Grace

The past stayed the same. I didn’t.

Curmudg note: If you read last week’s column, I had promised Hubris––the C&R Clothiers piece—was up next. Change of plans–you’ll have to wait another week. Mother’s Day gets the nod today.

TL: DR: This isn’t a story about fixing the past. It’s about realizing the cost of holding onto it—and deciding, finally, it wasn’t worth it.

Of all the complicated and conflicted relationships in my life, none is more complicated and conflicted than the one with my mother. Present tense. My mother passed away in 1993, of pancreatic cancer, younger than I am now.

Even though neither of my parents is still here, their voices surely remain, keeping them always in the present tense.

And it’s a poignant memory of my mother’s prodding voice, which brings me to write about her this Mother’s Day.

Many of the not-so-proud parts of me are ones I inherited from her. The standouts are my ability to be both stubborn and punishing. (If you’re curious how it plays out, see I Wonder.)

No need to talk about my mother’s other not-so-proud parts. I’d rather focus on one specific event when I was fifteen. I was a very unsure, insecure boy, looking for a life raft while flailing in the unrelenting choppy waters of school.

After 8th grade, I transferred from public school to a small, all-boys private high school–Mining and Mechanical Institute (MMI), in nearby Freeland, PA. First year, my grades were mediocre. They spiraled downward for the three ensuing years; my attitude followed along. By graduation, it was unclear who was more relieved to see me go––me or MMI.

Given Hazleton’s population of 30,000, the Jewish community was quite large and robust. My social life revolved around it. I would hang out at the Jewish Community Center (JCC) on weekdays after school and on Sundays. I was involved with the Temple, had a Bar Mitzvah, and in 9th grade joined the Temple Youth Group (TYG). We were part of the Pennsylvania Federation of Temple Youth (PAFTY).

Late in my sophomore year, I went to my first PAFTY convention in Pittsburgh. I came home totally psyched. I loved everything about the event–meeting peers from all over the state, and being awed by down-to-earth Rabbis, who connected me to my religious heritage in a way I could never have dreamed possible.

I discovered hope and a newfound positive energy, and with it decided I wanted to do more––I wanted to be more. Starting with becoming the president of our TYG chapter. I excitedly approached the then-president (Ann Marie) weeks before the election and told her my plan. She said she’d take it up with the nominating committee (she and my next-door neighbor, Steven).

The nomination was a fait accompli as to who would be president. There was no such thing as an election or running against the nominees. At least it was the story I had told myself.

The day of the meeting, Ann Marie called to inform me that the committee had decided to nominate my best friend, David, who lived across the street. She said, “You can be president next year.”

I was crestfallen and felt like my legs had been taken out from under me. I didn’t want to be president in a year; I wanted to be president now. The air from the high I had felt after the convention in Pittsburgh felt like a balloon being run over by a truck. And to have David nominated over me was like pouring acid on an open wound.

The moment I hung up the phone, I began to drag my sorry self around the house, knowing once again I had been bested by David. My mother noticed my malaise and asked what was going on. When I told her about the nomination, her first words were, “Why don’t you run against David?”

After hearing the litany of excuses as to why I couldn’t run against David, she asked again.

“Why don’t you run against David?”

And for the next week, my mother was campaign manager and cheerleader, taking my half-empty glass and turning it into something I slowly began to see as a possibility. She sat me down, asked why I wanted to be president, who might vote for me, and why I thought I’d be a better president than David––all questions I hadn’t remotely considered before.

There were 20 kids in TYG*, and I knew immediately who 19 of them would vote for, based on friendships with me, David, and David’s girlfriend, Dale, who lived directly across the street.

The rules of the election were straightforward: there would be a first-ballot vote, and if there were a tie, a second vote. If there were another tie, Steven (the election Chair) would break it. I knew Steven would vote for David. He nominated the freakin’ guy.

But there was one person––Judy––I thought I could win over. By my count, her vote would be the difference between winning and losing. Unlike most of us, Judy wasn’t born in Hazleton. She was a transplant from New York, with the hard edge, the grit, yet the empathy that came from living in the big city.

Judy was also very close to Dale, but was no fan of David. My mother encouraged me to call her and ask for a face-to-face meeting. After patiently listening once again to my many “Why I can’t do thats,” my mother came up with yet another “Why.” As in, “Why not?”

A few days later, I nervously and furtively walked to Judy’s house, through David’s front and back yard. I sat down with her and explained why I wanted to be president, why I thought I’d be a good one, and how I knew she might be conflicted. And then I asked her for a favor. I asked her to vote for both of us––David on the first ballot, me on the second. She said she’d think about it.

Election day, first ballot. A 10-10 tie, as I expected. While we were writing our second ballots, I looked across the aisle toward Judy, who wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at Dale, who was standing up, speaking with someone else, her back to Judy. Judy turned her back to Dale, wrote my name on the ballot, looked at me, and smiled.

As the ballots were being counted, everyone in the room, except me, was shocked to hear the count. It was 11-9 in my favor.

That election changed my life.

While the nightmare of MMI continued to plague me, it never again chipped away at my self-confidence. I had found myself. I became my own best friend and my best fan. Everything felt different, everything felt possible. For the first time in my life.

And it never would have happened without my mother’s encouragement.

On any day, I can let myself spin with the “how abouts” and the hair-raising, grinding arguments my mother and I had over the years, but I don’t anymore.

How did I finally get here?

Grace.

One day, I awoke to the realization I was never going to win the battles I lost, and the cost of holding onto them wasn’t worth the mental real estate they occupied. And even more, I wanted to be free. Free of the weight. Free of the anxiety. Free to live a happier life.

In her wonderful book, Plan B, Anne Lamott writes:

“Grace means you’re in a different universe from where you had been stuck,
when you had absolutely no way to get there on your own.”

I couldn’t have been more stuck than the day I received that fateful call from Ann Marie. The patient, watchful eye of my mother set me on a new path for my life.

And that’s the moment I will think and smile about this Sunday, on Mother’s Day.

And who knows? Maybe that day, so many years ago, made me a better husband and a better father to the two mothers who are here and very much part of my life.

To my wife, Traci (Jensen’s mom). To my daughter Emily.

Happy Mother’s Day to you. I dearly love you both.

*And I can still name every one of them. Take that, old age!!

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