Friday, May 10, 2013

What are Mothers Really Like?

Another year, another frustrating attempt to find a suitable Mother’s Day card for my unconventional mother. The cards that talk about the self-sacrificing, sweet, nurturing, house-keeping mother are inappropriate and sometimes even funny, given my upbringing.

 My two younger sisters and I were raised to be strong, opinionated, competitive and successful. Our mother was the disciplinarian and Dad was the pushover. My mom was, at least when we were young, a housewife, but a highly intelligent artistic one who was frustrated by the boundaries imposed on women in the 50’s and 60’s.

I love and admire my mom. Just not for the sappy reasons on the cards. My mom was the one who pushed us, refused to accept excuses, and went to bat for us. It is from her I got my intelligence, my opinionated nature, my singing voice, my acting skills, my outraged quest for justice for the oppressed, my work ethic, my persistence, and my obsessiveness. Love those traits or hate them, that’s who I am and many of those things have served me well.

 So… can it really be the case that my Mom is so unusual? Or does this holiday bring out the worst of our stereotypes about who moms are supposed to be? I mean, I’m hardly a “Hallmark Mom” either! Most of my kids’ lives I worked full time and from the age of 30, had a singing and acting career as well. We taught our daughters to be self-reliant, smart, ambitious, determined and competitive. I’m sure that they remember many times I was tough on them. Our daughters now both have full time careers. Kathryn is a human rights attorney in Uganda and her wonderful husband Dave cares for their children. Our youngest, Jennifer, is a pastor. It is likely if she and John have children that John will be the primary care-giver.

With all the successful career women, why aren’t there more cards about moms as professional role models? Why do so many Mother’s Day cards seem to say the greatest accomplishments of mothers is caring for the physical needs of their families, or successfully navigating their kid’s teen years? Why can’t moms be smart and professionally successful and hate cooking and cleaning? Why can’t moms fulfill their own destinies and ALSO be moms? Is it okay for moms to be bitchy? I mean, a lot of us actually ARE.

My mom as "Lalume" in KISMET
Here’s a better Hallmark Card for my Mom:

Mom, you always had my back and you always pushed me forward, accepting no excuses. You made me smart, strong and creative, and you showed me that I could be anything I wanted to be. You taught me that I should be of service to others less fortunate than I am, and to be outraged at injustice. Thanks for kicking me in the ass from time to time. It worked.

 Love, Eileen

 (P.S. Thanks for the cooking and cleaning, too. That was helpful.)

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Moondance

If I’m being really honest, there are days here in New York City that suck. Caught in the rain, aching knees on the stairs, pee smell in the subway days. Waiting hours for an audition that doesn’t happen days.

 But then there are nights like tonight. Around 6:00, I headed to midtown to see “Old Jews Telling Jokes". I exited at the 42nd Street station, where, accompanied by a track, an opera soprano sang with such passion and abandon it brought tears to my eyes. A large appreciative audience had gathered to listen and applaud. 

Then at the West Side Theatre, “old Jews" (and a couple of young ones) brought tears of laughter to my eyes. Hilarious jokes, delivered with perfect timing — it was just great fun, shared by an audience that, being mostly Jewish, was roaring with laughter. They proved there is NOTHING in which you can’t find humor — even divorce, sickness and death. 

While waiting for my home-bound train on the C platform, a young white woman with a guitar sang old rock music while a homeless black guy joined in and they had a great time singing a duet.

As I walked home from the subway I heard music wafting from beyond my building. I walked further down the street and realized it was coming from the back of the large youth hostel in our neighborhood. There was some kind of party in the back yard, in an alcove where I couldn’t see. But I stood and listened to something that was sort of a cross between Enya and smooth jazz, sung by a woman with a haunting voice. As I turned to walk back to my apartment, I beheld a glorious full moon draped above Central Park.

 It’s times like this that I just love New York.