The typewriter that my mom used in her high school typing class...the shoes she wore as a child...I carry these mementos from place to place with me as a reminder. Now, however, I wonder - what am I trying to remember? What is it that I don't want to forget?
The answer has been crystalizing over the past months as I have embarked on a new life journey. This mother of mine who described me as a fussy baby, who taught me how to be afraid, why do I carry her around with me in the form of a typewriter and little girl's school shoes?
Well, my mother was a writer. Oh, she didn't write for anyone but herself but she loved to write. She loved this, along with many other things, but never had the opportunity to do. The reason was not because of personal limitations or lack of motivation or desire. The reason she never had the opportunity to live out her dreams was because of the expectations and demands of others...and maybe that ugly word, FEAR! My mother was born in 1921. Women had just been given the "right" to vote! Still, women had roles that they were expected to carry out. During my mother's lifetime, she described how she almost wasn't allowed to attend high school until a Catholic school opened up. College was out of the question. All this education was unnecessary for a girl. Her dad dictated who she could and could not date. They, too, had to be Catholic. The Catholic church dictated that there be no form of birth control used other than what they called the "rhythm method". In the end, my mother had eleven pregnancies with six of us surviving.
By the time I came along, my mother was an angry woman. She was tired of laboring on a farm and caring for children especially me. Remember I was that fussy baby! Her bedroom "office" was her sanctuary. Any spare time she could find was spent banging away on this typewriter. She wrote beautifully descriptive pieces about mornings on the farm, the sounds of the birds, the gentle breezes blowing. She wrote about Christmas' and the excitement of children with their presents. She wrote poems and snapped pictures of other people and their new acquisitions. But she never wrote about her disappointments in life. She never wrote about her anger; how she would grab whatever stick was handy and start hitting and hitting and hitting...one of us!
If the written stories were all that was ever passed forward, one would believe that she had been a happy person with a gift of seeing the beauty in life. She was anything but happy! She instead lived a life dictated by others. She wrote about moments that perhaps gave her momentary joy and took out her rage on those of us who were handy.
Have you ever heard the saying "they broke the mold when they made you"! Well, I think that fussy baby was born to break the mold! I never could accept the idea that I had a dictated role to play. I never thought it was fair that girls were supposed to have specific girl roles! I broke the family cycle that said college was "unnecessary"! I worked full time and raised children but I left the Catholic birth control method at the door of the church! I did the best I could to raise my girls to believe in helping others but also to believe that their own personal dreams are possible as well.
I think now that I carry my mother's typewriter around with me to remember the heavy burden she endured. It's symbolic of all her unwritten dreams. She was a person who spent her life being told how to live, afraid to do what she really wanted to do. The typewriter holds the memories of all the anger and resentment that truly lived behind her beautifully typed descriptions of our life events.
Mom's typewriter is a symbol that says:
Mom's typewriter is a symbol that says:
- Don't let others hold you back.
- Demand the freedom to pursue your dreams with conviction and determination.
- You control how your life is written!
Sometimes others try to dictate my path and sometimes fear tries to take over but, in the end, strength prevails! I have more dreams yet unwritten!
Fussy baby has more to add to her life story!
No comments:
Post a Comment