Dear Neighbor,
It’s May, so let’s talk about mothers as their day approaches. Mothers come in all shapes and stripes. But most are good, loving and, at the very least, try.
My own mother, my first mother, the one who birthed and raised me, died in 1992, four years after my father passed. Though I was an adult, I was still the first of my peer group to bear the dodgy title of “orphan.” It was jarring and hard.
That year I began teaching Spanish at the University of St. Thomas, where they had a program called “Parents on Campus,” i.e., if your darling was a full-time student, you could take any class you wanted free of charge so long as there was room — kind of like flying standby.
I loved having parents in my classes. While the majority of enrolled students were taking Spanish because they had to, to fulfill the language requirement, the parents came because they wanted to, and added a wiser attitude towards learning — that it’s fun — and this kept the “kids” in line.
In the fall of 1993, my life was seemingly going gangbusters — professionally, financially, socially, romantically — a life many would regard as “having it all.” But I didn’t.
Then along came Mary.
After any term’s first class there was always a line of last-minute students, registration form in hand, awaiting my signature to let them in. This time there was a woman, clearly a parent, who’d positioned herself at the end of the line — standby, I assumed.
Her turn finally came; by then it was just the two of us, but no document in hand, just questions.
First question: “Dorothy, what’s your middle name?” “Marie,” I answered. Her reply: “I knew it! My mother is Dorothy Marie, my sister is Dorothy Marie, and you’re Dorothy Marie. I knew you were meant to be part of our family.
At this point 99.9% of people would think this lady was nuts. I didn’t. I simply wondered, how did she know that the one thing missing in my life, the one thing I desperately wanted and needed, was a family?
Our parents’ will had been manipulated by one of my siblings, and this betrayal, among others, fractured what was left of the family, transforming it into Fight Club. That’s no way to live and, finally, I left the system. It’s the hardest decision I’ve ever made, but the hard decisions we make in life allow us to discover and become who we really are. Still, I was anchorless. My middle name granted me entry to this lovely woman’s family? Excellent. I was all in.
In any budding relationship, the usual next step is an invitation to meet for coffee. Not Mary’s – she cut to the chase: “Wanna go to Puerto
Rico?” My reply: “Sure.” Mary explained that she ran a travel agency, was planning a tour of the country in December, that I could go along as the official interpreter. And that’s how I spent my winter break. I had a blast.
Eight months later we were back in San Juan on another junket. One afternoon after days of nonstop touring, we kicked back in our hotel room, ordered room service (burgers, fries, a bottle of wine) and watched the preliminary hearings for the O.J. Simpson trial on TV. Now, it was my turn for questions.
I’d just gotten engaged, and I asked Mary to be my mother of the bride. Her answer: “Yes!” Mine was a loving, yet practical, request. I couldn’t bear the thought of the empty front pew where my parents should sit. What’s more, Mary added, “I’d be honored.” And it turned out that though my request was for a day, her response was for a lifetime.
My Uncle Kenneth walked me down the aisle, and Mary sat in the front pew along with her mother, Dorothy Marie. Mary was listed in the program as “Madre Especial,” and that is who she is to this day. I was folded into Mary’s family – she was then divorced with four grown children, all of whom welcomed me as I welcomed them into my life.
Mary, whom I call Madre, is now married to a wonderful man, Mike, whom I call Padre. Both of Serbian descent, they call me Dragica, which means precious. At Mary and Mike’s wedding, standing in the family photos was one of the happiest moments of my life. Over the years I’ve called Madre countless times for motherly advice, and she always delivers. Being part of this family didn’t change my life: It saved my life.
If your first mother isn’t present, physically or emotionally, be open to a new person starring in that role and to her motherly magic. Mothers, like angels, are everywhere and can save broken hearts and souls, as Mary saved mine.
Motherhood, like family, is about love. Happy Mother’s Day to all. Y Feliz Día de la Madre, a mi Madre Especial.
