October 4, 2005

Dear Mother,

You were here on Earth before me.

When I came out from between your legs you were twenty-seven years old. Nineteen seventy-two. I am older now than you were then.

If I knew you now and you were twenty-seven, I might say to you, Wait. This is too soon for children. Why the rush? What about your career? Is this decision compatible with your feminism?

You went on to get your Ph.D. while working fulltime. I was eleven or so. I told one of my classmates, When your mom gets her Ph.D. it means she never has time to play with you.

Mother, this is very complicated. It has taken me a long time... it is taking me a long time to recognize you as human.

The first time I heard you swear, I was ten. You had come home in the dark with my father. I snuck out of bed, hid in the kitchen, jumped out at you.

The first time I saw you cry I was eleven. You were in the bathroom of our apartment.

When I was nineteen or so I included my father in a list of people I admired. I pointedly did not include you. You asked, Eric, why don't you twist the knife in my back one more time?

That was not the last time I twisted the knife.

Every act of aggression comes in proportion to the revenge it takes for an earlier wounding. That is, we only retaliate insofar as we feel hurt. You can measure the hurt by the degree of retaliation. This means that the ethics of any act of aggression can be calculated, as long as the degree of hurt can be definitively ascertained. Unfortunately, the degree of hurt is subjective and not, therefore, definitively ascertainable. And so we go on arguing.

When we were 10 and 6 you took us to the swimming pool every day for a summer.

You paid for everything.

You don't believe that you have an unconscious.

Mother, it is, it seems to me, difficult to have a mother--probably to have parents in general. They tend to have expectations of you. At least, to make this more personal, you have tended to have expectations of me. This is--if I try to think clearly about my various aggressions--some unconscious or barely conscious, lame and imperfect legitimation.

Here's something: when I was fifteen you referred to me as "obese." I have not yet forgiven you.

At the job interview in 1976, you were pregnant with my sister. The chair of the board asked you how your pregnancy would affect your ability to perform the work required for this position. You said, I am happy to tell you, Mr. Moss, that this is not a permanent condition.

Motherhood, however, is.

Mother, what do you really think of me? What have you thought of me this whole time?

Mother, today you are 60 years old.

Mother, you knew me before I knew myself.

Mother, I love you, but I have also been so angry at you.

Mother, we both know it hasn't been all wine and roses.

Mother, what are you getting out of this relationship?