, hurt, or humiliated on someone else’s blog how they feel about the writer’s need to “speak their truth.” Being authentic needn’t mean hewing only to our true wants and needs; relationships, and just living in the world, require that we compromise and make sacrifices. And sometimes we do want the approval of others; it’s sometimes called admiration and respect. And we often earn it by doing something we don’t want to do but we consciously choose to do for a higher good. It’s when we aren’t conscious about our choices and intentions regarding those compromises and sacrifices that we end up crying in alleys, filled with regret. If I’d have set a conscious intention to create closeness with my mother (and forced myself to think a bit before speaking or writing), I would still be speaking with her.

  That balance between authenticity and relationship is what having a child teaches you. I never authentically liked wiping up barf, singing “The Wheels on the Bus” a thousand times, or chasing an addicted teen all over tarnation, but I knew what I was in for when I signed up. I made those choices consciously, and oh what a joyful sacrifice. Had I but been equally conscious and committed about some of the other choices in my life, I’m sure I would have found equal satisfaction and meaning.

  I’ve included images of mothers, daughters, family, my girlfriends, Paul. There’s a section for my relationship with Mia. It’s a collage of sunsets, gardens, travel, women having fun together, art, books, a beautiful home for her to visit, a bedroom in her favorite colors; our shared values for our relationship are superimposed: Trust Adventure Art Love Respect Vulnerability Honesty Communication Celebrati
on. And a picture of a big ear, for listening; so I can be a better mother and friend to her.

  We’ve become so much closer this summer than I could have imagined. One of the most valuable things about a close relationship between mother and daughter is the degree of safety you feel with each other. It allows for a kind of vulnerability that can take the relationship to a level unique among all your relationships. It also allows for the kind of accountability so many of us find difficult, but without which resentment and emotional dishonesty build and trust diminishes.

  This trip has also made me realize that the depth and breadth of our bond still starts with me. Until I saw how much of my unconscious behavior showed up in Mia—particularly around vulnerability—I’d never realized how powerful an influence I am on her, even as an adult. I saw over and again how the degree to which I was willing to open my heart was the degree to which the relationship expanded and grew more meaningful. Kind of like the Peter Principle for mothers and daughters, only instead of advancing to the level of your incompetency, the relationship advances only to the level of your own emotional inaccessibility. We are role models for our daughters all of our lives.

  I’ve also realized that there isn’t ever going to be a “post-motherhood” me. Being a mother will always be central to who I am—and central to my relationship with Mia. As close as we may feel as friends, I will always have a more critical eye, even if I don’t voice it. While respecting her as an independent woman is essential, I will no doubt also sometimes say things to her only a mother can say and get away with. And because I am her mother, I do expect a degree of respect and deference from her that I don’t from anyone else. And she’ll get things from me she won’t get from another human being, ever, because a mother’s love is unique—among all of our relationships it’s our most primal, unconditional, and eternal.

  I also understand more clearly that being a daughter is central to who I am. Among myriad things I’ve learned from Mia this summer, one of the most important is how to be a good daughter. Mia’s taught me that the same kind of unconditional love I give her, I also get from her. I could not possibly have the beautiful relationship I do with Mia if she wasn’t as accepting and nonjudgmental as she is. I have not been the same way with my mother, I judge her, I have expectations, I want her to be the way I want, rather than love and accept her just the way she is. I owe my mother the same degree of respect and deference I expect from Mia for no other reason than because she is my mother.

  So today I’ve marched myself to the only public phone nearby that’s working this week. Yes, that one, Frelon d’Asie! After making sure there are no hornets the size of sparrows, I punch in the Telecarte’s requisite sixty-seven numbers and wait, very anxiously.

  “Hello?” she says in the mildly surprised way she always does when answering the phone.

  “Mom?” I say nervously.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s die Grösse,” I say, using the Yiddish name she called me when I was little and she didn’t want me to understand what she was saying (I was die Grösse, the big one; my younger sisters were die Mittleste and die Kleine, the middle one and the little one).

  “Oh,” she says blandly.

  A painful pause.

  “I wanted to tell you I love you,” I add quickly before she hangs up on me.

  “Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” she says before hanging up.

  Yes! This is promising! Because she just did talk to me, for the first time in ages. Till now she just hung up without speaking.

  It’s a start.

  I usually learn things the hard way (being court-ordered into a boot-camp school comes to mind) and, if I’m honest, it’s something I’ve taken pride in. Learning from other people seemed unadventurous, cowardly even. If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it! It’s my life, and mine to make a mess of! I’ve made all sorts of immature proclamations over the years, mostly when I know I’m making a mistake but want to avoid facing the facts (or the repercussions).

  Granted, when lessons come with a price they do tend to stick, but one thing this trip has taught me about myself is that there are prices I’m not willing to pay. I never want to feel how my mom undoubtedly felt that day when she broke down and cried in the alley about all the years she feels she wasted. And, as she pointed out, I’m creating my “should haves” right now.

  It’s hard to imagine truly lost opportunities at my age, because it seems we have tons of time to regain them. But dreams do die and ships do sail, and sometimes calling them back only sinks you. Part of me had been waiting for adulthood to click into place, for me to get “it” (whatever that elusive “it” is) before turning my attention to the bigger questions. But the only thing clicking is the days going by. Adulthood isn’t something that just gels, as I had always told myself. Things don’t just fall into place, they just fall, and most people then learn to live with an arbitrary arrangement.

  Last week, when my mom and I were finishing the vision maps we started a month ago, it felt very different. I thought seriously about my professional and financial future, because I want to be conscious of, and intentional about, what I’m doing or not doing. I don’t have concrete answers yet. I have no idea how I’m going to combine, or make a living from, everything I’ve cut out this time around—research libraries, airplanes headed overseas, kathe kids, writing desks, podiums and microphones, personal role models like Jane Goodall or Christiane Amanpour—but they’re on my radar now. And if images are as powerful as people say they are, maybe looking at this every day will somehow help me knit them into a career and a life.

  It’s rare to have someone totally, messily, open themselves up to you—especially when that person is the one person that you’ve looked up to every day of your life. I haven’t told my mom how powerful that day was for me, nor do I want to. Talk is cheap. I’d rather show her the impact she’s had by going home and taking steps toward creating a life I love.

  I don’t know how we missed this area!” I marvel.

  We’re on our last meandering walk together in Avignon. We’ve just stumbled upon a serene, enchanting little corner inside the walls we’ve never been to, a few residential streets of stately old town houses and lush foliage.

  “Oh, Mom.” Mia rolls her eyes. “There isn’t a street here we haven’t been on a dozen times.”

  “Don’t give me that look. First, listen—” I tell her.

  “To what?”

  “Nothing, that’s the point. It’s dead quiet. Avignon isn’t quiet any time of day or night. We’ve never been here.”

  As soon as we clear the overhanging leaves of a thick hedge, a huge ghost of a weathered, neoclassical church dominates the street, made of stone that’s so pale it’s almost white, like clouds with no honey.

  “Oh, wow, even I’ve never seen that,” exclaims The Navigator.

  The gate is open and the courtyard empty. We enter and turn down a long, vaulted portico with a row of two-story arches and big doorways eight feet above the ground that have been walled in over the centuries. It’s like walking back through time.

  “Mother, look! Extases, it’s here—this is the church!”

  There’s a tall poster with the charcoal images of women we saw on the brochure we picked up our first week here at the tourist bureau. Ernest Pignon-Ernest’s exhibit of female saints and mystics lost in ecstatic reverie. We look at each other with the kind of excitement usually reserved for a shoe sale or free chocolate and scurry inside before it closes.

  At the end of the long, dark nave, in a large, shallow pool of water where the altar would have been, seven female saints and mystics, breathtakingly executed in charcoal, seem to literally rise from the water, on ten-foot-tall white panels that undulate and interlace. Lit from below, the women are much larger than life, sensuously draped in white cloth, breasts bared, eyes closed in ecstasy. I recognize Teresa of Ávila, Hildegard v
on Bingen, Mary Magdalene, and Catherine of Siena, Madame Guyon (an imprisoned mystic who has fascinated Kristin of late). Monumental goddesses, magnificent in their self-possession.

  Mia and I are so surprised and awed by their grandeur and beauty, by the unexpected and commanding way they’re presented, that we spend a magical hour with them, and the artist’s preliminary sketches along the walls, without speaking a word. It’s such an exceptional synthesis of style, format, and subject that in my mind it trumps anything in last month’s festival. How like Avignon to surprise and delight us like this a day before I fly home—to save the best for last.

  After we leave, we realize that the lone woman at the door had let us stay well past closing time, something we’ve found typical here. Avignon has been so sweet to us; we’ve made all manner of linguistic and social gaffes and they’ve treated us with great goodwill and generosity. They’ve nursed, educated, and advised us, they’ve lowered prices for us, brought us jams, candies, the fruits of their own gardens. They’ve refrained from laughing every time I held up four fingers and said cinq (five). (Mia neglected to tell me this till yesterday. “I’m sorry, it was just too much fun.”)

  Mia’s become very friendly with Steven; he’s joining her at Sarah’s for a dinner after I leave. Yesterday we ran into him in the park, where the two of them were off and running in French. All I could understand of their excited conversation was “Atatürk,” the “defensive walls of Marseilles,” and “there are times when cow brains are sympathetic.” Time for old Mom to go home.