I remember visiting you when you worked at the Brass Elephant on Sanibel Island, when we lived in Ft. Myers, Florida. I was five or six years old, and the cool, dark atmosphere with gilded interiors was like something out of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Had I seen that yet? Probably not. But within a few years, the two would be joined in my mind as mystical and glamorous places which required a supervising adult.
My brother and I sat in a booth and I ran my hands over the plush seat. I felt so special, like I was being let in on a secret. This was a place for grown ups. For royalty. For soft voices and good smells. I thought that you were beautiful and it was fitting that you got to go every day to a beautiful place.
But you were strong, too, and you taught me to be strong. There was a girl in the first grade (or the second grade, maybe) when I was in kindergarten, and she lived nearby and picked on me on the bus ride to and from school each day. While I cannot even imagine now how I would handle a similar situation with one of my own daughters – though I suppose I had better prepare myself – you and dad both told me to stand up for myself. This was before positive parenting was a thing and a time when nerds were celebrated for being gutsy, so.
We did something special in school for the 1988 Olympics – I remember the crafts and activities outside, and coloring rings to take home with me. It was a good day but this girl, I don’t think she had good days. I don’t recall now even what she did to me and maybe it was the same old stuff, but when we both got off of the bus, I thought about what you’d said and how unfair she was being, how mean, and I punched her right in the nose and she ran home crying.
To her mom.
You came to the door of our apartment when her mom came over to yell about what I had done. You told her that you wouldn’t be punishing me for standing up for myself, and that her daughter had it coming. I remember feeling excited and anxious and a little guilty all at the same time. She’s still the only person I’ve ever struck in anger that’s not my brother, who I really ought to apologize to for whacking with so many television remotes and platform sneakers.
But you and dad liked to tell that story for years afterward, how much younger and smaller than the girl I was, but how I’d just finally had it with being pushed around. You were only 25 or 26 at the time, which is wild to me, and yet you were fierce, always, when it came to your children. When you two told the story I felt you had as much of a role as I did, how I wanted to be sure that it wasn’t just me standing up for me, but you standing up for me, too.
That’s what I remember, the love and guts of it.
I love you, mom. Happy Mother’s Day.