THE MAMA INDUSTRY OF THE AMERICAN SOUTH (MIASma)

Being reared in California by a Louisiana mother is a sure-fire road to schizophrenia or just about any other mental impairment. The cultural forces are in constant collision with one another and trying to act like you belong when you know better is a damn, lousy set-up.

When I uprooted myself from my fifth-generation California family and allowed the Louisiana ghosts to rise up and claim me, I was more prepared than most for dealing with the Mama Industry of the American South (MIASma). Mama is as pervasive as the humidity and the scent of dogwood in the spring. And my mother wasn’t just any Southern mama. She was French Catholic from southwest Louisiana and brought up primarily by a nursemaid from the Caribbean. Talk about collisions: French Catholicism laced with voodoo? Oh, and the etiquette edicts of the old French families were as rigid and unarguable as the Ten Commandments. I never knew if Mama’s commandments were based in bad luck or bad manners but I knew better than to take any chances.

1. Thou shalt not ever pass the salt without the pepper.
2. Thou shalt not ever place a hat on the bed.
3. Thou shalt not address an adult by anything other than sir or m’am.
4. Thou shalt not fail to RSVP.
5. Thou shalt not give a sharp or pointed object as a gift.
6. Thou shalt not cut all your meat at once.
7. Thou shalt not fail to cross yourself when a hearse passes by.
8. Thou shalt honor thy mother (daddy is optional but if he buys lots of jewelry then he gets equal honoring).
9. Though shalt not ask personal questions of people.
10. Thou shalt not repeat to anyone what goes on in this house.

California kids just didn’t get this stuff and neither did their parents unless there was a Southerner in the backstretch somewhere. They thought I was being sarcastic when I said sir or m’am. They thought I didn’t like their cooking if I left a bite on the plate for Miss Manners. They didn’t know why I clammed up when they asked me how much my father paid for his car. And unless they were Catholic, they really didn’t get the part about the hearse. They just didn’t get it and it’s not their fault and Jesus loves them, too.

The devil, like mama, wears many faces. They are as varied as spots on a blue-tick hound. You think you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all? Uh-uh. They’re of all ethnicities and religions: Italian, French, Hispanic, African-American, Middle Eastern, Asian, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist. Sorry if I left anyone off the list---it’s the bleach factor again. There are two imperatives that run through them all: The importance of inducing guilt and fear of motherly reprisal. But as I said, down here it is an industry and reaches into every level of one’s being, thus the preponderance of country music lyrics written on the subject. Why, even trains and pickups aren’t mentioned nearly as much as mama. And there ain’t no song saying “There Ought to be a Hall of Fame for Pickup Trucks.” But there’s one for Mama. Swear to God.

And don’t think for a minute that they are all chubby, cheery faced darlings in hand-knit sweaters and calico dresses. They can be tall and stringy with machete-sharp eyes. They can be wearing anything from Escada to Escape-from-Rehab wear. Socialites, floozies, soccer moms, young, old, wise as Solomon, dumb as a bag of hammers, professional women, secretaries, retail clerks, power brokers or senators. It just doesn’t matter down here. If you have given birth, you are a Mama and your rights are up there with the Bill of Rights and would have been written in if there hadn’t been a bunch of dumb-ass men who forgot all about their mamas when they were writing it. And they should have known better, even then, because down here, you just can’t get elected to public office unless you have a Really Good Mama Story.

And it has to involve sacrifice of the highest order. There might be a random constable or state rep who managed to slip in without a good mama story but they are the exception. If your mama was a Supreme Court judge, by God, she would just shut those boys down if you were starting in the game against Central or performing your first ballet recital. It doesn’t matter if she were waiting tables or running a corporation or anything in between. Her children came first. Tell us about the whoopin’s she took so your sumbitch step-daddy didn’t take it out on you. Tell us about all the sumbitches she didn’t marry so you wouldn’t have to have a step-daddy at all. Tell us about how she always believed in you even when you didn’t make the team or get picked for Homecoming Queen. Tell us about how her car broke down on the way to the doctor and she carried you a mile in the snow. Tell us about how she went without her heart medications to buy food for the puppy she let you have when she could barely afford to feed you. Tell us about how she slapped the principal’s face when he said you cheated on your math test. Tell us about how she went to college for the first time at age 40 to set a good example for you. Tell us about all the toys she put on lay-away at K-Mart and paid for all year so you wouldn’t think Santa thought you were bad. Tell us about how she always expected the best from you. Tell us how many days she was in labor giving birth to you. Tell us how she said you weren’t poor, you were just on adventure. Tell us about how you’ll never forget the look on her face the day you graduated high school.

It helps a lot if you really know how to uncork a good story, and there’s no story like a Southern politician’s Mama Story, but most of all, what we want to know is that you never forgot where you came from. You came from Mama.

And don’t go thinking for even a moment that the power of Mama comes just magically up from nowhere. We have this all worked out for the future generations. We gather and meet to advance the causes of society, politics and the will of God. We gather for church meetings and women’s club meetings, charitable organization and business meetings and the scheduling all hinges upon the goings-on of the key players’ mamas. If the meeting starts at 2:00 p.m. but the chairwoman’s mama has a (hair, doctor, plumber, handyman, pedicure, dog grooming, dentist) appointment at 3:30, well, you can bet your last piece of sweet potato pie that meeting is going to get moved or postponed to accommodate Mama’s schedule. Don’t even ask why Mama didn’t check with her daughter first to see if her appointment time was convenient for her. Convenience is not a consideration when it comes to a daughter’s duty to deliver and collect her mama. After all the sacrifices, the least we can do is arrange our days to suit our mamas. And God help us if her perm doesn’t turn out right. We’ll be hearing about it at the next three meetings.

Of course, we all want to be informed if anything unfortunate befalls any of our mamas. Because then cards, flowers and casseroles must follow and not a minute too soon. We don’t even have to officially cancel a meeting if anybody’s mama gets caught in a tornado, has lung transplant surgery or gets shot by a drunken deer hunter. Word is out faster than you can say cyberspace and we all just know not to show up anywhere except at said afflicted mama’s house. We’ll lift trees off roofs, harangue the surgical nurse manager into giving us the update, take in the 50-pound miniature poodle that Mama so adored, bake a casserole, roast a side of beef, make soup, cookies, whatever is required because don’t you just know something’s going happen to our mamas any day now and we are going to want to cash in our chips. Even if our very own mamas have already gone to Jesus, we are still in debt and will be until the day we die and then it’s up to our daughters to carry on the tradition. There’s a reason folks say, “Slap Your Mama!” when something turns out really good.

Convenience also knows no place in the life of any mama’s daughter. Take the impromptu visit, for one. I actually got disinherited over this one. Of course, Mama started disinheriting me when I was 15 for coming home late from a date. She probably disinherited me for at least six or seven other transgressions over the years but always rewrote the will after much drama, tears and recriminations. But the last time, she was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease and forgot to make yet another codicil to the will and I just won’t go into the high-impact legal aerobics I had to perform to get back in it.

Mama, as you can see even through this small window, drove me completely out of my mind. There was no escape. No breathing room. And yet, I would gladly rip the highlights out of the hair of any bitch that hurt or criticized her unfairly. Note: I refer to women as potential critics. Men just plain knew better than to say a word. The price was way too high.

Anyway, at the time of my last disinheriting, I was by then a single mother, working 40 hours a week, no child support and no nanny. Saturdays, then, were all I had to do all the errands, housecleaning, and other business of living items. Usually, I would get up, have coffee, and not think about anything more than Mr. Clean before launching into my duties. And then she would land on my doorstep. Always bearing gifts of some kind or the other. Now, most people would think this was so sweet and wonderful. And it was, save for the fact that she expected me to stop dead in my tracks, make more coffee and give my absolute, undivided attention to her nonstop monologue because she was not, I repeat, was not interested in a damn thing I had to say. God help me if I were to suggest she come into the kitchen while I washed dishes or swept the floor. That might mean my eyes and undivided attention were not fixed on her.

Back in the day before caller ID I could lay money down on the fact that if the call wasn’t for my teenage daughter, it was Mama. One night, after her seventeenth phone call to me---that’s another thing---you do not fail to answer the phone when you know it’s Mama---I stupidly suggested she call prior to visiting me.

“Far sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.”

I didn’t see or hear from her again for two weeks. It was like waiting to see if I’d caught chicken pox. One day, she just picked up right where she left off and life went on, as usual, until she started forgetting where I lived and what my phone number was. And then, somehow, my privacy and personal space didn’t matter all that much. When she checked out of today and floated back to some other time and thought she was still 23, all I wanted was my Mama back. Inheritance or no, just please come back. Even for an afternoon. I’ll put down the mop and broom. I promise.
Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner