by Diane Rehm
DIANE: You're right about that. I can remember doing it, and I remember your doing it. That moment of alienation is sharply defined. You're taking away a moment when you assume there will be togetherness and sharing.
JOHN: That's our desire. That's our expectation. But it doesn't come about easily, and I think every family needs to learn its own rules and disciplines to encourage meals as a happy communal affair.
In-Laws
John
In marrying Diane, I was spared the need to cope—for better or for worse—with a mother- or father-in-law. Diane's mother and father had both died before I knew her. Moreover, I had little to do with her relatives, numerous as they were. Diane saw her older sister infrequently, usually at Christmastime with her family. By the time we met, Diane had also broken away from her Christian-Arab community in Washington, D.C. On rare occasions, like a wedding or a funeral, I would be thrown into a sea of aunts and uncles. In effect, Diane brought no relatives to our marriage, with the exception of her cousin by marriage, Vicky Aed, who has remained a good friend.
My father and mother were both alive when Diane and I were married. My father lived for six years, and my mother for thirty years, after our marriage. They had a significant—but not always benign—influence upon our relationship. Otherwise I presented Diane with no siblings or other relatives who played any substantial role in our lives. Thus our extended family consisted only of my father and mother.
In retrospect, I can see that the manner in which we spent our honeymoon anticipated the pleasures and pains that lay ahead. Since our wedding took place in Washington on the nineteenth of December, I suggested—perhaps unwisely—that we go to my parents' farm in Pennsylvania to celebrate both our wedding and Christmas. The setting was idyllic, with deep snow blanketing the countryside, a wood fire blazing in the fireplace, and fine food and wine on the table.
My father and Diane took to each other immediately. My mother had attended our wedding in Washington, but not my father—he couldn't get away from the chore of milking his small herd of cows twice a day. Diane was therefore particularly anxious to meet him. When we got to the farm through heavy snow, my father was attending to the cows in the barn.
When Diane entered the barn, my father instantly gave her a warm enveloping hug. That one loving and unquestioning gesture epitomized their relationship. My father found her spirited, intelligent, and attractive. He was particularly tickled by the fact that she was of Arab descent, since he had acquired a fondness for Arabs during his participation in the North African campaign in World War II. Until his death, the two of them had an easy and affectionate relationship, sharing a common interest in current events, gourmet cooking, and literature. I've often thought how much pleasure he, himself a journalist, would have taken in Diane's professional success.
My mother's relationship with Diane was, unhappily, different from my father's, contributing to some of the serious tensions in our marriage. From my perspective, my mother was admiring but jealous of Diane, sympathetic yet distant. As a feminist who had participated in suffragists' demonstrations, my mother was genuinely proud of Diane's various talents and accomplishments. And like Diane, she had never obtained a college degree, and was largely self-taught. Like Diane, she had fled her family's repressive Victorian culture. My mother could therefore appreciate the intense efforts that underlay Diane's success.
Yet my mother was in certain ways hostile to Diane. Although I didn't want to admit it, my mother resented the fact that Diane had replaced her in my life. During my adolescence in World War II, I grew up with only my mother, since my father was serving abroad in the Office of War Information. Although I was not a “mama's boy,” I was certainly close to her during those formative years. I was the center of her life, and she never came to terms with my marriage to Diane.
Moreover, at some level I think my mother found it difficult to accept Diane's career. She herself had entertained ideas of doing some writing, but little came of them. With comparably few advantages, Diane had been able to establish herself professionally. This, combined with her beauty, flair for clothes, and good health, made Diane seem a formidable daughter-in-law. Thus the relationship between the two was a troubled one, with each woman probably underestimating the other's sensitivities and vulnerabilities.
I reacted to the tensions between them as I had to those between my mother and father. In each case, I was a little boy confronting two looming, unruly adults. In particular, I was caught in a cross fire between two people I loved. I internalized my anger at both of them for their stupid behavior. Above all, I experienced a sense of helplessness: I was desperate to stop the conflict yet powerless to do so. As a result, I adopted an essentially passive strategy. I would hope that the clashes would subside and, when they did flare up, I sought neutral ground, thereby helping none of the three players.
Diane
I look back on my relationship with my mother- and fatherin- law with very mixed feelings. First of all, I didn't have an opportunity to meet either of them before John and I decided to marry. My mother-in-law came to Washington from her home in Brooklyn only the night before the wedding. Because “Pop” was milking a dozen cows, he wasn't able to attend.
John was living in Georgetown at the time of our marriage, and I shall never forget the evening I first met his mother. It was a cold, wet night, and as I sat in the foyer of the house on R Street, taking off my boots, Mary Rehm came slowly down the long flight of stairs. I heard her voice before I saw her, and I'll never forget her words, because they struck me as somewhat odd in both tone and content. “Oh,” she said, “Scoop didn't tell me you were so pretty.”
She didn't say “Hello,” or “How nice to meet you,” or anything of the sort. Perhaps I should have been flattered by her words, but I sensed that they weren't intended to be friendly or welcoming. I immediately stood to meet her gaze and reach out my hand to her. Her own was thin and delicate. Her eyes were a faded blue and her hair bright red—the stunning characteristics of a tall woman of sixty-one who looked at least twenty years younger. She carried herself beautifully, and it was easy to imagine her walking down a runway in 1920s Paris, where I knew she had been a fashion model. As she kept up a light nonstop chatter, a practice I realized was the product of her own nervousness, we moved into the living room where the two of us sat down while Scoop (she never called him anything else) lit a fire.
As we sat together, I could feel her gaze, knowing she was scrutinizing me, wondering what kind of wife I would be for her son. That sense of “being appraised” stayed with me throughout that evening, the wedding day, and later, when we went to be with her and Pop at the farm for our honeymoon. Why I agreed to such an arrangement I'll never understand, except that I'd heard so much about the beauty of the farm and longed to see the place that meant so much to John.
Meeting Pop was a totally different experience. When we reached the farmhouse, it was around five-thirty in the afternoon, and Pop was out in the barn milking the cows. After we'd gone into the house and seen the beauty of the fire and the lovely Christmas greens adorning the living room, John and I walked to the barn, and there was Pop, arms wide open, welcoming and warm. From that moment on, he called me “ma belle fille,” and we loved each other.
I have fond memories of those first days at the farm, despite the fact that I felt Mary was continuing to watch me, using every opportunity to ask about my background, my family, and my education. At one point I was taken aback when she said, “Well now, Diane dear, you're very charming and beautiful, but what are you really like?” Before I could think of what to say, John stepped in and said, somewhat critically, “Mom! What kind of a question is that? What you see is who and what Diane is.” Pop jumped in as well, and I felt relieved that I hadn't had to respond to her.
In the first few years of our marriage, Mary became a friend and supporter. We wrote to each other frequently concerning mundane matters, including the fact that John was working so much while I was at home with
first David and then Jennie. She came to visit occasionally and stayed for several weeks at a time and we would sit together mending old sheets or turning the collars on John's shirts to extend their wear. We were easy with each other as we talked about generalities, but at the same time we were wary.
There were many occasions when I felt she stayed with us for too long a time, but I wouldn't have dreamed of asking her to shorten her stays until much later in our marriage. It wasn't a long trip for her: she was traveling from New York, a four-hour train ride at most. But she fretted so before each visit that it finally made more sense for John to go up to New York to get her and bring her down by air. In our first home, there were just two bedrooms, but we managed to create a comfortable room for her in the lower part of the house, which she found quite cozy and private.
Later, when Jennie and David were a bit older, difficulties began to emerge. First, Mary made it clear that her affection for David was greater than what she felt for Jennie. Perhaps that happens in many families, but she made no secret of her preference, and would say things in Jennie's presence that were terribly wounding. Second, when she was around, John behaved differently. He was cooler, less affectionate, and plain uptight when Mary was in the house. I've talked with other wives whose husbands experienced a similar sense of unease when their mothers were around. Mary would focus her entire attention on him, recalling experiences the two of them had had together as John was growing up, while Pop was away at war. John, for his part, would do nothing to turn the conversation away from himself or her. It became increasingly frustrating.
When Pop died in 1967, I was heartbroken, feeling as if I'd lost someone unique in my life. He had loved and cared about me, and had been someone I could talk to and laugh with easily. After he died, Mary seemed to rely increasingly on John, and he, of course, felt that as an only child, he had to make sure she was cared for and comfortable. She would call on the phone, never saying anything other than “Is Scoop there?” Stunned by her lack of warmth, I would simply pass the phone to John.
Finally, when she was in her upper seventies and not in the best of health, we urged her to move to Washington, to an apartment complex owned and operated by the Episcopal church, not far from our home. It took several years of persuasion, and finally, after several hospitalizations requiring us to go back and forth to New York, she reluctantly agreed to move. I believe the move saved—and extended—her life. After several months of difficult adjustment on her part, she began to get into the rhythm of Washington's cultural life, visiting art galleries and attending concerts, moving easily by bus or subway to the downtown area. I'm glad we were able to facilitate the move for her, and to make the last years of her life more comfortable, but I also believe that her proximity and presence in our lives for those years between 1977 and 1990 made our already tension-filled marriage even more difficult.
Dialogue on In-Laws
DIANE: If there is one area in which I have a great sadness, combined with anger, it was the way you did nothing about your mother and her treatment of me. As you say clearly in your essay, you felt you were caught and couldn't do anything to allay the problem. So you did nothing. Whereas I, as your wife, expected, and believed very strongly, that your responsibility was to your wife and to your family. The fact that you didn't speak up to your mother about her treatment of me and about her treatment of Jennie makes me very sad to think about even today.
JOHN: Well, that's quite a strong statement. In my defense, I felt that we were dealing with an elderly, somewhat frail woman, who'd had a number of difficulties in her own life. I thought you had the greater strength and stamina. I recall so vividly my sense of being torn between the two of you and the feeling that she didn't have that many years left, and that if I had to indulge one or the other, I would indulge my mother.
DIANE: From the beginning, she gave you—as well as Pop and me—indications that she was going to make it difficult for me, and she did. I cannot agree with your statement that she wasn't well, because she was a strong woman who had suffered from headaches. She lived until she was ninety-two. I have to tell you, the happiness we lost together because of her leaves me very resentful, even of her memory.
JOHN: When she was present, there certainly were problems, but you're suggesting that these extended into our relationship when she wasn't even around?
DIANE: Oh my gosh, when she called on the telephone and I would pick it up, she would say, “Is Scoop there?” She wouldn't ask how I was, or how the children were. She just wanted to speak with you. As far as your mother was concerned, there was a narrowness of vision on your part, and she took advantage of it right from the start.
JOHN: What can I say?
DIANE: Perhaps you might say something to help other people who are struggling with the same kind of difficulty. It was very hard, as though you ignored the passage in the Book of Genesis that says, “Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and cleaves to his wife, and they become one flesh.” It was as though you felt you could not break from her.
JOHN: What you're saying is that you would have had me raise the issue with her and try to—what? Work out a more tolerable relationship?
DIANE: I think what you might have done was to make a simple statement: “Mom, Diane is my wife. I love her. I love our family. And I wish you, Mom, would be more thoughtful about how you treat her and our family.”
JOHN: We can't change the past, it's done. I'm tempted to say at this point that, yes, I should have raised these issues with her, which I didn't do, or didn't do to the extent you would have had me do.
DIANE: I know how hard this is for you. I know you loved your mother very much and she adored you. If you had it to do over again, considering what you know now, at age seventyone, what do you think you might do differently?
JOHN: I would probably raise, in some fashion, the issues you've identified, particularly her relationship with you and her relationship with Jennie. While she was still in Brooklyn, we didn't see her that often. She would make occasional trips, but I guess I felt that the difficulties, such as they were, could be restricted to brief periods throughout the year, and therefore didn't have to influence our relationship in any appreciable way. Once she came to Washington, she would be in our home fairly infrequently. I made a practice, as you know, of seeing her alone every Sunday. There again I felt that I could avoid any oppressive influence she might have had on the family and on our relationship. Maybe that was unrealistic, but that was the effort I made, that I would be with her for an hour or two each Sunday, and otherwise we would relate to ourselves in the normal way.
DIANE: When I would raise these issues with you, you dismissed me. It really upset me, and you thought I was being silly! And you said, “Well, she's just an old woman and she wants to—”
JOHN: Yes, I thought then, and I think now, we could indulge her.
DIANE: It was an “indulgence” that offended your wife. The point I'm making is that you were not willing to take up any of my concerns with her.
JOHN: I guess it was a fundamental difference of perspective. These actions on her part that you felt so strongly about at the time, and to some degree still do, I didn't see as serious issues. They didn't seem to me to go to the heart of our relationship, as you feel they did. I guess I had two hypersensitive women on my hands.
DIANE: One was your wife.
JOHN: And I was trying to do justice to both of them, in some evenhanded way. You saw that as an unfair and hurtful indulgence at your expense. I guess I thought that you didn't have to dwell on these issues as much as you did then, and clearly still do now. It was a matter of accommodation, and I didn't accommodate you sufficiently. Yes, if she were alive today, I think, on the strength of greater reflection and experience, I could raise some of these issues. I can't disagree with you that that would have been not only the appropriate but the most efficacious way to proceed. Two of my most serious problems were that I felt torn, without knowing quite where to go, between career an
d family and, most certainly, between you and Mom. I felt stretched and tried, perhaps unrealistically, to create two domains: one was yours, and the other was hers.
DIANE: She didn't want to see me in that last year of her life. When she was beginning to decline, I went with you to see her on a couple of Sundays. She finally said to you that she just wanted to see you. And you let that go, and you went to see her by yourself. You couldn't tell your mother that her behavior toward me was unacceptable.
JOHN: It would have been difficult for me to do so. I wish I had pursued some of these issues with her, particularly because I know they've hurt you so. Do you think it would have helped me deal with my mother if your mother had remained alive?
DIANE: That's a great question. Perhaps it would've. Maybe if I hadn't been left with such sadness about my own mother's death, and the difficult relationship she and I had had throughout my life, maybe I wouldn't have been so hurt by your mother's rejection of me. It was as though it happened to me twice in my life, and when it came from your mother the second time, it was more than I could take. It also caused a major rift between us, which seemed to be yet a third rejection. I'm glad we've written and talked about this. It's time for me to let go of the anger.
JOHN: You see, I approached my mother as though I were her only friend, and while she did have friends, she relied on me more than anybody else. I guess that's another reason why I felt I couldn't raise these painful issues, because she relied on me so. I was the dutiful son, and maybe excessively dutiful. Perhaps lurking here, in Freudian terms, is an incomplete separation from the mother figure. That probably plays a role here. My effort was to keep in separate worlds two women who had this difficult relationship.