Yiddishe Mamas (17 page)

We give and we give and what do we expect for our devotion? Their happiness and success, naturally. But a
bissel nakhes wouldn’t
hurt, either. It’s not only quid pro quo, but we see our children’s successes as the ultimate goodness life can offer us. The definition of success has changed significantly since shtetl days, as we’ve assimilated American values into our own belief system, but one thing hasn’t changed: Guilt.

“When control tends to hang on too long, the mother can become the victim, the martyr,” says the author of
Cutting Loose,
Dr. Howard Halpern.

In
The 2,000 Year Old Man in the Year 2000,
Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner discuss guilt. Despite the fact that the 2,000-year-old man invites his parents—who have traveled in the rain to see him—they refused to enter. They didn’t want to be a “bother.” Besides, they ate squirrels and berries on the way. All they wanted was for their son to think of himself, as they are “nothing.” And such may have started guilt.

“When my mother was in an old-age home and asked how I was, not a single time could I fall asleep again,” says Theodore Bikel.

Men in Black
director Barry Sonnenfeld recalled one of his most embarrassing moments. As a youngster, attending the first Earth Day concert in 1970, the event was interrupted by a call on the loudspeaker with an urgent announcement: “Barry Sonnenfeld, call your mother.”

The only child of a Jewish family, Sonnenfeld went to NYU because his mother threatened to commit suicide if he went to a “sleepaway” school.

Sometimes guilt can backfire as our daughters learn the knack:

But another side of unerring devotion, unbridled love, and sacrifice can also be unequivocal acceptance—and more.

If, despite our adoration, suffering, advice, worry, and sacrifice, our child errs, is hurt, or doesn’t always grab that brass ring, there are a few quite so supportive as the Jewish mother. I have no doubt we were the ones who developed “spin” and the ability to put “a good face” on almost everything involving our children.

When actress Gina Gershon landed her role in
Showgirls,
she called her mother with the good news. When the actress slowly imparted she was dancing naked and kissing another woman, and maybe having sex with her, her mother wanted to know if she was a nice girl.

“My mother’s best quality was that in her eyes I was perfect,” says Mallory Lewis about her mother, Shari Lewis. “She was always on my side,” adds Mallory, whose “sibling” was a puppet— Lamb Chop. Was she ever jealous of her “little sister” who, when Mal was young, got all the public attention? She laughed, “Not at all. I knew she was a sock. But Lamb Chop was a source of comfort. Today, my own son will tell Lamb Chop secrets which mom will never hear!”

Like her mother, Mallory is convinced her progeny is perfect. “Whenever we have a disagreement I convince him I know best because, I tell him, ‘I made you in my tummy.’ He’s seven and
he’s already had a girlfriend. My son is going to be a wonderful hubby. Like my own mother, I support him totally.”

“When I had my first child, that was it, I was a mom and my husband would moonlight so I could stay home and give my children the very best,” says Melanie Strug. “I think it mattered. I was always there.”

Many of those children who have written about their shtetl moms, or the absolute devotion of the Jewish ethno-typical mom, have done so with great admiration, even adoration.

“Talk about outsiders … I’m a left-handed, gay Jew,” Congressman Barney Frank (D-MA) told the
New York Times
in 1996. When Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays asked his mother to add to their cookbook, she e-mailed her recipe for mandel bread, he reported in
Stars of David.
She also made speeches on his behalf. In a 1982 campaign ad, she said: “How do I know he’ll protect Social Security? Because I’m his mother.”

“My mother thought everything I did was perfect,” said legendary New York Congresswoman Bella Abzug. “And if I was scolded in school, she’d go to the school and scold the teacher. In fact when I was elected to Congress, election night, she said, ‘I always knew Bella would make it. Because she always did her homework and practiced her violin without being asked to do so.’ In addition to which [when asked] ‘How do you account for Bella’s success?’ She answered: ‘I was always there … I was there.’ And indeed she was.”

The Jewish mother’s largess is not only directed at our own children. With an abundance of adoration and experience, along with our strong belief in children as our hope for the future, we often expand our mothering through our work—and most definitely in our personal interactions. As Mallory Lewis, daughter of the late Shari Lewis, puts it: “You’re not a mother just to who you gave birth to, but you’re the universal mother to everyone you come in contact with.”

Probably nowhere is this universal mothering more profoundly seen than in Israel, where the constant threat of violence requires an exquisite connection among all—and vigilance over all.

Devorah Talia Gordon described a trip to Israel when a woman approached, started speaking to her in urgent Hebrew,
and gestured to her fourteen-month-old son who was sucking on a lollipop. It seems the woman was saying “no good”—that it was dangerous for a toddler. Ms. Gordon concluded that in Israel, a Jewish child belongs to everyone, as though all were part of a large extended family.

T
he intimacy between mother and daughter, much described in articles and books, is unique and dynamic. As we share the same gender, the relationship between us is a complex affair, made even more complicated when mother and daughter not only come from different generations, but different daily cultural experiences. As our first and usually primary nurturer, the bond between us is almost unshakeable, as is our early need for approval and love.

American sthetl-thinking, along with feminism, double whammied this tender relationship, making it very precarious at times. Loving daughters now found themselves at odds with the beliefs, roles, and behavior that our mothers thought were fitting.

During the 1950s and 1960s, the Jewish mother, along with many, expected her daughters to be virgins on the marriage bed, and to feather it, as her natural role in life. Careers, particularly teaching, were pushed, as they offered time with “the children.” This, while the Gloria Steinems, Betty Friedans, and Helen Gurley Browns were not only telling us to break glass ceilings (and hymens) but showing us how to do so in columns, magazines, and books.

It’s been said one has daughters for the rest of your life. Yet, these daughters of the ‘60s were moving out of range. While the bond still fiercely held, the boomer daughter and her mother were often caught in a critical philosophical quagmire. With mom’s voice echoing, we daughters found ourselves emotionally divided.

We could have made life easier by keeping our own council and telling mom what she wished to hear. But many of us, like our own mothers, shared the tradition of emotional honesty, debate, and argumentation. More, we were still seeking mama’s approval.

For mama’s part of it, a great ambivalence existed. Yes, she wanted the best for us. But in this changing new world, did that still mean … “be a teacher and marry a doctor”? Especially when we wanted to
be the
doctor or even fly the space shuttle—or dated, slept with, or lived with a non-Jewish partner? By accepting or not accepting these changes, what then, was the Jewish mother saying about her own life? Her own values? Was she bending over so far backward she was abandoning her beliefs?

Today, almost two generations removed from the advent of feminism, mothers and daughters can reach an easier rapprochement. As mothers move closer to new, broader conceptions and their daughters become mothers, they often develop a mutual understanding. But the “negotiations” still continue.

“Susie and I have had our mother/daughter problems. We remember things completely differently,” says Zora Essman. “For example, she has this new boyfriend with children, in junior high and high school. Susie’s never been married or had kids. All of a sudden she’s soccer mom. She called me and said, ‘Ma, you had no idea what I had to do. I had to take one to ballet … to soccer,’ and on and on. Like she invented this.”

In
Every Mother Is a Daughter,
by Perri Klass and her mother Sheila Solomon Klass, they describe this generational difference. Although both mother and daughter married academic men and had three children while working full time, they’re markedly different. Sheila grew up during the Depression, and had to fight to get an education. Today, she still lives frugally, always taking subways instead of taxis. Despite her work schedule, a hot meal on the table was de rigeur, a sign of good parenting.

Daughter Perri, a pediatrician, raised in the privileged suburbs, spends money comfortably, thinks ordering take-out is fine, as is sending her children off with a handful of nuts, instead of a full breakfast.

The late playwright Wendy Wasserstein’s mother was given an award by NOW—for being her mother. Yet Wasserstein saw far better reasons.

Wasserstein referred to her mother’s … verve … as “Lola-isms,” because Lola Wasserstein was never like other mothers. (Once she arrived at Wendy’s apartment dressed as Patty Hearst … with beret and toy gun.) No Donna Reed, her mother was more Carmen Miranda—and wore fruited hats … because she was all “go-go.”

Lola Wasserstein would take the family to the great Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall every year—and bypass the impossible lines around the block by walking up to the
head usher and saying they were visitors from Kansas, in the city for one day only (she chose Kansas because the day before they watched
The Wizard of Oz).

When they dined at Luchows, the famous New York German restaurant, Lola decided Wendy was shy. So, once a month Lola would tell the oompah band it was Wendy’s birthday…and Wendy had to sit through an accordion rendition of ‘Happy Birthday.’”

Wendy never doubted her generosity … her love—even though separating herself from her children was impossible.