Not long after my mother died, I remember my sister and I having a conversation. The sentiment was that we had moments where we still needed a mother, but the realization was we did not need OUR mother. She and I have talked at length about the shortcomings we witnessed in our mother while growing up and as adults. We've discussed how life might have been easier for us if we'd had a mother that was black, instead of one who was a white Italian immigrant painting the complexity of race relations in this country as something easily surmountable.
My biggest disappointment in my mother occured when I was twelve and a half. We were wrapping up a holiday visit to see relatives in Sardinia. When I was younger, we made month long summer trips every four years, but as my dad's jobs became better paying and more demanding, we began traveling for two week visits every two years. By this time my sister had exited the family vacations for adulthood -- a military career, a husband and a young family. This was our first visit without her. We stayed at my uncle's house with short day trips to sightsee and visit my other uncle, aunt and cousins. We were leaving on New Year's Eve, which coincided with my very first period.
I woke up in my little twin murphy bed in the guest bedroom I was sharing with my parents. A bright red stain marred the white sheets and seeped through into the cushions beneath. I was alarmed and mortified. I sensed this day was coming, as I'd had occasional brown discharge show up in the months before, a pre-period, if you will. I also received a sample of Always pads in the mail, and I'd read and re-read "Are You There God? It's Me Margaret" by Judy Blume. I understood what was supposed to happen but never got a rundown of what it's like when it happens to you.
My mother handled this by going through the house and sharing (in Italian, or more likely, Sardinian dialect), that I had started my period. She gave me four pads with a tiny adhesive tab at the front, and I placed one in my underwear. We had a flight from Sardinia to Rome, and then Rome to JFK. What we didn't anticipate was staying in a hotel room in Rome because our flight was so delayed we had to leave the following day. All I remember was the intense cramping, and quickly burning through those pads. When I asked for more, my mother told me that was all she had.
I assumed somehow, there would be more. I assumed, somehow, even with the unplanned overnight stay, my mother would venture out to a pharmacy and get more. Now that I'm a mother, it hurts even more, because I know that's what I would do for my kids.
She didn't. It became a Don't Ask, Don't Tell situation, which is how much of the uncomfortable situations went in my childhood. Lugging my suitcase around felt impossible with the cramps I experienced. I fabricated pads out of toilet paper, first in the hotel room, then in the airport, and then with the airplane bathroom provisions.
I never confronted her about this. I learned from other attempts that she didn't receive criticism well, or apologize. This would have resulted in, "I did the best I could," with no room for additional discussion. My sister regards these kinds of things with more compassion. She was really young, she usually says, acknowledging that my mother married our 34 year old father at 19. The unspoken part would have been her having to advocate for me and make a case to my dad that I needed supplies. My frustration was, what did anyone expect when they had not one but two daughters? This was something normal, natural, and even the language barrier wasn't an excuse to avoid buying what I needed.
Sometimes as a kid you realize how you're being treated is messed up, but you don't have the full vocabulary and experience to fully name all of the ways that make it so. But when you are a parent, and you hold the privilege of raising a brand new person from scratch, with the understanding that you have to teach, protect, advocate and love that new person, you gain a bigger understanding of the ways your own parents failed you. And in all of that, as a mother, I also recognize I've been a harsher judge of my own mother in comparison to my father.
Maybe my sister's compassion is the resolution. She was young, and being financially dependent and the less powerful partner in a marriage stunted her. The best I can do is look at the ways she failed me and do better for my own kids.
