“Look at everything always as though you were seeing it either for the first or last time: Thus is your time on earth filled with glory.” - Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Week two (ish), book two. Before I start, a special shoutout to my friend Justin for lending me his copy of our read this week. He's a super guy with an eye for film - his youtube channel contains a collection of short films (amongst others) that can be viewed by clicking here. (The La Vache trilogy are my faves so far.)
This week's post is on Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, a feat of literary prowess that was almost instantly added to the canon of classic American literature. Smith wrote the book simply because, according to her, she "just wanted to write". Her tale of third-generation immigrants struggling to get by in early 1900s Brooklyn is at times fascinating and heartbreaking, poignant and triumphant, and I really enjoyed it. The world through the eyes of little Frances (Francie) Nolan as she grows up experiencing the challenges of class, money, and opportunity is, in spite of these obstacles, rosy and full of hope. Francie loves to read and write and dreams of a time when one day, her mother Katie won't have to work scrubbing tenements to put food on the table for her and her brother, Neeley, and their father John, a singing waiter with a hankering for drink.
Granted, on the surface there aren't too many similarities between my family life and that of Francie. But as I read through the book, there were more than a few moments where I found my eyes watering with tears, of a happy burst of laughter sprang forth from my mouth. It is the job of a book, after all, to transport you into another world, and for a time you feel the range of emotions, joys and fears of your protagonist. And I saw myself in Francie. (And naturally, I saw my mother in Katie, too.)
This week's post is on Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, a feat of literary prowess that was almost instantly added to the canon of classic American literature. Smith wrote the book simply because, according to her, she "just wanted to write". Her tale of third-generation immigrants struggling to get by in early 1900s Brooklyn is at times fascinating and heartbreaking, poignant and triumphant, and I really enjoyed it. The world through the eyes of little Frances (Francie) Nolan as she grows up experiencing the challenges of class, money, and opportunity is, in spite of these obstacles, rosy and full of hope. Francie loves to read and write and dreams of a time when one day, her mother Katie won't have to work scrubbing tenements to put food on the table for her and her brother, Neeley, and their father John, a singing waiter with a hankering for drink.
Granted, on the surface there aren't too many similarities between my family life and that of Francie. But as I read through the book, there were more than a few moments where I found my eyes watering with tears, of a happy burst of laughter sprang forth from my mouth. It is the job of a book, after all, to transport you into another world, and for a time you feel the range of emotions, joys and fears of your protagonist. And I saw myself in Francie. (And naturally, I saw my mother in Katie, too.)
There were so many wonderful passages about women in the novel. The Rommely women (Katie's side of the family) were detailed as "slender, frail creatures with wondering eyes and soft, fluttery voices. But they were made out of invisible steel." I couldn't help but think of my mother and her mother: I don't remember too much about my grandma as she died when I was 8, but I do recall that she was often very quiet but could shoot a glance like no other at my papa or my uncles if they crossed her. My mom was the same way for a long time - very softspoken, but if looks could kill... That invisible steel started to become more apparent after she and my father split up after being together for nearly 30 years. She changed a lot after that - her demeanour was generally icy when it came to talking about my dad (or any men who had done my sister or I wrong, for that matter). This steeliness remained until her death. Now, I'm not saying that she hated men, but I think (and this is pure hypothesis because we never really talked about my dad after I moved out) the steel was her defence mechanism. It made it that much harder for me to communicate with her later in life.
Francie grows up with the knowledge that her mother favours her little brother Neeley over her; the reasoning is never discussed but simply accepted. When Francie is finally old enough to begin high school, she is forced to sacrifice her education to remain in the workforce: the family desparately needs the money. Neeley, however, is allowed to stay in school, inviting tensions between mother and daughter. This set the tone for an exchange between Francie and her mother that reminded me a lot of what it felt like to move out of my mom's place and into my dad's house:
(Francie) "But I'm the one who will go away and I won't make a speech about it. When the time comes that you don't need what I earn, I'll leave."
"What's gotten into my children who used to be so good?" asked Katie poignantly.
I'm sure many of us can relate to hearing something along the lines of Katie's rhetorical question from our parents at some point in our lives. Mom never uttered those specific words, but there were so many instances where her and I would fight over the most trivial things leading up to the move and she would suddenly look exhausted - and that's when I would feel the worst. In the heat of the moment, it's hard to reel it in and remember that the person you're speaking to not only brought you into the world, but they really do want what's best for you. As an adult, I had to come to grips with the fact that just like me, Mom had her own sets of hopes and dreams and doubts, and it wasn't fair for me to discount them because they didn't align with mine. France and Katie are very much alike in that they're both strong female characters with a stubborn streak - and so it goes with my mom and I. We butted heads so much that I decided it would be better for our relationship to split up, as it were: my sister stayed with her and I with my dad. It was hard to talk to her after that - in hindsight, we both likely shared the same thought: "If only she would see it from my point of view." Unfortunately, we aren't always granted that luxury, and some of us figure that out before it's too late to make amends.
Some of us don't.
Francie grows up with the knowledge that her mother favours her little brother Neeley over her; the reasoning is never discussed but simply accepted. When Francie is finally old enough to begin high school, she is forced to sacrifice her education to remain in the workforce: the family desparately needs the money. Neeley, however, is allowed to stay in school, inviting tensions between mother and daughter. This set the tone for an exchange between Francie and her mother that reminded me a lot of what it felt like to move out of my mom's place and into my dad's house:
(Francie) "But I'm the one who will go away and I won't make a speech about it. When the time comes that you don't need what I earn, I'll leave."
"What's gotten into my children who used to be so good?" asked Katie poignantly.
I'm sure many of us can relate to hearing something along the lines of Katie's rhetorical question from our parents at some point in our lives. Mom never uttered those specific words, but there were so many instances where her and I would fight over the most trivial things leading up to the move and she would suddenly look exhausted - and that's when I would feel the worst. In the heat of the moment, it's hard to reel it in and remember that the person you're speaking to not only brought you into the world, but they really do want what's best for you. As an adult, I had to come to grips with the fact that just like me, Mom had her own sets of hopes and dreams and doubts, and it wasn't fair for me to discount them because they didn't align with mine. France and Katie are very much alike in that they're both strong female characters with a stubborn streak - and so it goes with my mom and I. We butted heads so much that I decided it would be better for our relationship to split up, as it were: my sister stayed with her and I with my dad. It was hard to talk to her after that - in hindsight, we both likely shared the same thought: "If only she would see it from my point of view." Unfortunately, we aren't always granted that luxury, and some of us figure that out before it's too late to make amends.
Some of us don't.
"Our family used to be like a strong cup," thought Francie. "It was whole and sound and held things well. When papa died, the first crack came. And this fight tonight made another crack. Soon there will be so many cracks that the cup will break and we'll all be pieces instead of a whole thing together. I don't want this to happen, yet I'm deliberately making a deep crack." Her sharp sigh was just like Katie's.
We were never as close again after that. We used to be really close - which was probably part of the problem. I stopped seeing her as my mom and more of a friend, and so our relationship changed accordingly. After the separation, Mom didn't just lose a daughter, but also a friend. Perhaps my part of it was growing up. Perhaps Mom's was letting go. Who knows? I think we did make peace with everything before she died, though I would have liked to be able to ask her to speak openly about that time in our lives, that turning point in our relationship. Some things are not meant to be; we are not meant to know all of the answers.
My mother was a wonderful woman. But she was also angry and sad. Aren't we all? And yet the trick is to learn to embrace these emotions and try to work through them together. If you can't understand the emotions, then at the very least try to accept them. Accepting that everyone is different and being willing to move forward with that acceptance makes you stronger. Stronger friends, stronger family, stronger men and women. If I would have accepted and embraced the range of emotions my mother must have felt in the last few years of her life (with bouts of health and sickness, the end of her marriage, children living away from home, seeing some of her friends' relationships crumble, and watching her father pass away), I would have really gotten to know the woman she was when she died.
While that's a terribly upsetting thought, these things can't be changed just because I wish it. I'm a firm believer of the "everything happens for a reason" theory. Maybe my "reason" is to pass what I've learned on to you in the hope that you don't make the same mistakes I have. We're all students of the school of life, right? So pick up that pencil and let's get started.
I'll leave you with this, from Katie. She may have been stoic and stubborn and a hard-nosed woman, but she was first and foremost a mother. And my mother's personal journey is certainly echoed in her words.
"It's not better to die. Who wants to die? Everything struggles to live. Look at that tree growing up there out of that grating. It gets no sun, and water only when it rains. It's growing out of sour earth. And it's strong because its hard struggle to live is making it strong. My children will be strong that way."
PS. This post is dedicated to my dear friend Robin, whose sister-in-law recently lost her battle with breast cancer. To find out more about Jaclyn's story, click here. Make a donation to the Canadian Cancer Society here, or click here to donate to Cancer Research UK. Thank you.
My mother was a wonderful woman. But she was also angry and sad. Aren't we all? And yet the trick is to learn to embrace these emotions and try to work through them together. If you can't understand the emotions, then at the very least try to accept them. Accepting that everyone is different and being willing to move forward with that acceptance makes you stronger. Stronger friends, stronger family, stronger men and women. If I would have accepted and embraced the range of emotions my mother must have felt in the last few years of her life (with bouts of health and sickness, the end of her marriage, children living away from home, seeing some of her friends' relationships crumble, and watching her father pass away), I would have really gotten to know the woman she was when she died.
While that's a terribly upsetting thought, these things can't be changed just because I wish it. I'm a firm believer of the "everything happens for a reason" theory. Maybe my "reason" is to pass what I've learned on to you in the hope that you don't make the same mistakes I have. We're all students of the school of life, right? So pick up that pencil and let's get started.
I'll leave you with this, from Katie. She may have been stoic and stubborn and a hard-nosed woman, but she was first and foremost a mother. And my mother's personal journey is certainly echoed in her words.
"It's not better to die. Who wants to die? Everything struggles to live. Look at that tree growing up there out of that grating. It gets no sun, and water only when it rains. It's growing out of sour earth. And it's strong because its hard struggle to live is making it strong. My children will be strong that way."
PS. This post is dedicated to my dear friend Robin, whose sister-in-law recently lost her battle with breast cancer. To find out more about Jaclyn's story, click here. Make a donation to the Canadian Cancer Society here, or click here to donate to Cancer Research UK. Thank you.