Noise Reduction
quiet reflections on life in a loud worldArchive for March, 2009
Thinking of Mom
I woke this morning with a very specific image on the brain: My mom, sitting at the counter in our old kitchen, drinking her coffee quietly while morning activity swirled and buzzed around her. This came to me as, in the background, the Hobbit was shouting from his bed, “MOM! I wake up!” The husband was away, so I couldn’t throw him an elbow and ask him to answer the call. But, with Mom on the brain, I ignored the little man for a bit. After all, I didn’t want to be awake, and I definitely wasn’t ready to switch on my mother persona. No, I was most definitely not ready to be cheerful, creative, patient, encouraging, in charge, not in charge, flexible or on top of things.
“Mah-mah!” the Hobbit shouted. “I can’t hear you!”
Oh hush, I thought, and rolling onto my side, I looked at Mom, realizing that I was seeing her in a new way. To the right, to the left, behind and in front of her were kids – my siblings and me – doing the things that kids do before heading off to school: eating cereal, spilling milk, clanking peanut butter-covered knives into the sink, arguing, complaining, querying Mom about lost items – yet there was Mom, sitting quietly. I’d never noticed her before. I suppose I’d only noticed the activity. But there she was. Right there. Ignoring us all, insofar as she could, for just a moment or two.
My mom had eight kids. Eight kids! Only they were never kids to her. We were “children”, because Mom grew up on a ranch, where kids were baby goats not human offspring. But still, the fact remains: there were eight of us and I tell ya, every day I’m a mother I respect her, feel for her, thank her and, I think, understand her a little bit more. I also, sometimes, feel a little bit lazy. Like this morning, when I was lying there ignoring the Hobbit. Who am I to complain? I asked myself. I have only one. What about all those women with two, three, and so on? What about Mom, for goodness sakes!
There was so much that Mom just got done. Our lives were organized. Our clothes were clean. Our hairs were brushed, our fridge was stocked and every night other than the occasional Sunday pizza night a hot meal was freshly cooked and dished out in a most civilized manner. Mom was – is – the sort of person who just got on with the business of life with a smile, and I must confess that sometimes I’ve found that example more than I can live up to. I mean, not only am I not always smiling, but also, the dishes are not always done and the food is not always cooked with care (if cooked at all – Takeout anyone?). Moreover, the Hobbit’s hair is sometimes a mess and, let’s face it, so is mine. Sigh.
The Hobbit was calling: “Maaaa-mahhhhh! Where are you?!”
“I’m coming!” I shouted back, “I’m coming!” And at last I pushed myself to sitting. Before I stood up though, I sat there on the edge a minute, watching Mom savor her last sip, happy that at least once in a while, she took a little time for herself.
Guantánamo, Guantánamo
Wherefore art thou, Guantánamo?
While the Hobbit learned to speak Spanish this morning, I sat in a cafe reading about the last days of the Guantánamo prison camp. It was an article in the SF Weekly, and actually it was as much about the first days of Guantánamo as the last. The first days, the first months, the first years – when torture was the norm and the Bush Administration was totally out of control. The dissonance between the clink and clatter and thrum of the cafe, and the descriptions of the abuses at Guantánamo was so great, I had to keep setting the paper down in order to keep my mental balance. And each time I did, I thought, Guantánamo, Guantánamo. Why, why, why?
As my mind wandered, I thought of the men who’d been held there. Who are still being held there. Of the people who’ve been guards there, of Abu Ghraib, of the veterans coming back from Afghanistan and Iraq and the suicide rates among them. I thought of the prisons scattered all over this country and all the violence and degradation they contain. And I thought about my little Hobbit. My sweet little creature, who knows nothing of violence and degradation.
I couldn’t help wondering, What will I tell the Hobbit about Guantánamo when he’s older? How will I explain how we let it happen? How I, who have worked with torture victims, listened to their stories and helped them put their stories down on paper; who knows something of the lasting harm that torture does and the utter uselessness of it – how I have done nothing, other than cast a couple of votes, to stop it?
I don’t know, I thought. I really don’t know. And then: Perhaps now is a good time to do something more.
