Yes, Virginia . . . I Still Hear You

“I don’t know how my mother (to whom family was everything) would weather the pain of seeing families and friends torn apart by politics now. Back in the 1950s, my dad was a Republican and mom I’m quite sure voted Democrat (though votes were more confidential then, at least in our family). But she would have had a failure of imagination about what’s happening today.”—Kathryn E. Livingston

Words & Wonder

By Kathryn E. Livingston

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—November/December 2024—I’m aware that not everyone has—or has had—a great relationship with their mother but mine was my dearest friend (though there were certainly things I didn’t tell her—like where I really went instead of to the high school dance!). She was also humble and private and would not want me to write about her.  But . . . sorry not sorry, Mom. I always was a bit naughty.

My mother, whose name was Virginia, died a few weeks before our country’s infamous 9/11—of amyloidosis, a rare and in her case fatal disease. Though I was devastated by the loss I was also grateful that she was not alive when the terrorist attack occurred. A sensitive and deeply caring woman, she would have been beyond distraught. On the other hand, I always had a feeling she went when she did so she could either welcome those souls as they arrived in another realm, or because The Divine wanted to spare her from observing that heinous suffering on Earth. (Though I’m not religious I’m prone to magical thinking, as one can readily tell.)

Lately, I’ve been thinking that though I wish my mother were still alive because I miss her, I’m also glad that she’s not here to witness the racism, misogyny, misogynoir, homophobia, transphobia, ageism, and other phobias and isms and ills that exist in our culture. And, of course, the violence (though she feared I might be hit by a car as a child, she never imagined that I might be shot, the leading cause of death for American children today).

A devout Christian, my mother wasn’t into judgement. She accepted all faiths, races, genders, body types, food preferences (she scrambled to find vegetarian options for converted relatives), and taught me to be kind (I’m still trying). Her house was painted green, her favorite color, which I later learned represented the heart chakra, signifying love, forgiveness, gratitude, and compassion. How appalled my mother would be by the cruelty and intolerance linked to some religious groups within our own country today. The worst I ever heard my mother say of another human was, “She seems a little bit snooty!” And that was in a hushed, apologetic tone and only to me in private.

I was protective of my mother (as she was of me) and wanted to shield her from heartache as if she were too weak to withstand it. She wasn’t—widowed at 68, my mother carried on without her beloved spouse for 13 years after his death, alone (except for an occasional roomer) in a large old house. She had lived through the Great Depression and World War Two and nursed her own dying mother through cancer. During the Cuban missile crisis, my mom assured me that God wouldn’t have brought the Pilgrims here to then have the country destroyed, and as a scared kid I bought into that.

I don’t know how my mother (to whom family was everything) would weather the pain of seeing families and friends torn apart by politics now. Back in the 1950s, my dad was a Republican and mom I’m quite sure voted Democrat (though votes were more confidential then, at least in our family). But she would have had a failure of imagination about what’s happening today.

She could not have fathomed hating a brother or a cousin or a neighbor because of their politics (good thing she missed out on the Civil War). She could not have imagined that anyone who believed in God could be filled with hate and if someone did not believe in God she would have invited them to Thanksgiving dinner and not brought up the topic of religion during (or after) the meal. She was fond of Mr. Rogers (imagine his gentle soul in this world). She liked Billy Graham, but not Jerry Falwell. That tells me she understood the truth of the faith she followed; she was no fool.

Not one for proselytizing, my mother said nothing negative about my choice of a secular partner (she simply welcomed him whole-heartedly into our family).  She remained mum about my exit from organized religion as well.  She followed her own heart, and left others to follow theirs, all the while loving them.

In her later years, she volunteered at a food pantry, never disparaging the poor or the needy, or acting as if she were above anyone, no matter where they came from. My mother knew how to listen; she was not without opinions, but didn’t flaunt them. Unlike me, she never screeched (unless she encountered a bat in the house, which happened from time to time).

Perhaps it sounds like I believe my mother was a saint. Not so: We had our arguments, especially in my teen years (and particularly on one specific occasion when my best friend and I tried—unsuccessfully—to pull off an all-nighter with our boyfriends). But she did set the bar high. Much higher than my anger and judgment will ever let me reach. Though we were alike in some ways, we were different in others (my mother never swore, for instance, and blanched at some of my salty expletives!). Yet we had a deep connection; we could simply gaze at one another and know what the other was thinking. She knew if something was bothering me the instant I picked up the phone to answer her call. “Hello?” I’d say, and she’d reply, “Kathy, what’s wrong?”

Even without being able to see her now, I’m certain she’d be wondering, “How could the country have come to this?” In my bones, I feel her fear and sadness and disheartened response to the hateful rhetoric. But I also know my mother had faith, and I’m quite certain she would have had hope.

I’m one hundred percent confident that if she were alive today my mother would not be flipping the bird at her neighbors, or hanging flags upside down or inside out, or cursing at my aunts and uncles. Yes, she would certainly vote. She would vote this time with all her heart.

I try to imagine her voice sometimes, but the message of love and acceptance is so very hard to hear amidst the pervasive din of animosity. Nevertheless . . . I won’t stop trying.

More: To read more of Kathryn E. Livingston’s work, write to her at [email protected], or order her books: click here,  and here. (Yin, Yang, Yogini: A Woman’s Quest for Balance, Strength, and Inner Peace is available at Amazon.com or through your favorite bookseller!)