The Night I Nearly Offed My Mother
The Night I Nearly Offed My Mother
A Killer Salad
I was the eldest of six children in a four-bedroom home. The eight of us seemed to be on top of each other every minute of every day, and there were times as per the title of one of Virginia Woolf’s amazing books, when I just needed “A Room of One’s Own.”
My dad was as stoic as my mom was vocal. But one person cannot be the lone communicator in a family of eight, although my mother truly tried. “How are you feeling right now?” she would say.
“I’m mad!”
“Mad is not an emotion. What are you FEELING?”
“I DON’T KNOW!!!
There I was amidst my teen angsty high-school years dealing with an interminable case of acne, high school bullies and parentalization. So when I felt angry or depressed, I would stomp upstairs, slip into the bedroom I shared with my little sister, Jeanne, and slam the door twice just in case nobody heard me slam it the first time.
I must apologize to Jeanne for all the discomfort I caused her in my quest to have a room of my own. I told her she was not allowed on “my side of the room” where the window and built-in desk were. But I could go on her side because that’s where the door and walk-in closet were.
Then there was the night I conducted a little experiment on Jeanne. I’d just read an article about how sometimes external forces can enter someone’s dream, becoming a part of the dream. So naturally, I sprinkled water in Jeanne’s face as she lay sleeping. The results of my experiment: an annoyed little sister.
As the eldest, it was my job to babysit. I also shouldered the majority of the necessary house work, since both of my brothers opted out (“house work is for girls!”). Jeanne did a share of the work. But Marge and Rita weren’t old enough yet.
So there I was one evening, standing at the kitchen sink, facing that day’s voluminous stack of dishes. I grabbed the dishwashing liquid and squirted a bunch of it into the salad bowl. There were still some remnants of salad in there. I stepped out of the kitchen to go to the bathroom. When I returned, my mom was eating the salad in the bowl that I had just slathered with Joy.
This was not a joyous moment for me!
“Mom!”
“What?”
“Why are you eating that? There’s dishwashing liquid in there.”
“Oh my God.” She set the bowl back down on the kitchen counter.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Yeah, everything’s okay.”
But it wasn’t.
The next morning, I learned that my dad had rushed my mom off to the hospital in the middle of the night so medical personnel could pump her stomach.
I’d almost killed her!
In a family of eight people, stuff happens.
And there are hundreds of stories that bring me a smile or a tear.
But this one reigns in memory as a moment of clarity for me. I really began appreciating her more, starting that very day.
She and I discovered feminism together. She and I even took a road trip together from our home in Detroit to Rockford, Illinois, to a NOW convention. We became very close on that excursion.
The culmination of our shared desire for women’s liberation occurred in 2004 when we both participated in the March for Women’s Lives in Washington DC where over a million people gathered, making it the largest march in American history.
When I went away to college, Magi and I began corresponding on a nearly daily basis.
When I moved to California, our correspondence continued. I saved all of her letters, and she saved all of mine. After Magi passed away in 2013, I found her cache of my letters and organized them by date into a thick binder that could be a book of bread crumbs for any mother and daughter who need a path into a rewarding relationship.
I think about Magi everyday. Of course she’s in my heart but she is also on my mind. She spoke wisdom that I can appreciate now that I’m older than she was when I was in high school and nearly offed her.
On bullies: “Consider the source.”
On my acne: “You’ll be happy you have moist skin when you’re older.”
On whether or not I should be a mother: “Do what makes you happy. You only get one life to live.”
Last but not least, on making a life for myself out west, 3,000 miles away from my family: “I’m proud of you.”
Thank you, Mom. I’m proud to be your daughter.