This is my mother at home in Hawaii where she's lived since 1951 when she married my father. Born Berneva Gertrude Rush she now goes by the adopted name of "Leilani."  My mother and I aren't close ... we aren't even near.  My mother is quite the opposite of my father.  I often wonder why and for what reason she married him.  It was always obvious that he adored her but she always seemed to find fault in him and everything he ever did.  Come to think of it, that's the way she's always been towards me as well.

Born the oldest of two children, whose youngest brother died at about 2 months old (he was called a "blue baby"), my mother grew up in a family that was strongly religious.  My grandfather, Charles Rush, was a Southern Baptist minister and had a parish in Texas until my grandmother died.  He then took up the preaching circuit and traveled throughout the south.  This left my mother being raised mainly by nannies.

The death of my mother's mother was hard on her.  Dying at around 40, when my mother was only 9, left her with an abnormal memory of her mother.  When we're that young, our parents can do no wrong and are, therefore, viewed as perfect.  The trouble, with some, when we lose a parent so young is that we never outgrow that perfect view of them.  My grandmother, Gertrude Susan Meadows, was a goddess in my mother's eyes and I was constantly compared to her.  A hard act to follow, I can assure you.

Grandma and I do bear a striking resemblance ... both dark haired and olive skinned and tall (she was 5'9" in the 20s) my mother would often sit at my bedside and cry, saying how much I looked like her mother.  The difference, though, was that I am not my grandmother.   My grandmother was an accomplished violinist, a woman of high social acceptance (being the wife of a preacher brought that title), she was graceful, gentile and just plain wonderful! And while I never wanted to be like her and don't think now that I am not just as good, it was and is my mother that sees me as less than her mother. Because if I have all the attributes of her mother, then I must be equal to her mother and that is impossible for her to accept.

It was many years after I left home, had my own daughter and sought counseling to find out if I was as screwed up as my mother had be believe, that I found out some insight about her.  It helped a lot to understand where she comes from but it has never helped to repair the canyon she's put between us because she doesn't recognize these things about herself.

Simply put:  My mother isn't happy with who she is.  She wants to be her mother ... to be what she considers beautiful, talented and loved by all.  I think my mother is very pretty and she is very talented with a voice like a lark's and she plays the ukulele like a natural Hawaiian.  But she sees herself as the ruddy red haired Irishwoman that looks like a female carbon copy of her father ... and not the Black Irish Raven Haired mother that she adores.

So, as I grew up in both my mother's shadow and my grandmother's ... I found nothing I did could break the mold she had formed for me.  You see, she already acknowledged that she thought I was beautiful (since I look like grandma, that can't be denied by her) [I am not saying that *I* think I am beautiful, but that my mother thinks I am.  I want to make that clear.]  Since the physical can't be denied she spent my whole life denying the non-tangible ... my talent, my intelligence and my choices in life.  Basically, they were all wrong or weak.

I recall how many years I begged to learn to play the piano but was always told no.  Since I had no musical talent it would be a waste of money, she'd say.    I finally stopped asking.  I remember years of her drilling into me the importance of a good education all the while sharing her experiences on the musical stage with me.  When I graduated from high school I thought I'd make her happy and announced my desire to go to UCLA and get my Dramatics Art Major.  Her reply?  "You, go to college?  Why you're not smart enough."  It took me over a year to get over that!  I literally spent it in my bedroom, coming out only to eat and use the bathroom.  And when my daughter was born, her letter started out: "What a beautiful child!" and concluded with: "At last you've done something right!"

But still I kept on hanging in there, hoping one day she'd realized if I was as stupid as she kept saying I was how had I managed to live this long.  When I asked her that she quipped: "I have often wondered that myself."  Oh well, ... I tried.

Now, many years later she still insists she loves me but just doesn't love what I am.  I don't get that ... I just don't!  It's not like I'm a drug runner, a child molester, a bank robber, a murderer ... I'm just not her or my grandmother.

Two years ago I set down some rules.  Explaining that it was high time that I be treated like the adult that I am and that if I couldn't get the respect I deserved then we wouldn't communicate anymore ... we couldn't communicate anymore.  We haven't spoken since.

So basically, I have a woman that bore me and was there while I was growing up but I don't know what it's like to have a mother.  I envy people that have good relationships with their mothers.  It's a beautiful sight to behold and I hope all of them are aware of how fortunate they are!  I have worked hard at not repeating the same things where my daughter is concerned.  So far, it seems to be a good relationship.

In that I'm happy.
 
 

By:  Jane Byron Dean
12/98