Saturday, May 10, 1997

My grandmother was an awesome woman, but she wasn't perfect

By Joy Thompson / Knight-Ridder Newspapers

The other day, a friend told me she was looking up some literature on mothers for a local minister to use for Mother's Day next Sunday. What she had found so far was pretty disappointing.

"Everything is so sappy," she said. "They all seem to put their mothers on this pedestal."

She had a point. There's nothing wrong with penning flattering appreciation for dear old mom; but likening her to Mother Theresa, Joan of Arc and the Virgin Mary all rolled up in one is a bit far-reaching. There are many fine mothers in this world, but they don't all wear halos and walk on beams of light.

Unless the mother being described is my grandmother.

Now, now! Before you accuse me of sheer hypocrisy, allow me to state my grandmother's case. While most mothers her age would have been celebrating the empty nest, my grandmother committed to a second motherhood by rearing me, and later my sister, from infancy. And while some women her age would have allowed their grandchildren to wear them down with whining demands to hang out with friends, watch television to all hours of the night and slack off on homework assignments, my grandmother stood her ground, set strict rules and didn't put up with any back talk. And while some mothers would have turned over the duties of teaching morality and values to public school teachers and classroom peers, my grandmother took time out to teach me about right and wrong, God and the Bible.

I consider my grandmother an awesome woman, but she wasn't perfect. And for that I'm glad: The thought of having to meet such a standard in my own life had she been perfect makes me cringe. As with most flesh-and-blood mothers, my grandmother did many things right, and a few things wrong. Mother's Day should not be viewed as a celebration of a perfect upbringing. It should be seen as a special day of gratitude to the relative, friend or guardian who cared enough to be there.

And that is why my real mother, whom I knew as my "Aunt Dotty" for most of my childhood, also deserves a place of special honor in my heart on Mother's Day. Although my mother wasn't there for me most of the time while I was growing up, I now believe she was there in spirit.

I grew up calling my mother "aunt" because that is who my family told me she was and that is how she behaved, like a not-so-distant relative. She would come to visit on Christmas, birthdays and holidays, and she would come with toys, candy and books. She'd play games. She'd watch football. She'd crack jokes. On the weekends she'd visit, she'd brighten our little apartment.

My mother was never a mother in the traditional sense. Things never seemed to work out so well for her in life. She always seemed to hook up with the most shallow of friends and the harshest of boyfriends. People didn't treat her well, and she didn't treat herself too well. One would think her too preoccupied with the problems of life to care about her children. But I believe she did care.

She cared enough to find fascinating hard-cover books for me. She cared enough to purchase matching outfits for me and her. She cared enough to collect gifts and prizes, pack them all into shopping bags and carry them on the subway trip from the Bronx to Brooklyn.

And I cannot imagine her not caring when my sister and I greeted her at the door with shouts of "Aunt Dotty's here! Aunt Dotty's here!" - and she knowing what her daughters were not allowed to know at the time, that she was really our mother.

I eventually found out; I was around 10. And today, I still call my mother Dotty - sometimes. In recent years, as I've gotten to know her better, I've occasionally slipped up and addressed her as "mom." For example, in the close of telephone conversations: "Bye, mom ... uh ... I mean Dotty." It's an awkward moment for both of us, I'm sure; but she just lets it slide.

As a woman, I understand a lot more than I did as a child. I am particularly a lot closer to understanding what the Bible calls grace. Grace was first shown me as an infant by my grandmother, whom I'll always refer to as "mama." And now as an adult I get to show that grace to her daughter, my mother. As I remember these two women next week, I assure you I won't be celebrating The Perfect Mother. I will be honoring the two women who gave me life.

Thank you, mama.

(Joy Thompson is an editorial writer for the Long Beach Press-Telegram. You can write to her at 604 Pine Ave., Long Beach, Calif. 90844.)

(c) 1997, Press-Telegram (Long Beach, Calif.).

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