Things My Mother Said
David Hatem
I sometimes joke that my mother was the CEO of our family of 10 children, bringing order to all that went on in a family with so many kids. I am not quite sure how she did this, but she certainly had this down. Since the time when she held her position, there has been much written about the features of an effective CEO. She read none of this. In fact, she would likely be described as a managerial leader—-the most ineffective type of leader according to experts, focusing on managing and controlling people and processes. I have no opinion on this. After all, I was the fifth of 10 children, the inflection point between my parents’ decision to have a basketball team of kids or a baseball team. But at number 5 she had already had plenty of time to work out her processes, so they were automatic by the time that I came around. As long as I can remember, when we were getting ready for bed and changing into pajamas, we would carefully place our t-shirts on a chair in our rooms, as the unwritten rule was that T-shirts could be worn for 2 days before they had to be laundered. No explanation was ever given…. or asked for. It was just the way it was. She had control of the process (and the people).
There were things she did say to us consistently. “Don’t yell at me from two rooms away”—this was a way to say that we should talk directly to people, maybe even make eye contact, or if we had any expectation of an answer that we had to be assured that we were heard. Maybe this is why my brother-in-law, an only child made that observation that we were one of the quietest families he had ever met; no yelling in the house, no talking from two rooms away, we might be squirreled away in a corner of the house, reading a book or daydreaming
She had some typical parental go-to’s, destined to be passed down from one generation to another an inevitable consequence of changing tastes in music. So, just like we are now with our own children, she would utter the parentally obligated “how can you listen to that noise?” as we listened to the latest album we had purchased…endlessly, and our kids listened to CD’s and now music that is streamed.
Some things were simply beyond reach. Even before my youngest brother was born, my 1970’s Bruins inspired desire to play hockey was met by a simple monosyllabic response, an unequivocal “no”, an obvious response to anyone considering how to manage my schedule with 8 other schedules and the need for ice time at all hours of the day or night.
There were times that she said things that suggested that maybe, just maybe she could get overwhelmed. When no other parent could pick us up after we had showered upon finishing track practice, she would famously inquire, “why don’t you run home?”
She once suggested that I should have managed up, and prepared her better as our leader when she told me: “You should have said you were going to win an award I would have gotten you a new jacket and shirt”—the picture of me in the high school year book at some awards banquet with a red jacket and a gingham shirt, large checkered pattern, that to some people today might be said to more resemble a table cloth.
I do remember a few times, thankfully relatively rare for this 5th child who was expected to hold it together, when she would be talking with my father, expressing some frustration with everything that was going on, and everything that she was expected to do, maybe even something he was expecting, and she would start to cry… Managing this family, mostly on her own while my father worked outside the home, just felt too much that day for this managerial styled CEO. Thankfully, the next day, order was simply restored, something had happened overnight to right things, and just like that, all was back to normal our t-shirts, still resting on their chair.
She mostly was positive, giving people the benefit of the doubt, occasionally chastising us when we were being too much of a smart ass, a phrase she would never utter. Occasionally, if any such “smart” comments came up in conversation with her, she would directly remind us, “you know, you are not talking to another kid,” when we stepped over a line, our attempt at humor hitting a little too close, moving from sarcasm to disrespect. This was a sign that we were being a little too clever and weren’t considering how what we said would make others feel.
This was one of the worst sins you could commit, not being aware of others and taking into account their perspective. She reserved her worst character assessments for repeat offenders in this category saying “you know, they are so unconscious.” It was clear that you should know how what you said might make others feel.
At a time when we were older and chastisement was replaced by a gentler teasing, if we continued to overstep our bounds, she would sometimes say “you know, you can be replaced,” as if some other family would willingly trade their children for one of us.
There were a few things she didn’t say, that seemed to be understood. You should read, supported by our biweekly trips to the library. You should spend time with your family, as evidenced by our weekly trips on Sunday to our grandmother’s house. You should work hard each day, doing what is asked, and not asking questions. Well, she never went so far as to say that children should be seen not heard, but everyone could not be speaking at once so she was fine with a bunch of quiet introverted kids, who would sit and read. And if we were not content to sit and be quiet, we were sure to hear, “why don’t you go outside and run around?”
Even as we grew up and headed off to college, gradually emptied the house, she was so used to being busy taking care of a family of 10, that she kept just as busy when it was a family of eight or five, or one. Her being busy was the natural order of things, but now, sometimes replaced by sitting with you, always to eat, if you would come to visit. Those conversations were full, not with pithy phrases, but with updates what everyone in the family was doing, both immediate and extended. Her voice took up a little more space along with ours as we filled in details of our lives in different places.
And now, after my mother has passed, I can recall the times when I most missed her voice, the times when we might be struggling with one of our sons—the times when they told us they hated us, or that they couldn’t wait to get out of the house, or directly told us that life would be so much easier if they just didn’t have to talk to us. There were times, when these boys told their mom that they thought she should have a job, not stay at home, and she didn’t have to be home when they came home from school. And then there were the times, seemingly endless times, when they told us they were fine, their day was fine, that nothing really happened, and then they would retreat to their room, door closed, unresponsive until they needed us to do something for them…right away! I would find myself, awake at night, not at all sure of what to do and I wondered what she would say. She never spoke about raising children with us, yet having raised 10 children, I was sure she would know.
We were recently sitting with son #2, and he was discussing how a conversation with a partner had not gone well. Imagine our surprise when he went on to say how he thought, among other things, that if a mother wanted to stay home to concentrate on raising children that she should be able to do exactly that and this was as valuable as any job…Was he actually defending his mother and was this something his partner was disagreeing with? As he was learning the language of relationships, trying out his views, he seemed to be saying something new.
We had sworn we would raise our kids differently, talk with them, share in their events, ask them about their ups and downs. What we hadn’t realized in their adolescence was that they did not care or want to reciprocate…their whole goal was to be “not us” and to get out on their own.
In hearing his defense of his mother come out of our son’s mouth, I suddenly realized what my mother might have said if we had been able to discuss our struggles with raising monosyllabic adolescent boys. As this task is positioned more in the background, i can imagine her saying “just give it some time, they will figure it out” or “just love them by being there, you may not need to say anything…” a lesson she embodied well.
It is now that my mother is forever silent, that I have been thinking again about what she might say to me. And I realize, that if I am quiet enough, I can hear her speaking. And what she is saying is a bit different than I remember…
You can save your t-shirts …but you don’t have to.
You can speak up, you don’t need to be silent, but don’t make either one of these your only habit.
I hope you read—she created a family of readers who use it to learn and sometimes transport themselves to other worlds.
You should listen to understand what they are saying.
And while we still shouldn’t yell at her from two rooms away, she would save her most important message for last…. You should love your family, and you should be there, someday, they may love you back.
David Hatem is a General Internist here at UMass since 1988. Early in his practice he realized the personal value of reflecting on his day to day practice through writing. He co-created Writing Elective for medical students along with Emily Ferrara, an educational administrator and poet and has been leading this since 1997. He has been involved in numerous Medical Humanities initiatives and co founded the Medical Humanities Lab designed to promote humanities initiatives. For 15 years he co-directed the Learning Communities program and now directs the Health Education Academy for Leadership and Learning
