On that dark day, as I gathered with other mourners for the funeral of my mother, I had no idea I was about to learn a shocking truth. My mother had led her unique synthesis of Judaism, Jesus, and self-professed divinity during the funeral rites without my knowledge.
In a triple-wide mobile home on their property, she and her husband held their services. She was affectionately referred to as “Momma” by her devoted followers”.
She set the guidelines for who they should marry, the occupations they should pursue, and even the names they should use as part of her role as their spiritual advisor. She was chosen to play Solomon in Drag for the South because of the magnitude of her influence.
The triple-wide was packed inside, and I could sense the excitement and skepticism in the air. I was the center of attention because it was believed that I was my mother’s reincarnation and that I could at any time assume her role.
I bravely ventured down the center aisle, avoiding the looks, and sat down in the front row of a soft chair. In the midst of her followers’ laser-like focus, my husband tightly gripped my hand and provided a grounding presence.
Tallises and white fabric strips with blue Stars of David embroidered on them were used to decorate the dais. Jesus was depicted among them as a metaphor for the blending of religions that comprised my mother’s doctrine.
My mother’s husband, known to the true believers as “Daddy,” presided over them from a magnificent, ornately carved chair on the platform in the front”.
The congregation started singing as he raised his voice and harmonized the verses of my mother’s favorite hymn, a joyful homage to Jesus.
The crowd gathered around me as my husband walked over to the coffee urn following the ceremony. A kind middle-aged woman, one of my mother’s supporters, said that my mother would have been proud of my professional success. Another person awaited their chance to speak with me with great anticipation.
Her hair sent a sweet scent into the air as she leaned in and tightly grabbed my hands.
She grabbed my hands even tighter and yelled, “You’ve deeply hurt your mother,” ignoring my attempts to break free”.
When she visited her mother’s grave on Mother’s Day, she swore at her, “I damn you”.
As I scanned the room for my partner, he made his way through the crowd when our eyes locked.
She refused to let go of her hands despite my pleading, “Please release my hands,” and her sarcastic voice. “Be aware that these curses are the root of all your misfortune. She exited through the triple-wide door and started to move.
I was stunned and awestruck, and I stayed still. My husband helped me get outside and into our waiting car. A few weeks later, my brother contacted me regarding our mother’s will. It said in the first paragraph, “I have two naturally born children; neither shall inherit from me.”. She then gave a few meaningless pennies to my brother.
Before she started leading a cult, my mother was an excellent model with gorgeous, slim legs. She drew people to her with her alluring smile and halo of white hair, but she kept them at a distance by never telling them what she really wanted.
On the other hand, I won awards at science fairs, spelling bees, and even tallest student contests because of my overbite. In third grade, I claimed that the girl in front of the line was shorter than me and took her seat. My mother, however, was always fixated on herself when she looked in the mirror.
However, there was only one way to draw her disapproving attention. When I was a teenager, it took place in the midst of a contentious argument in the bathroom. You are a child of the devil, she yelled, losing her cloying Southern accent. You won’t ever experience love on the same scale as your brother, I swear.
I shoved her because I was mad and she lost her balance and fell into the bathtub. We avoided talking about it again because we felt so humiliated.
I stopped communicating with my mother when I was forty years old. After sixteen years, when my brother finally made that call, I finally heard her voice. She was on the verge of death due to the severe toll her dementia had taken on her. I pondered whether I would ever speak with her again while trying not to feel resentful about the various manifestations of myself.
“Hello,” my brother said to everyone”.
Please let me fetch your mom. ”.
When the phone switched hands, her voice—which was still spidery but was audible—started speaking. The more I listened, the tighter my throat became.
On the other end, she was gasping and I could hear her say, “Ma. ”. I want to express my gratitude for being your mother and wish you a safe journey no matter where it leads”.
I clenched my shaking hands around the piece of paper containing my gratitude list. I wanted to be sure she was hearing me correctly. I thanked her for teaching me to read, a priceless gift that had often saved my life, and for the hand-drawn pictures she had placed in my childhood lunchbox.
I also thanked her for her tendency to strike up conversations with people she encountered while doing her shopping at Piggly Wiggly. After I was done, there was a notable silence between the two of us.
Finally, I told my mother that I loved her.
When my mother first arrived, it appeared as though she had just awoken from the ocean’s depths.
My mother died the day following Mother’s Day.
Up until her passing, it acted as a link between us; after that, I cut ties. When we spoke on the phone, for some strange reason, I was transported back to the orange velour couch I had brought with me when I moved to the other coast after graduating. As I began to become an adult, I recalled sitting on the couch.
I’ve met the most amazing man, she exclaimed during one of those calls.
It was easy to follow her spiraling speech pattern as she spoke clearly.
Prior to this, I was unaware of this. She and my father had split up less than six months earlier.
I winced when she spoke directly into my ear because of her honeyed accent. By the time we moved to Georgia, she had shed her Orthodox Jewish upbringing in New Jersey and was slowly becoming a Southern belle.
The first step was her decision to have her hair dyed a bombshell blonde rather than the customary Northeast black; the accent followed. When around men, she was especially adept at assuming different personas.
My stomach turned as her voice engulfed me and took on a rich falsetto inflection. He’s so gorgeous, dear. He’s tall and has impressive manual dexterity, she sighed. She didn’t think anything of me romantically.
What was the purpose behind her telling me this?
I cut the call short because I was worried about my husband’s impending arrival and how I would explain this puzzling conversation to him.
Mama, what in the world are you talking about?
I questioned, running my fingertips over the orange velour sofa arm’s plush surface.
She described how this figure came into her bedroom through the ceiling. His brown hair was long and curly, and he was wearing a white robe with a waist tie. She was moved by the way he fixed her with an intensely loving gaze.
As if I knew already, she said, “It was Jesus.”.
Many inquiries came in at once.
I stopped questioning her about how a Southern Belle from New Jersey who was Jewish discovered Jesus in her bedroom. I did consider whether Hitler would have been allowed to enter heaven if he had passed away and gone to be with Jesus.
She answered, “Yes,” with a shaking voice. My belly constricted.
I worried about breaking the phone as I paced the kitchen, wondering if a good rabbi who rejects Jesus will end up in hell.
My mother’s affirmative response astounded me. I had no idea that she would eventually meet sincere Christians who would shower her with the admiration she had trouble finding in me but could easily find in her own reflection.
Mother’s Day is once more approaching quickly. I see her follower, the one who cursed me, kneeling by the grave of my mother with a dozen floral tributes. Are their cries something I’ll be able to hear in my dreams?
I can’t help but feel heartbroken when I think about what my mother may have said about me to deserve such a curse.
When paying respects to the deceased, it is customary in Judaism to place a rock on top of the headstone rather than withering roses as a symbol of eternal love that endures the test of time.
I’ve realized that my mother will always hold a special place in my heart, despite its flaws. Furthermore, her follower doesn’t need to make fun of me on Mother’s Day because of that unwavering devotion. The worst curse is that I’ll always carry a tiny piece of my mother’s love inside me, like a pebble on a gravestone or a lingering ghost.
