I watched the Joy Luck Club on Mother’s Day a few years ago. It seemed appropriate. Originally, I had read the book and loved it. When the movie came out, I went and saw it with my mother. I was either unemployed or underemployed at the time. I really didn’t have the money but because of the employment situation or lack thereof, we went to a matinee. It was cheaper. My mother also would have received a senior citizen rate. We used to do that when I was out of work. It was one of the ways in which she tried to cheer me up.
I remember crying at both the book and the movie. A good cry is important to me especially when I’m having a bad work situation. I was always known for letting down eye water. Crying is extremely cathartic and a movie or a book lets you cry without guilt. It enables you to deflect your feelings and is healthy. I was fascinated by the relationships and the history. It was a history that I was unfamiliar with. My mother always loved history and this too appealed to her.
The Joy Luck Club is the story of mothers and daughters. Mothers who come from different places, make choices or have choices made for them and love their daughters. Love expresses itself in different ways. These ways are not always apparent to the daughters. Even though the mothers and daughters in this story are Chinese, the elements are universal.
My mother also came from a different place and a different culture. I knew in my bones that my mother loved me. It was the right thing to do. However, I did not think that she liked me. In many ways, we were such different people. We bore a strong family resemblance although physically, I am much more like my grandmother. I am like Grandma spiritually as well. Grandma and I always adhered to the maxim, “It is better to look good than to feel good.” I actually think for my grandmother and me, it was a matter of self-defense. To paraphrase TS Eliot, “a face to meet the faces you meet”. No one looking at us would understand the effort and the strength behind the armor of our appearance. My grandmother often told the story of how she wore a special dress and had to the reading of her father’s will because she knew she was going to be disinherited. She was going to hold her head up and she was going to be recognized. We are not easily defeated.
My mother and I had the same blistering smile. Again, another weapon I inherited. It’s one of the few things I took away from college and kept in my quiver. A soldier bares its teeth before it goes into battle. Apes bare their teeth before they attack. My smile can be deceptive. Don’t make the mistake of thinking less of me because I do smile. It is something that women do and that men do not understand.
So, mothers and daughters on Mother’s Day. My mother always thought it was a commercial holiday. She did not want us taken advantage of. She believed you acknowledged your mother all year. I followed her example and most paydays brought her some kind of present or acknowledgement.
My mother has been gone for over a decade. I am now a senior citizen myself. The years have given me insight into what she may have been feeling. We can never truly know what someone else thinks or what their motivations are. It must have been difficult for her looking at my face which was so close to hers but being a different person. I am the product of a different place and time plus half of me comes from someone else.
How terrifying I must have been in a certain way. I’ve always said that I was the pale shadow both in color and in life of my mother and grandmother. I certainly operated in the shadow of both women. But I cast my own shadow.
It’s the time of year when we once again have survived graduations. Yes, survived. Those of us who graduated survived. And those of us who watched also survived.
A series of pictures recently came up in my memories in OneDrive. It is amazing now with technology that our memories are timed. These were photos taken the day of my college graduation. The university had two ceremonies – one in the morning for the entire university and then one from the College in the afternoon. The afternoon ceremony is where you were given your actual diploma. In the morning pictures, I am radiant.
I thought at that time of my life that I was never going to get married and if I did, there would be no reception. People on both sides of my family did not marry or if they did, it was more of a matter of fact, justice of the peace situation. Therefore, graduation was going to be my day. Also, I had come by it hard. Due to unfortunate events, I had flunked out of school my sophomore year. I was put on probation which had only ended halfway through my senior year. Life had changed for me. I had become and continue to be manic about getting excellent grades. My father had also made me slightly paranoid. Decades ago when I graduated, technology was not a thing. Papers were typed painfully on a typewriter with carbon paper and copies. Copy machines were not ubiquitous. I always made an uncorrected carbon of all my work. I was a terrible typist and had been sent to school with typewriter erasers, erasable paper and white out. My father also insisted that I get a receipt from the department office anytime I handed a paper in that was not given directly to the professor. This was not welcomed by the office staff. I have memories of running up flights of stairs in Gilman Hall as the clock was tolling the hour to get a paper in on time. Students were not allowed to use the elevator. So, I was usually sweaty and semi hysterical by the time I reached the department.
I wanted nothing to go wrong my last semester. I even took an extra course to ensure that I had enough credits to graduate even if by some weird quirk of fate, I happened to fail a course. I had two courses with a married couple. They were from Norway and returned home immediately after the semester ended. They were the last papers of my then college career and I did not make carbons nor did I get my usual receipt.
I had become very poor during my senior year. My father had lost his job during my junior year and I could no longer depend are my family for any kind of living expenses. I had run out of work study plus we had made a decision that I would concentrate totally on school my last semester. I had been working for 20 to 30 hours a week during the last part of my junior year and first semester senior year. I lived on a diet of eggs, grapefruit, rice, perch and smelts. I swore to myself that I would never eat a perch or smelt again and I have not. However, I knew if I was home I would be able to once again eat real food. There was a break between the end of term and senior week. This was the week with all the parties and celebrations. I left campus after turning in my papers and went home and took a temporary job. I needed money.
The university, of course, had my home phone number and address. The Dean was also very familiar with me due to my probationary status. I used to be able to look from my living room across the street into the building where the Dean was housed. At times, it seemed too close for comfort. It was a type of university housing although it was not on campus. My roommate had stayed behind on the break between classes and graduation ceremonies. We had a university extension. This was also back in the day when to have your own telephone was huge. Before we had the university extension, we would have to find a phone booth and make a collect call to reach home. We could receive calls on the university extension. All this is to explain the unnecessary horror of what happened on graduation day.
I was back on campus for a few days. I attended the balls and parties. My parents arrived the night before and we all went to the cocktail reception for graduates, sponsored by the university.
Graduation day was hot and sunny. I remember thinking that Nikki Z was the only smart one amongst us. I wore a striped sun dress (that’s what they were called then) and platform sandals under my cap and gown. Nikki wore shorts! She was the only one who didn’t have to actively fight wilting.
After lunch, we were lining up for the afternoon procession. Someone, I don’t remember who, tapped me on the shoulder and told me that I would not be graduating but could stay in the line and would receive a blank diploma. I did not have enough credits to graduate. My professors had absconded to Norway without turning in my grades. We later found out that they were only accessible by dog sled. Again, this was back in the days before cell phones. Indeed, international calls were still an expensive and lengthy process. I couldn’t cry at that time. I cannot even identify the feelings I had -shock, anger, disbelief, faintness, disappointment. I was told that they had been unable to contact me prior to this moment. My glow disappeared and was replaced by a pale, drawn angry face.
My college boyfriend had somehow worked his way so that he was beside me on the line. He had already graduated. He knew something was wrong when he saw my face and I was able to whisper part of the story to him. As always, he was and is incredible. I do not know how he did it but he was able to crouch at the end of my row. Meanwhile, my parents could not imagine why I looked so angry and stiff as I received what they thought was my diploma.
I ran to them once the ceremony was over. I started to cry hysterically. Well, this was the way I was brought up. My mother slapped me across the face, told me to pull myself together and slapped a pair of sunglasses on me and told me to stop crying. Of course according to them it was all my fault. I did not have the receipt. How, looking back why would I have had it when I was in line from graduation? I did not have the carbons.
We were able to find out after that disastrous day that they had allegedly tried to reach me. This could not possibly be true. I was easily findable. We worked out a deal where I was able to recreate one of the papers and have it graded on a pass fail basis by another professor whom I had never met it was unbeknownst to me. My diploma was mailed to me.
I had actually been seeing a therapist prior to my graduation because I was so concerned about it. Hopkins gave you so many free counseling sessions and I’d saved mine up till the end. It definitely says something about the school that they realized decades ago that mental health was an important issue. At the time, I just thought it indicated how twisted the institution was. Many of us have had a type of PTSD from our experiences there. I called my counselor to tell her what had happened. I wanted to take action against the school and I wanted her to attest to what had been done to me. She was in agreement with me. However, my parents were not. I was surprised when I posted the morning picture on Facebook with a brief snippet of my story that so many of my close friends never knew. My parents saw it as shameful. The shame should not have been on my part but on the university. I now know that my parents actions were predicated on their lives. It was also the era where deference was given to those in authority and girls and their concerns were minimized. I do not know if anything would have changed if I had retained a lawyer. I know I was not the only person that had this experience.
I did go on to get married, not once but twice! I did have a reception for the first one much to the surprise and dismay of my family. I have always done things that were not done. It wasn’t the last time that I got smacked across the face and had sunglasses slapped on me so that no one could see me cry. I do cry and sometimes I even let people see me do it.
Seven years ago, my husband was looking through things in the room I used as my office and discovered a mailing tube. He opened it and there was my diploma. He insisted on getting it framed. It hangs in my office right now. Survival!
An old friend , recently, sent a picture of me at a luncheon in the early 90’s. I have a big hat, a light tan and a huge grin. I am wearing a brocade dress of my mother’s made by my grandmother. This is a mythic dress in my family.
My grandmother sewed to support her children. Grandma could make anything. Well, let me amend that statement. She could and would make anything if she liked the fabric and
I am fascinated by shoes, especially since I have mobility issues and can’t wear what I want. Now I do have my fashion fetishes though shoes are not one. That was my mother’s. She thought of herself as an Imelda Marcos of shoes. Couldn’t walk past a shoe department. If I had anything, it was probably the irresistible lure of flip flops. Still, certain shoes have marked certain times in my life.
I hate now that I have to wear flat, primarily oxford shoes. My goal is not to look orthopedic or old. This winter I bought a nice pair of metallic slip ons at Clark’s. Normally, this might be a Sunday afternoon jeans kind of shoe but it’s my alternative to my shiny black male bankers shoes. It’s been comfortable in the winter.
Another factoid about me. I like to go shoeless and barefoot. Years ago, I worked for a man who said, “Sweetie, I pay you enough to wear shoes.” I was known for being in meetings and taking them off. I used to have really tough feet too due to going barefoot all the time. The one place I really perspire is through my feet. So, I never wear hose with shoes, if I wear shoes when it’s warm. Things have changed and I cannot leave the house without the spectral leg and hence the ugly shoes.
I had interviews with three companies over two days in NYC this week. In the past, these would have been in great locations and all walkable. And it was in the 80’s. Technically, according to my doctor, I am not supposed to be in NYC in that kind of heat. On Monday, I had to walk 2 blocks and a bit to my 2nd interview. Caught a cab back to Penn but walked a little further than normal. I had the beginnings of a blister, the Clarks with no hose.
The other thing that has been happening with this new spectral leg is that the bottom of my foot burns. It feels as if it’s on fire. I can’t take the shoes off by myself. Well, actually I can take them off, just can’t put them back on. This adds to the irritation as I try and wiggle them around.
Back for the second round on Tuesday. I don’t want to look too formal but because it’s an interview I can’t wear the gladiator sandals that work with the spectral leg. Back into the Clarks with bandages. By the time I get off the train I realize this is not working. Ever resourceful, I try to shove lidocaine cream and tissues into the shoe. I have long nails so this isn’t primo either.
The interview is on Broadway, literally a block and a bit from Penn. However, I don’t want to arrive staggering. Due to blister I miss the bus and have to stand out in the hot sun for 8 (I counted) minutes. So, when I take the bus one stop and have to cross the street, it’s not going well. I then interview with two different people on two different floors. What do I do in the waiting room? I lust after the other people’s shoes. I see someone with red -soled Louboutin’s. A beautiful flat strippy sandal.
There is no bus the other way and it takes me almost 40 minutes to walk the block back. A businessman on 32nd Street asked me if I needed help and when I said “no, one step at a time”, he told me I was still pretty. Being vain, that brought a smile to my face. However, by the time I started to cross 7th avenue, I needed help. An homeless veteran helped me the last few feet and one of the sightseeing bus hawkers helped me to the escalator. I missed my train but continued to stagger through Penn. Walk ten steps, rest 30 seconds. I made it to the wall of the police substation. They noticed and an officer let me sit on the bench inside. It helped enormously. Staggered to the train and then down the two flights of concrete stairs to the car. I did not cry. Just kept powering through. Tom nearly cried when I got in the door and took off my shoe. He wouldn’t even let me get off the chair for an hour.
My foot is a swollen, infected mess. I did well on the interviews despite that.
This brings me to a memory. I lived almost two miles from high school and I hated it. I did frequently what I am known to do. I walk away. Well, now I really can’t but voting with my feet is the way I have handled my life. So, I used to literally just walk out of school. Sometimes, I’d go back. I was also brought up to be my own person and not go with the crowd. But high school is still high school. I bought a pair of red suede baby huey shoes for $3 at Thom McCann. This was huge. My allowance at the time might have been $1 a week. I am also my grandmother’s child. She was a precursor of the “It’s better to look good than to feel good” school of thinking. So, I wore my hard as rock red suede shoes with a fine wale lavender corduroy pant and lavender Missoniesque body suit to school. Decided I didn’t want to be there and left. Halfway home I felt hurt. Pre-cellphone plus I was cutting school. Arrived home and my gran and dad were horrified (Ma was at work). The hems of my lavender pants were red and matched my shoes. Not only had I burst blisters but had gone almost to the bone.. I literally couldn’t go to school for three days.
Which brings me to me and Ma. She always told me she had a high tolerance for pain. She said childbirth was vastly overrated. She used to have her teeth drilled without Novocain. And the implication always was that I couldn’t. Yet, look what I have done even going back that far. I just sucked it up and kept on going. I do deal with pain and uncertainty. I need to acknowledge I am brave. I keep on going and ignore the inconvenient.
On the down side, I was practically in tears going to Penn this week. I used to walk to midtown in a third of the time it took me to walk one block. I HATED looking and acting like the fragile elderly. I REFUSE!
Tresswann Shall Rise Again - Living Life! 