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Supplicant
My mother gave me up before either of us knew the value of a mother. After her death, I no longer confuse longing with love.
By Kathryn Harrison
[05/11/00]

ILOVEYOUTOO!
Let's take a moment to appreciate the brutal sexual politics of the love virus.
By Jonathan Poletti
[05/10/00]

My four favorite photos of my mother
Her true selves are revealed, as real as uncut gems.
By Amy Bloom
[05/10/00]

My mother the nun
It's true she was a bride of Christ -- just don't ask for details of the marriage.
By Theresa Rusho
[05/10/00]

Summer of the monkey-boys
A hot summer day, a carload of teenage boys and a dangerous driving mistake reveal a mom's capacity to pardon boyhood transgressions.
By Colin Harrison
[05/09/00]

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After a month or so, we, the circus players, felt confident enough to put on a show. One sunny afternoon, our mothers and two or three unemployed fathers bought tickets for the big event. We said that the money would be used for charity. As most of our families lived off small pensions of all sorts, it was true enough.

Also Today Supplicant My mother gave me up before either of us knew the value of a mother. After her death, I no longer confuse longing with love. By Kathryn Harrison The series An introduction to this week's series By Jennifer Foote Sweeney Beyond Hearts and Flowers We devote a week to Mother's Day and the messages that don't fit on the cards.

The show started at exactly 4 p.m. We made a pyramid, performed spicy clown jokes, walked on our hands in a zigzag formation and manipulated marionettes. We performed with great skill and received yells and applause from our astonished crowd. When I looked up, I saw my mother smiling and clapping her delicate hands, as charming as ever.

After everyone had gone home for dinner, my mother sat at the wooden table and asked me to join her. I suspected that she had something serious to tell me.

"Darling," she said, "was the circus your idea?"

"You know it was, Mom."

"Hadn't you started training long before the others joined you?"

"Not really," I said. "Maybe a week earlier."

"A week is a long time," she said. "Don't you agree that you're the best athlete and the funniest clown?"

Of course I didn't object. Instead, I agreed enthusiastically.

"So why," she finished dramatically, "why were you not the star? Why did I have to look for you among the others?"

She had caught me by surprise. I hadn't given it a single thought. I had enjoyed performing in the circus so much, I hadn't wished it differently.

"Well?" she asked.

"It was fun, Mom," I said.

"Fun!" she mimicked me. "Fun! How will you survive in this world?"

The words were familiar, and they didn't have the impact my mom had probably wanted them to have. I knew she would always be there for me. She was so beautiful, so smart and strong. She would protect me. After all, I was only a plump little girl with problems in math.

Sometimes I would ask my mother: From whom had I inherited my looks, my difficulties in school, my awkwardness?

And she would answer: "Your father, too, had to struggle his way around, darling. May angels guard his soul."

I understood that my dad had already gone to heaven because he had not been suited for this world.

Now I edit cookbooks. I never use curtains as background in my photographs. They remind me of "Gone With the Wind."

I sometimes recall how my mom showed me the ways to win in this world. I remember that she said I shouldn't express emotion. It is very likely that she was right.

During the years that followed the big circus show, I tried to follow the paths of my mother's practical mind. I was not surprised when I grew taller and received good grades at school. I knew that I could go further than anyone else. Because I was fortunate enough to be her daughter, everything was possible.

That was why I was so shocked when my mother became sick. It was the year that I turned 14. She refused to go to the hospital because, she said, she knew better than the doctors what was best. My French aunt hired a nurse to help her. My mother was not pleased. It was more than we needed, as she put it.

It took my mother three months to die. For three months she repeated everything she had ever taught me and added some new ideas. She looked like a skeleton at that stage, and I was afraid. Nevertheless, she held on -- alive and talkative -- until she felt that I might survive without her.

Then she kissed my tears, said she trusted me to win and died. It was all done according to her precisely calculated timing.

She was perfect for this world.
salon.com | May 11, 2000

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