My mother's mother (Grandma) was born in 1918 and came of age during the Depression. Grandma survived an incredibly abusive first marriage to a man who gave her a son, as well as a back alley abortion that nearly killed her. She watched her own brother shoot her husband to death in order to protect her from being strangled by her husband's drunken hands. As a single mother during World War II, Grandma worked as a welder to support her son. She made very good money, and insured that her son had all that he needed. However, she felt that her son needed a father, and she married my grandfather in 1946. She gave birth to my mother in 1948 and, in 1953, she had another son with my grandfather. Carrying baggage from her first marriage, Grandma was very hard on my grandfather and they frequently quarreled -- sometimes physically. While I never heard them profess their love for one another, I was cognizant of the care they showed for one another through their daily actions. Although Grandma died when I was only ten years old, I still remember her as a strong, independent woman who ran her own beauty salon out of her home. Knowing the example my Grandma had provided for my mother, I could not understand how my mother could seem so weak and insecure -- and why was she so depressed?
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, depression is a psychiatric disorder with symptoms such as misery, anguish, or guilt. In my naïveté, I couldn't imagine what my mother was so miserable about in her life. From my perspective, she had survived two failed marriages while raising a very headstrong daughter in the process. While she did not receive her GED until I was twelve years old, she strongly encouraged and supported me the whole time I was an undergraduate in college. She was capable, when healthy, of working full-time and supporting herself without the assistance of a man. Why was she so depressed? It would take years of living with my mother as an adult for me to finally understand the depths of her own lack of self-confidence.
Upon the advice of her neurologist, my mother spent two weeks in a mental health facility. Although she signed herself in, she did so under the influence of my 'motherly' insistence that she must. I will never forget the look on my mother's face as I turned to leave her in the facility. To correct the damage to one her left eye, she was wearing a patch over her right eye. She was very thin and was sitting in a wheelchair. With an expression of childlike fear on her face, she whispered goodbye. Thinking of that moment now, nearly nine years later, my own eyes fill with tears and the lump in my throat is still present. Leaving my mother that day was as difficult for me as it was to leave my daughter in day care. I make this analogy because although he had never attempted it, I lived in fear daily of the possibility that my soon-to-be ex-husband might pick my daughter up from day care and disappear. At that point in my life, my mother and my daughter were the only two people in the world that I felt I could trust to love me unconditionally. They were also the two people for whom I was solely responsible. If I could not be certain each morning that either one would be safe and secure, how could I possibly be expected to teach eighth grade English in a coherent manner? And yet, I knew that I must remain strong and continue to work in order to maintain some sense of individual sanity, as well as to provide financial support for the three of us.
In time, and with the help of numerous medications, my mother's physical and mental health improved. She found work as a receptionist in an office near our home, and began to regain some of her independence. The smile that I remembered so well from my childhood returned to her face, as living with my daughter and me gave her something she had been missing -- female companionship. Although her own mother had been dead for twenty years, she still felt and acted like the dutiful daughter. Having never lived on her own until the three years preceding this decline in her health, she truly was ill equipped to make decisions for herself. Since I have always had a domineering personality, making decisions for my mother came naturally to me. This new responsibility also allowed me to avoid my own marital problems, and I threw myself into the care of my mother and child.
After fifteen months of separation, it became clear to me that my marriage was truly over and I filed for divorce. I was determined that I would never again let any man control my life for an entire decade. I would make my own decisions just as I had as an undergrad ten years before. However, the rules had now changed. With numerous responsibilities such as my child, my mother, my home, my pets, and myself to contend with, Gloria Gaynor's, I Will Survive, became my mantra. God help the man who dared to cross my path in an attempt to befriend me! Yet, I began to question how I came to be such a strong, independent woman when my mother was apparently quite the opposite. I also became aware of my mother's influence over my daughter and began to counteract her actions that I viewed as negative female stereotypes with positive, strong examples. While my mother and daughter had tea parties and princess play, I participated as the voice of (what I perceived to be) feminism with quips such as, "someday my prince will come -- but only on my terms."
Whether it was divine intervention or just dumb luck, I reluctantly met the man who is now my husband. He readily accepted the fact that he would be last in line for my attention and affection, and rarely complained about living with so many women. Two more daughters later, his complaining has increased slightly, but he still admires and loves the strength he sees in me and hopes that I pass it along to our daughters. In a world which pits man against woman in so many arenas, my macho, Italian husband has no qualms in admitting that he is not the "lord of the manor," but rather submits to his wife's decisions 95 percent of the time. When some people call me a bitch, my husband calls me babe -- and I am not offended by either title. This returns me to the nagging, rhetorical question of my life -- how did I evolve into the woman I am today (strong or stubborn – you choose the adjective)?
All of this leads me to further question if the second wave of feminism during the 1960s and 1970s resulted in the empowerment of white women, how did my own 'white' mother miss the movement? She was in her teens and twenties -- a time typically known for rebellion in a person's life. Also, how did a woman so afraid of change and naïve to the ways of the world raise a daughter (me) who is strong and fearless? Is education the key difference between my mother and I? As a graduate student studying American female authors, I encounter feminist theory on a daily basis. I am now able to give labels to some facets of my life. Yet, I also see inherent contradictions between theory and practice. Was my grandma too domineering for my mother's sense of self? Why didn't she foster a sense of female independence in her own daughter?
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