I have a very close relationship with my mother. It’s also at times a charged one. My older sister, in contrast, pretty much never argues with her; their personalities aren’t combustible when combined, and as the eldest daughter, she’s treated singularly. My mother and I, however, well, we are….similar in temperament. And when one of us irks the other, it’s not always our calmest moment.
I spent so many years when I was younger fearful of her disciplinary nature that I find, now that I’m older and no longer afraid, I can’t help but tell her what I think when she acts or speaks to me in a certain way. It’s my form of leveling the field, I guess, after years of quietly cowering. I don’t believe our relationship is worse than those of other mothers and daughters, not by a long shot. In fact, I’d say it’s much closer and stronger than many. Our capacity to vent our frustrations and then let the matter go has created a bond that stretches but will never break. Opposites attract, they say, but also we reap what we sow: The part of me that confronts my mother is the part of her that lives inside of me.
My mother raised my sister and I with a strictness that bordered on a girls’ school run by nuns. There was a lot of talk of honor (in Italian, of course!), our dignity, our purity, and to be honest, the protection of virginity. Although the word “virginity” wouldn’t have been used. Too direct. But you get the picture—it was very clear we had to be shielded from the world because we had something that could be taken from us.