For me, this threshold for embarrassment was very high at a young age and needed to be maintained for survival. By the time junior high hit and everyone was just starting to identify their parents as freaks set out to destroy their social lives, my mother had already been humiliating me publicly for years. She was notoriously unfazed by the unwritten rules of a snooty Connecticut suburb. She is probably still the only person in Woodbridge with a clothesline in the backyard, for example. Throughout my entire childhood, my mother had no problem making her presence known- frequenting school and making odd donations and requests. Often, it seemed that she would materialize when least expected for the express purpose of my discomfort. In first grade I remember hearing the distinctive sound of my mother's giant wad of keys coming down the outside hall. I shrugged and figured it must have been the custodian when my mother appeared at the door. She obviously thought her unscheduled errand important enough to leave the restaurant and interrupt the classroom. There weren't too many other mothers dropping by in this way.
She certainly did not dress like or own a car like other Woodbridge mothers either. Don't get me wrong, my mom can be quite style savvy. A particular image from childhood though, that comes to mind, was one of standing on the side of the road in six inches of snow while my mother changed a flat tire on her used Chevy Celebrity that she had bought from the Boy Scouts. She was wearing a fur coat, beret, knee socks and clogs. Let's say that with her, certain rules of etiquette, entertaining and housekeeping are paramount, but many other types of conformity are not a priority. The idea that it might not be smart to wear animal fur on the campus of Yale, for example, was never a concern for her. It was just her companions in New Haven who were in constant fear of red paint. (With a wave of her hand, she would say that the animal on her back had already been dead for decades).
There were other instances when she would not even make an attempt at following established protocol. When my mother picked me up from band practice in the fourth grade, she embarrassed me weekly. Parents would drive by the school entrance via a rotary. It was a very simple process. There would be a line of sorts: parents would stop and kids would get into their respective cars. My mother, on the other hand, would drive past me every time. I would walk up to the car handle and the car would keep moving- every time! Then she would drive to the end of the rotary someplace and finally stop as I chased after her with my flute and giant back pack. Even after I asked her why she couldn't just pick me up at the front entrance like the other parents, she told me she didn't like stopping. She was certain that people weren't meant to stop like that and make all the other parents wait. This was especially ironic considering that she has always been very happy to let people wait when a traffic light turns green and she is still balancing her checkbook behind the wheel. "People are just so impatient!" she will say. It seems that at band practice, she was ok with me being singled out as the kid chasing after her mother's car week after week.
In junior high, the string of humiliations continued. She made a habit of calling into school and torturing front office secretaries with her ideas about how the "pre-teens" should be able to sleep in more, because studies show that teenagers need the extra. When they explained to her that school started early to accommodate sports teams, she argued with them that her daughter shouldn't have to suffer on account of it. In fact, her daughter should be excused from gym class entirely because it was first period and interrupted her much needed sleep! Who cares that it was a state education requirement!
Let me be clear and say that my parents were not the type to always assume that the school system was in the wrong- trust me. They were once teachers, so I got my fair share of probing before they came to any conclusion about my education. My mother just got attached to certain ideas, which no person with a rational thought pattern could willingly follow, and would have trouble letting go of them. So I was not only known throughout the front office, but my classmates knew that that woman in the beret and multiple scarves was my mother, marching in to make some more irrational requests.
Even now, there are few members of Boston Opera Collaborative, a group with which I am involved, who do not know my mother. At one performance, she heard from a family friend that we did not have enough sparkling beverages and she drove up from Connecticut with a cooler full of donations. I mean, no one was complaining, but after she practically took over the concessions stand during a run of Carmen, they definitely subsequently remembered who she was. (Most also recall her brownies with Coca-Cola frosting, which are admittedly remarkable).
I say that it takes time to get used to one's parents because I seem to have almost forgotten what an energetic force they, but especially my mother, can be in a public setting, such as a concert. This is particularly apparent when you are not the only one taking the brunt of their, shall we say, enthusiasm.
Recently, they were coincidentally in town for one of my boyfriend's performances. What I should have done before the concert, was given the parents a pep-talk about how it wasn't really a big deal- just a recital in a church where he sings regularly. I should have told them to keep this enthusiasm in check, because we wouldn't want to shatter his image as a professional by implying that this was something he had invited his entire social circle to, because in actuality, he hadn't. Their attendance was a "lucky" coincidence. I suppose I was laboring under the delusion that it was possible for my mother not to draw attention to herself in a group of strangers.
Before I had arrived at the concert, my mother and father apparently followed Brendan into the room where the singers were preparing and started conversation. Most people consider this time before a concert begins to be private meditation and preparation time for the performers. Apparently my parents live under a rock. Before long, my mother got out her camera and asked to take pictures of all five performers- not that she knew any of the others or anything. Well she didn't quite ask so much as say: "You all look so nice! Everybody get together and let me get a few shots of you!" (She does this all with her point and shoot camera, because she refuses to buy a digital. Hello 1999, it's nice to meet you.) And although I wasn't there, I am sure that she probably interrupted with this request in the middle of an ongoing conversation, as is her habit. So it seems that just when you are immune to their antics, they start embarrassing the poor unwitting souls whom you have invited into your life.
Meanwhile, Brendan's parents hung back from the rest of the church community, as is appropriate in this case. My mother, on the other hand, flitted about while making friends with several parishioners and loudly extolling the virtues of the soprano soloist's well-behaved son. I think she may have even taken some pictures of the boy. My dad was too busy monopolizing Brendan with a conversation about skiing to even notice. I remember a show a few years ago when Brendan's parents came to see the performance and had barely even made their presence known. At the time I had said to him: "What, they didn't want to run in and cause a scene?! They didn't want to comment audibly on whether or not your costume is flattering?! They didn't follow you backstage to take your picture in the green room???"
My coping mechanism in dealing with a constant stream of awkwardness in public has always been similar to what it is now I suppose. As a child, I churned out and handed in several creative writing pieces based on my mother's idiosyncrasies, (highlights include ruminations on how she will eat anything: my third grade "book" entitled Olives and Cheese and a sixth grade song The Woman with no Tastebuds). I am certainly not the first to write about an embarrassing mother. Carrie Fisher practically made a second career drawing upon the wonders of her mother's eccentricities onscreen in Postcards from the Edge. Putting a comedic spin on things has always put things in perspective for me- that ultimately I have a great mom even if she is a "character". I have learned, via many examples, how not to be concerned with peoples' perceptions of you. Laundry does smell best when dried on a clothesline after all.
She certainly did not dress like or own a car like other Woodbridge mothers either. Don't get me wrong, my mom can be quite style savvy. A particular image from childhood though, that comes to mind, was one of standing on the side of the road in six inches of snow while my mother changed a flat tire on her used Chevy Celebrity that she had bought from the Boy Scouts. She was wearing a fur coat, beret, knee socks and clogs. Let's say that with her, certain rules of etiquette, entertaining and housekeeping are paramount, but many other types of conformity are not a priority. The idea that it might not be smart to wear animal fur on the campus of Yale, for example, was never a concern for her. It was just her companions in New Haven who were in constant fear of red paint. (With a wave of her hand, she would say that the animal on her back had already been dead for decades).
There were other instances when she would not even make an attempt at following established protocol. When my mother picked me up from band practice in the fourth grade, she embarrassed me weekly. Parents would drive by the school entrance via a rotary. It was a very simple process. There would be a line of sorts: parents would stop and kids would get into their respective cars. My mother, on the other hand, would drive past me every time. I would walk up to the car handle and the car would keep moving- every time! Then she would drive to the end of the rotary someplace and finally stop as I chased after her with my flute and giant back pack. Even after I asked her why she couldn't just pick me up at the front entrance like the other parents, she told me she didn't like stopping. She was certain that people weren't meant to stop like that and make all the other parents wait. This was especially ironic considering that she has always been very happy to let people wait when a traffic light turns green and she is still balancing her checkbook behind the wheel. "People are just so impatient!" she will say. It seems that at band practice, she was ok with me being singled out as the kid chasing after her mother's car week after week.
In junior high, the string of humiliations continued. She made a habit of calling into school and torturing front office secretaries with her ideas about how the "pre-teens" should be able to sleep in more, because studies show that teenagers need the extra. When they explained to her that school started early to accommodate sports teams, she argued with them that her daughter shouldn't have to suffer on account of it. In fact, her daughter should be excused from gym class entirely because it was first period and interrupted her much needed sleep! Who cares that it was a state education requirement!
Let me be clear and say that my parents were not the type to always assume that the school system was in the wrong- trust me. They were once teachers, so I got my fair share of probing before they came to any conclusion about my education. My mother just got attached to certain ideas, which no person with a rational thought pattern could willingly follow, and would have trouble letting go of them. So I was not only known throughout the front office, but my classmates knew that that woman in the beret and multiple scarves was my mother, marching in to make some more irrational requests.
Even now, there are few members of Boston Opera Collaborative, a group with which I am involved, who do not know my mother. At one performance, she heard from a family friend that we did not have enough sparkling beverages and she drove up from Connecticut with a cooler full of donations. I mean, no one was complaining, but after she practically took over the concessions stand during a run of Carmen, they definitely subsequently remembered who she was. (Most also recall her brownies with Coca-Cola frosting, which are admittedly remarkable).
I say that it takes time to get used to one's parents because I seem to have almost forgotten what an energetic force they, but especially my mother, can be in a public setting, such as a concert. This is particularly apparent when you are not the only one taking the brunt of their, shall we say, enthusiasm.
Recently, they were coincidentally in town for one of my boyfriend's performances. What I should have done before the concert, was given the parents a pep-talk about how it wasn't really a big deal- just a recital in a church where he sings regularly. I should have told them to keep this enthusiasm in check, because we wouldn't want to shatter his image as a professional by implying that this was something he had invited his entire social circle to, because in actuality, he hadn't. Their attendance was a "lucky" coincidence. I suppose I was laboring under the delusion that it was possible for my mother not to draw attention to herself in a group of strangers.
Before I had arrived at the concert, my mother and father apparently followed Brendan into the room where the singers were preparing and started conversation. Most people consider this time before a concert begins to be private meditation and preparation time for the performers. Apparently my parents live under a rock. Before long, my mother got out her camera and asked to take pictures of all five performers- not that she knew any of the others or anything. Well she didn't quite ask so much as say: "You all look so nice! Everybody get together and let me get a few shots of you!" (She does this all with her point and shoot camera, because she refuses to buy a digital. Hello 1999, it's nice to meet you.) And although I wasn't there, I am sure that she probably interrupted with this request in the middle of an ongoing conversation, as is her habit. So it seems that just when you are immune to their antics, they start embarrassing the poor unwitting souls whom you have invited into your life.
Meanwhile, Brendan's parents hung back from the rest of the church community, as is appropriate in this case. My mother, on the other hand, flitted about while making friends with several parishioners and loudly extolling the virtues of the soprano soloist's well-behaved son. I think she may have even taken some pictures of the boy. My dad was too busy monopolizing Brendan with a conversation about skiing to even notice. I remember a show a few years ago when Brendan's parents came to see the performance and had barely even made their presence known. At the time I had said to him: "What, they didn't want to run in and cause a scene?! They didn't want to comment audibly on whether or not your costume is flattering?! They didn't follow you backstage to take your picture in the green room???"
My coping mechanism in dealing with a constant stream of awkwardness in public has always been similar to what it is now I suppose. As a child, I churned out and handed in several creative writing pieces based on my mother's idiosyncrasies, (highlights include ruminations on how she will eat anything: my third grade "book" entitled Olives and Cheese and a sixth grade song The Woman with no Tastebuds). I am certainly not the first to write about an embarrassing mother. Carrie Fisher practically made a second career drawing upon the wonders of her mother's eccentricities onscreen in Postcards from the Edge. Putting a comedic spin on things has always put things in perspective for me- that ultimately I have a great mom even if she is a "character". I have learned, via many examples, how not to be concerned with peoples' perceptions of you. Laundry does smell best when dried on a clothesline after all.
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