I Am Like My Mother, After All

Giving Up Old Friendships

In the last two decades of her 92 years, my mother lopped off three, count them, three long-term friendships, seemingly overnight. She’d just had it, she said, with the way those women were treating her.

At the time, I made many assumptions about my mother’s share of fault in these breakups. She was a very self-involved person, sensitive to slights, overly talkative, and in need of a lot of attention. Whatever had irked her, I thought, should not have been reason enough to cut off old friends.

Yet three decades later I’ve done the same thing: ended a half-century friendship — through mutual agreement — following an argument that had simmered for the past two years.

“Simmered” is the right word, for we had both kept a low anger burning, cooking down the ingredients of our bond, until we realized that there wasn’t much of a meal left in the pot, and that we weren’t even hungry.

I now recognize that my mom probably went through the same process when she was about my age. She suddenly realized that whatever had kept her connected to her friends had become threadbare, more of an entanglement than a bond; that she’d never be able to untangle it, because she didn’t feel trusting enough towards them to undertake that kind of therapeutic dialogue; and that she’d be better off without the ongoing disappointment.

It’s hard for me to lose this old friendship, mostly because, at this stage, my anger is subsiding and I’m feeling guilty about my part in the breakup. Still, I wouldn’t want the relationship restored. Even when it was strong, it always provoked a lot of anxiety, perturbation, annoyance, and disappointment in me — and after decades of that, I finally managed to ask myself: What am I getting out of this? Do I actually enjoy this friendship?

My task, therefore, is not to indulge my guilt, but to forgive myself: Yes, I did my share to ruin it. Yes, I am a very self-involved person, sensitive to slights, overly talkative, and in need of a lot of attention. Now, then, moving along . . .

I wish I could have done that for my mother, too — forgiven her for being her obnoxious self. But I couldn’t, or didn’t, so here we go again: Yes, you were a good, dutiful son. Remember, whenever you tried to be close to your mom, she tried to swallow you whole. Besides, it wasn’t your job to redeem her from her sadness. Now, then, moving along . . .

There is, in fact, a way that I’ve forgiven my mom — by recognizing how similar to her I am and feeling basically happy about that resemblance. She used to embarrass me terribly, for instance, especially when I was a child, by offering compliments to strangers on the street (often parking herself directly in front of a door, just begging to get bunked).

Well, recently I was walking on a Manhattan street, and I saw a young father walking with his two little kids, all three of them wearing funny little backpacks. As I passed them, I made some friendly wisecrack about their ensemble (don’t remember what I said). The man heard me and laughed, while his kids looked at me as if I were nuts, a complete stranger talking to them. . .

Another time I was walking behind an adolescent boy and his older sister, who was heaping a loud tirade of abusive words on his head. At the corner, they boarded a bus — she mounted the steps first — and I caught the kid’s eye and quietly said, “Listen, it’s not you — it’s her.”

I like to think he remembers it to this day.

I know there’s something awful about my talking easily to strangers while being unable to keep it going with an old friend. My mother, bless her soul, would have called it “the gift of gab.” Which is a nice euphemism for very self-involved, sensitive to slights, overly talkative, and in need of a lot of attention . . .

Now, then, moving along . . .

__________

Please check out our new issue of ALTE, on the theme of “Father.”

And please, if you’re in the New York metropolitan area, come to our art opening on December 14th in Teaneck — and bring your friends.