My Mother's Son

"I can't... It's too much." -Linda Corwin (Mattier/ Minto), My Mother

Today marks the 4th anniversary of my mother's death. With the weight put on today, by those she touched, I feel obligated to say something. But more importantly, I want to say something.

Every year, perhaps every week, since her passing I've rehashed what it means to me and tried diligently to glean some golden nugget of philosophy from the emotional catastrophe of losing my mom. I've found plenty. But still, every time I revisit the impact of her leaving, I find something new.

I am, and always have been, very much 'my mother's son'.  Everything from my obsession with the arts (especially Music & Theater), my constant pretense of organization, owning way too many clothes and junk, and yes even my dark complexion, I get primarily from my mother.

(To be fair, my pops has a lot of junk lying around too, the lineage of traits gets a little hairy there...

oh yeah and the hair, that's from both of them.)

Like my mom, I've also chosen a life of arduous pursuit of a career in performing. Thankfully, unlike my mother, I don't have kids and a wedding ring to compete for time. 

I'd always hear her talking about her dreams of performing in huge opera houses and new york stages. Over time those dreams transposed themselves into vicarious pushing of her students. Her dreams became theirs, and theirs became hers. This fed her with enormous drive and fulfillment. When they grew, so did her smile. When they succeeded she was ecstatic. Her indelible spirit forced its way into them and by proxy into me.

All throughout my youth and adolescence, she pushed and hoped for me in the same way as she did for her students. Only, I was her son. Probably in no small part because of my absconding tendencies, she was more 'hands-off' and more 'heart-on'. 

She believed in me so much so that it was difficult to reconcile with reality. All of my parents shared with her this incredible support to varying degrees, but she had the edge since she was a performer and trainer thereof.

With her behind me I grew into a confident ambitious performer. Then, after several turns of fate and learning, I decided to go to school for biology. She died shortly after my matriculation to UCSD. 

Reeling from the complications of her death, moving, athletics, and academics my eyesight grew blurry. Somewhere in the haze of weakness and realism I began to lose sight, not of my dreams and ambitions, but of my ability to reach them.

At the cusp of graduation I was faced with several "real-world" options none of which seemed "up my alley", at least not the one I'd been treading on my whole life. I enrolled in Graduate School, reasoning that "If and when I pursued acting, I'd have a solid fallback." 

Soon after, I began to feel this groaning, like a submarine sinking too deep. I was gaining momentum away from where I needed to be heading, where I knew I should be heading my whole life. I mulled it over real hard and didn't take too long to see that I was making a fear based decision because I didn't believe in myself enough. 

Still fresh enough was the wound that I could look deep into the cut and see the shape of the blade that made it. My mom had championed me, believed in me, supported me so much for so long that when she left, I felt a paucity of self-worth and potential I had never known.

Then I thought back to all of the sacrifices she'd made in her own life. Her Dreams. The forgotten plans, the altered directions, and compromises any mother makes for her children. But there was more, she postponed pursuing her career in her prime just to bring my older sisters and I into this world. And all the while, she poured herself into us. Driving, listening, paying, watching, teaching, and when necessary withdrawing. 

It was easy to remember all of the sacrifices she made for me as they were punctuated with sayings like "Do I have slave written on my forehead?" and "Here, here's my veins, go ahead and bleed me too." But nonetheless, I was blessed to know what it feels like to be believed in to the point where someone would give almost anything to help you accomplish something. 

This outward and outsize generosity is something that all of my parents did help to instill, but when I lost the person who believed in me the most, it became surprisingly hard to believe in myself. Then after much digging I realized that I was squandering her sacrifices. I was failing to carry through on what she gave so much of herself to begin. 

And after seeing this, I started trying something that I had maybe forgotten how to do, or maybe it was just easier with her around. I started to try to love myself. I tried to see what it was in me that she loved and surrendered so much for. Then I began to see a struggle within her that I was partially blind to before. 

I learned from my mother, and her passing, just how difficult believing in yourself can be. Not just believing you can do something. But believing you’re worth something. Believing that dream outside your window at night hiding beyond the horizon can be yours.

She believed this for me, my sisters, her students, and for herself. And when she went, I had to learn how to instill that feeling all over again. I have been emblazoned with a new fire over the last four years. A fire that keeps me going when things look abysmal. A fire that reminds me why people dare to dream in the first place, against extreme odds. A fire that my mother carried with her and touched to everything in her path. And now, because of her, I know, more than ever, how paramount this trite little phrase is “believe in yourself.”

 Thank you mom, I love you.