The holiday season is coming up, and I find myself in a very anti-social mood. Reading “Snakebit” in Chapter 9 of Literary Nonfiction only amplified this feeling. I know that the inevitable disagreements with my mother will erupt. What makes so many mothers and daughters so incompatible? Is it the nagging by the mother, or the daughter’s refusal to accept any unsolicited advice that fuels the problem? I suppose it depends on which one you ask.
Thanksgiving at my mother’s house usually ends with my mother upset with my brother and me. We like to reminisce – who doesn’t? We bring up stories of things we used to do as kids that would make our mother mad and that makes her angry all over again. She laughs at first, but she ultimately gets upset because she thinks we are making fun of her. She says that we only remember the bad stuff. She thinks we are depicting her in a poor light, and I think she is worried that we are always going to see her that way. (I’m psychoanalyzing here.) I don’t think that remembering the bad stuff versus the good memories is really the case. She just doesn’t understand that the bad stuff is what is the funniest to us and sometimes the easiest to remember if we talk about it.
Let me clarify what I mean when I say bad stuff by telling my version of the story:
When I 15, I just HAD to go to the biggest party of the year (of course, every party was the biggest party of the year because I was 15). Instead, I was stuck babysitting because my mom had to go somewhere, so I decided that the best thing to do was tell my mom I was taking my brother to see a G rated movie. My brother actually wanted to see some scary movie (the title escapes me now). I made a deal with my seven-year-old brother. If I agreed to take him to see the scary movie, he would have to agree not to tell my mom that we went to the party after the movie. He said that he agreed. A friend of mine picked us up, we went to the movie, and then the party. My little brother was a hit at the party and was able to socialize with everyone, and it was not a problem that he was in elementary school. (Yes, I was a bad sister.)
We decided to leave the party early in order to make it home before my mother got there – that plan did not work out. I saw her car as we drove up to the house. Little Judas did too, and as soon as he did he turned on the waterworks. When we walked into the house, the once social butterfly proceeded to tell my mom all about MY plan, how I dragged him to the scary movie and the booze-filled the high school party. He even threw in an, “I was so scared” just for good measure.
Yeah, I’ll be sure to bring that up when I’m home for the holidays. I’m laughing just thinking about it now. Ahh….good times!
Of course, we have pictures to capture our happiest memories. But these other memories – the small and seemingly insignificant ones – might need retelling or they will be gone forever. My brother claims to remember this night, but I have a feeling that his memories have been influenced by my telling of the story. Although, it would be hard for him to forget his Oscar-winning performance. My mother will chime in every now and then and tell us how he was very scared, and I probably scarred him for a few years. (Yeah right!)
Thinking of these things makes me wonder how much of what we remember is real, how much we simply make up from what we see in pictures, and what is from other people’s memories and stories that are repeated over and over again.
3 comments:
Being the youngest sister, I also wonder how much my memories are my own and how much they are my sisters'. Like do I REALLY remember getting my head stuck in the door where a glass panel was missing?
Your post also makes me think of the way we only take pictures to remind us of the 'good' memories (except for those people who take pics at funerals, which has always sort of creeped me out). That's why you have to keep the others alive through story telling.
Oh, the wicked ways of the older sister who has a younger brother. We really do like to play with their early memories. However, they sensed our future evil ways and discovered payback opportunities. When my brother and I slipped off a wagon going down a steep hill, he wailed louder as we approached the house. Needless to say, I was wailing a bit louder shortly after we got home. I'm surprised we have a good relationship now.
I used to have people over before my brother could talk. I was like 13 and he was too young to talk about the past. Funny. I forgot about that until this moment. I have been feeling bad about how I let him watch Baseketball when he was a wee one, but now I feel better. Thank you, Liza :)
That is so funny. My brother is much younger than me. I wonder how the stories I talk about with my parents about before he was born and when he was little play out in his mind.
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