November 15: The Whole Roll of Our Order, My Mother, Mother JFK

Nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole roll of our order . . . 

Ishmael is writing about whalers in this sentence.  He's trying to convince his readers of their nobility and worth.  Thus, whalers are heroes and holy men, kings and gods.  For Melville, whalers embody all the best qualities of human nature.

For some reason, my mother has been on my mind a lot these last few weeks.  I don't exactly know why.  Perhaps it's the approach of Thanksgiving.  (For those disciples who do not live in the United States, Thanksgiving is a holiday that takes place on the fourth Thursday of every November.  It's a time when friends and family sit down together, eat a huge turkey dinner, and--ideally--feel grateful for the blessings of their lives.)  My mother was an amazing cook and spent two or three days making sides and relishes and breads and Jell-Os for Thanksgiving.

Anyway, last night, in the composition class I'm teaching this semester at the university, I gave my students the following prompt:  Write about a person in your family for whom you are thankful.

This is what I wrote in my journal:

Let me tell you about my mother who gave birth to a baby girl with Down syndrome in 1965.

Let me tell you that the doctor who delivered my sister told my mother about a place where she could drop off her baby, a place for mental defectives and cripples and castoffs who would never be able to walk or talk or go to the bathroom by themselves.  "There's no hope here," he said.

Let me tell you that my mother wrapped her baby in a blanket, walked out of that hospital, and brought her home.

Let me tell you that my mother didn't treat my sister any differently than she treated me when I was born a few years later.

Let me tell you that my mother taught my sister her letters and colors and numbers, how to write her name:  Rosemarie.  Note Rose.  Not Rose Mary.  Rosemarie.  Four consonants.  Five vowels.

Let me tell you that my mother once marched into a school's office, into a principal's office, and told that man with the wide ugly tie, "You WILL find a classroom for my daughter" in a tone that said, "Fuck.  You."

Let me tell you that my mother never, ever, ever pitied my sister or made excuses for her.

Let me tell you that my mother, at my sister's high school graduation, looked like the mother of a President of the United States on Inauguration Day.  Mother JFK, mother FDR, mother Lincoln, mother Obama, you choose.  See her sitting there, back straight as a flagpole, the air cold, drums snapping in the January bright.  My mother, imagining her baby's face on Mount Rushmore.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his mother.