{"id":5315,"date":"2012-08-01T00:10:43","date_gmt":"2012-08-01T05:10:43","guid":{"rendered":"\/nashvillereview\/?p=5315"},"modified":"2015-02-15T22:44:54","modified_gmt":"2015-02-16T04:44:54","slug":"mother-an-aggadah","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/archives\/5315","title":{"rendered":"Mother: An Aggadah"},"content":{"rendered":"

I.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201can unborn baby has its eyes open and can look out through the walls of the mother\u2019s stomach, like a frog in a jar\u201d \u2013Margaret Atwood, Surfacing<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

Kirsten strokes my hair and says,
\n_____<\/span>maybe you were put on this earth for your mother.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

Do you know the story? <\/em>A stream, and the scorpion
\n_____<\/span>asks the frog for a ride across.<\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

I cant, <\/em>the frog says, you\u2019re a scorpion.<\/em>
\n_____<\/span>I won\u2019t hurt you<\/em>, the scorpion says, because I need you<\/em><\/p>\n

to get across the stream. If I sting you, we both drown.<\/em>
\n_____<\/span>So the frog lets the scorpion get on her back.<\/p>\n

She swims hard against the current. They almost make it
\n_____<\/span>to shore when the scorpion stings her.<\/p>\n

The frog looks backs to ask why. <\/em>Says, as they begin to sink,
\n_____<\/span>because I\u2019m a scorpion.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/strong><\/p>\n

II.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cProbably there is nothing in human nature more resonant with charges than the flow of energy between two biologically alike bodies, one of which has lain in amniotic bliss inside the other, one of which has labored to give birth to the other. The materials are here for the deepest mutuality and the most painful estrangement.\u201d \u2015 Adrienne Rich, Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

Two days after I called off the wedding my mother needs to talk to me. Kirsten had driven up from Louisville that morning. The three of us at the kitchen table. My mother drinking scotch. My face swollen with grief. Kirs\u2019s hand on mine.<\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

There are some things I need to say to you, <\/em>my mother says. The heaviness of this circle. Worse than giving the ring back. Your life, <\/em>she continues, crying, it doesn\u2019t have to be so<\/em> painful. <\/em>I ask her if this can wait. If she thinks this is a good time for her to get some things off her chest. <\/em>I see Kirs\u2019s lips part in shock at my composure. But it\u2019s not composure. It\u2019s disbelief. It\u2019s loss.<\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

I\u2019m worried about you. Your life\u2026 your ability to\u2026 the men you choose. It doesn\u2019t have to be this hard. <\/em>I have to stop myself from bursting into laughter. My mother drunk-crying <\/em>again. From the table I can see into the living room, the picture of the old Hassidic man who <\/em>is in deep prayer, covered in the privacy of his tallit. I make eye contact with my father who <\/em>is drying dishes in the corner. I smirk. This scares him. He leaves the kitchen. <\/em><\/p>\n

There\u2019s fruit painted on my mother\u2019s kitchen table. Apples and pears and grapes connected by a green vine that I trace with my finger. The same green is painted as Venetian plaster on the walls. There are three still-life paintings, also of fruit, hanging behind my mother. The ice in her scotch has melted. Kirs\u2019s hand is a darker shade of olive than mine. She has small fingers. They are cool on top of my burning hand.<\/p>\n

I tell my mother that she\u2019s hurting me. That I\u2019m feeling angry. She becomes more hysterical: Do you want me to lie to you? I just love you so much. <\/em>Kirs squeezes my hand hard. Why are<\/em> you doing this to me? I just want you to be okay. <\/em>It\u2019s so typical. I don\u2019t know why I expect anything else.<\/p>\n

In the dining room adjacent to the kitchen, my mother has displayed grandmother\u2019s teacup collection in a beautiful antique cabinet. I want to hold one of the cups. Grandmother used to mix blackberry and bergamot. I try to remember the smell.<\/p>\n

Kirs lost her mother to cancer when she was ten. Motherless <\/em>is without protection, unparented, not having. Which is worse<\/em>. I walk to the sink to bring my mother a glass of water. Drink this, <\/em>I say. Kirs\u2019s hand still in mine, we leave an absence.<\/p>\n

<\/strong><\/p>\n

III.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cbecause a woman\u2019s body\/ is a grave; it will accept\/ anything.\u201d \u2013Louise Gluck, Dedication to <\/em>Hunger<\/em><\/p>\n

No one is sadder than you.
\nMy sister calls and says,
\nI feel terrible for mom\u2014<\/em>
\nshe\u2019s so miserable. I should be<\/em>
\nhome, helping. <\/em>And I say,
\nwe all have a choice.<\/em>
\nYou taught her this guilt.<\/p>\n

When I was eight, I stole cigarettes
\nfrom your purse. One at a time.
\nVirginia Slims: long, thin menthols.
\nAt night, on the roof, smoke wafting
\ninto your open window.<\/p>\n

They weren\u2019t yours, you said.
\nA friend had left them there.
\nI took full packs, grew bolder,
\ntook entire cartons.
\nA friend replaced them.
\nYou wanted to say something\u2014
\nyour eyes.<\/p>\n

One night, your hand reached through
\nthe open window, pulled me off of the roof,
\nand said, one of us has to leave.<\/em><\/p>\n

Sarah Marcus<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I. \u201can unborn baby has its eyes open and can look out through the walls of the mother\u2019s stomach, like a frog in a jar\u201d \u2013Margaret Atwood, Surfacing Kirsten strokes my hair and says, _____maybe you were put on this earth for your mother. Do you know the story? A stream, and the scorpion _____asks […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[15],"tags":[25],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-1nJ","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5315"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/22"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5315"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5315\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10254,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5315\/revisions\/10254"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5315"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5315"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5315"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}