Happy Mother’s Day!
by Michael Gerber, biological son
Today is Mother’s Day here in America, and as a result I’d like to apologize to my mom, because I just ate a candy bar for breakfast. I also did not use a plate. And since it was 12:07, I didn’t technically have breakfast which, though my mother would never use the phrase “the most important meal of the day” because she does not deal in commonplaces, I know she feels is a meal, and thus somewhat important.
So: only one paragraph in, and already three strikes against me. Or, more to the point, her. Even though I’m 50 and well past the age that any parent or indeed the police or military can control my behavior, I know my mother would feel that my food choice reflected on her, and so I’m sorry. I’m sorry for doing it, and I’m sorry for writing it, so that you all now know about it, which I’m also sorry for.
But what I’m really sorriest about is that it’s Mother’s Day at all. When our society doesn’t like a group—when they really work 24/7 to screw you over—they give you a day. Or a month, a month is a real fuck-you. If you’re the type of person to ask, “Why isn’t there a White History Month?” go pound sand, but before you do, just know that if “White History Month” is ever declared—run. Ask women and African-Americans, if you don’t believe me.
There is no, for example, Billionaires’ Day. I feel like an idiot for even typing that. Every day is Billionaires’ Day, we all know that, deep down in our bones and bank accounts. Nothing is more important. For a week or two last month, there seemed to be some chance that Billionaires’ Day would be put on hold, just temporarily, but no. The whole society can collapse—or you can die which, to you, would be worse—and America will still celebrate Billionaires’ Day. Everyday.
I’m not saying we should cancel Mother’s Day, especially not this year. My own mom, a smart and forward-thinking woman, has laid in enough other children and grandchildren to distract herself from my affairs; would that I had the same option. But COVID hits moms pretty hard. First of all, moms are old, or at least old-ish (though don’t tell yours that, at least not today). The older you are, the more COVID’s got it in for you, which suggests that it’s not as much a pathogen as Earth’s natural attempt to cleanse itself of stories about Woodstock. I’m going to avoid mentioning the Sixties for a while, just to flatten the curve.
Also, a lot of the behaviors people are claiming to engage in while quarantined—and let’s be honest, we’re bragging—directly defy maternal directives. Comb your hair. Wear pants. Don’t eat a candy bar at noon and call it breakfast. I don’t care what a freethinker she pretends to be, these are all rules your mother is foursquare behind, and don’t tell me otherwise. My mom almost took me to Woodstock (oops) and isn’t even on Twitter, but every time I post “Still not wearing pants!” I know she feels it. Somehow. It’s like a disturbance in the Force. Tweets like that are a microaggression, and trust me, that is not a war you want to start. Though we often forget this, mothers are people, and as such frequently experience a strong desire to choke a mofo. Children are not exempt, as you will find out after a few of glasses of wine. But because our society frowns upon child-killing, mothers are forced, almost from the moment of conception, to redirect and minimize their anger.
What I’m saying is: mothers are the Sun Tzu of microaggressions. Don’t mess with them. Just say “Thank you” over and over as you back out of the room, bowing. You’re apologizing for all the horrible stuff you’ve done and said, plus a whole bunch of gnarly biological shit you don’t even know about. For the sake of everyone’s dignity, including yours, don’t make her go into it. It was hard enough to smell.
Finally, if you’ve lived far away from your mother, as I have for most of my adult life, you’re bound to notice that they like it when you’re together. Remember, this person spent years guarding the infant you. Whenever you’re out of her sight, some part of her brain is whispering, “But what if there are lions?” Zoom does not help. Zoom would just preserve a digital record of the attack, which is even worse. What would “ a good mother” do? Never watch it again? Re-watch it annually on your birthday, surrounded by black candles? Or put it up on Facebook immediately, to warn all her friends, most of them mothers, about lions eating children—adults, but they’ll always be your child—right here in Santa Monica?
There is no good answer. Like my mother is fond of saying, “As a mom, you can never win.”
I wonder why she says that? Anyway, love you Mom, happy Mother’s Day. ◊
MICHAEL GERBER is Editor & Publisher of The American Bystander.
