The Red Flag

My Mother was always very supportive of my creativity.  It didn’t matter what my focus was, Mama was there to support me.  At the age of five, when her mother asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I thought about being a doctor (but blood), about being a dentist (but fingers in mouths), about being a lawyer (but criminals who come back to kill you after getting out of prison), and then I thought about my family associations with Old Hollywood and the money to be made there, and I said, “A movie star.”   From that day on, Mama stood behind my desire to be a performer.

A few years later, after looking at Marjorie’s clothing designs, I decided that that was my track.  Mama looked at clothing magazines with me and discussed what’s good and what goes in the photos we saw there.  We talked about the clothing we saw in the movies, in the shops, and on the street.  There was always something to learn from the conversations I had with Mama, especially if Marjorie was with us, because they grew with fashion, every season Marjorie made an entirely new wardrobe for Juana.  But it didn’t last because my interest in fashion ended when I discovered Baryshnikov.

My Mam took me to the Ballet Studio Halamka and paid for me to join.  She took me to the store for slippers, navy tights, and a white leotard - sadly, nobody told either she or me about dance belts, which led to a particularly intimate and embarrassing conversation between me and Lorenz Trachsel after class one day. I wanted to dance but I wasn’t very good. Still, Mother paid for the lessons and she saw to it that the entire family came to the dance show I was in with Halamka. But the dancing didn’t last.

And when I wanted to be a writer, Me Mother was supportive to the point of hard truths.  Reading one of my stories (in my youth, I was intent on writing fiction), Mama said to me, “I know this story and I know where you got it.  You can’t copy other peoples’ stories.  It won’t help you and it won’t make you a writer.  And other people will know the stories, too, and know that they aren’t yours. You have to write your own stories, you have to be original.”

Mama gave me moral and spiritual support the entire time I was working on The Sweater Book.  She was always encouraging, she was always helpful in offering her opinion on photos, she always took an interest in how it was going.  And for the years that I was blogging The Stephen Mosher blog, she was honest with me about it, telling me, “Honey, what you write is too long for me to read.  Looking at the computer screen for that long gives me a headache.”  She was honest with me about it but encouraged me to continue my work.  There was never a time when Mama was not aware of that which held my attention, never a time when she didn’t show an interest.

One day I told her I was writing a memoir.  She asked if I would send her a copy and I said yes, informing her that the chapters would be short, for her benefit and that of those who don’t like long chapters.  I also told her that I would be very honest in the book and that I would let her know which chapters to pass over.  I didn’t have to tell her, though, because the one chapter I did not want Me Mother to read was titled

The Sexual Revolution

In Which My Mother Does Not Read This Chapter

Upon completion of the memoir, I inscribed a copy and mailed it to her.  But I didn’t hear anything from her about it.  Weeks went by, and not a word.  We would speak on the phone, and not a word.  Mommy had nothing to say about my book.

Finally, months later, one day we were on the phone, having one of our chats, and I said to her, “Did you have a chance to read any of my book?”

“Did you write a book, sweetheart?”

My mind grew very quiet. The air got very still. For an eternal second everything in the world slowed to a near stop. This was a defining moment in my life and one I will never forget.  I told her about the memoir, describing, in detail, the process, the time taken, and the conversation we had had about her not reading certain chapters.  I told her that I had mailed her a copy weeks earlier.  But Mama knew nothing of which I spoke.  The red flag was in the air.

My Mommy had dementia.