May her memory be

Honoring my mother

We buried my mother today. In the rain, of course, because that’s just where we’re at in 2020. Here is the eulogy I delivered:

I’m going to start by reading a short column I wrote about mom for Mother’s Day 2011, back in my newspaper days. It’s titled “The smile is what gives it away.”

It took a stranger in a supermarket years ago to make me realize yes, I do look like my mother.

I resemble my family members, sure, but the looks shared between my Mom, Eileen, and me aren’t the same as those among the Carlson men. My brother outright stole my Dad’s face.

My Mom thinks I look like her sister. My Dad's mother thinks I look like her. I always thought I just looked like me until one day, while browsing the makeup aisle with Mom at a grocery store, a fellow shopper set me straight.

“Are y’all mother and daughter?” she asked us. “Oh, of course, you have the same smile.”

She was right. I’d never noticed it before.

Only during the past several years have I looked in the mirror and in some way seen Eileen looking back at me — a startling but not unwelcome encounter. The curly hair, the glasses, the pale skin. The shape our mouths make and how our eyes slant when we smile.

Add to that my body type, my “ridiculously loud laugh,” as a co-worker calls it, and the fact I would live in Birkenstock sandals and broom skirts if I thought I could get away with it, and I am Mom.

I’m glad. I wish I were like her in other ways, but mostly I wish I could make her life more like mine. Because I've got it easier than she does.

I'm typing this while sitting in a comfortable chair — a leather one I “apprehended” from a former co-worker’s empty desk. It’s my second newspaper job after university, and I’m doing just fine. But Mom — she’s on her feet all day.

Back in my high school days when our family was going through financially rough times, my parents agreed Mom would go back to work. She had taught preschoolers for eons but took time off once my brother and I got older. Now, it was back to the grind.

I’ll never forget riding around in the family pickup as Dad drove her around to businesses near our San Antonio home. She had made a resume and was wearing nice slacks and a floral blouse. She was nervous. Having not worked in an office in a good 18 years, she knew looking for work was an uphill battle. But the picture is so clear in my mind because I was, and am, so inspired by her courage.

She found a job as a cashier at a large Texas grocery store chain, and she’s been there a good decade now. I always go through her line when I’m home, and she’s the nicest cashier you’ll ever meet. She makes it a point to talk to everyone.

When I’m there, people recognize I’m her daughter. Because we’re both smiling.

————

Looking through Mom’s vanity drawers a few days ago, I found some of her old H-E-B gear. Her name tag emblazoned with the letters “17 Years,” which is how long she ended up working there, and folded pieces of paper towels that she would always carry in her jeans pocket at work, just in case. Yes, she still had them because she was a “magpie,” as Daniel called her, which is the polite version of “almost a hoarder.” But near those I found these: notecards in her handwriting with dozens and dozens of produce codes — the four-digit codes for fruits and vegetables that cashiers type in as they weigh each item during checkout. She used to dream about these codes and checking groceries. She would see a shopping cart far away from the store and tsk and say “Do you know how much those cost?” 

To be honest, working there wasn’t her favorite thing to do. And toward the end, she was past the point of tiredness and wanted her time there to be done. She had arthritis in her hands and two bad knees, and she owned clothing that was older than many of the managers that kept rotating through the store. But she stuck with it as long as she could, until she needed to be home to take care of Dad. And even though she was often exhausted, from hauling bags of dog food and giant packs of beer across the conveyor belt, and dealing with angry customers — or worse, the ones who didn't see her as being separate from the machinery — she smiled. I promise you: Of the thousands upon thousands of customers who went through her line in 17 years, there isn’t one who wasn’t greeted with a sweet smile.

My friend Clint, who I grew up with at church and was my prom date, recently sent her a note that said as much. It reads:  

Mrs. Carlson,

I remember vividly standing in your front yard taking prom pictures with Sarah. You have always been such a kind, Christ-like woman, with spunk! You inspired me to stand up for my values, even when they contradicted with my conservative roots!

Thank you for leading by example and reminding me to advocate for all people. Thank you for showing me love and acceptance after I came out as gay.

I used to come see you sometimes at your H-E-B. I would tell you it was close to me and I had just popped in. Truth is, it was far. I just wanted to see you. :)

Though you may not realize it, you have touched me in many ways. Thank you for being you.

Love,

Clint

She loved you, Clint, just as you are. Thank you for being here. 

————

A week before she died, I was in an uncomfortable meeting with my bosses and the director of HR. And as said director was reasoning out why I sometimes have had problems as an employee, she actually paid me a compliment. She said, “Your neighborhood is large. You welcome a lot of different kinds of people as your neighbors. Many of us just have neighbors who look and think like us.” 

Mom’s neighborhood was everyone who went through her line. And I know my passion for advocating for others comes from how she fought for our family, in her own way, even to a fault, and how she welcomed everyone. 

That’s not to say she was a pushover, or someone who easily overlooked bad behavior if it went unchecked. I want it on the record that she didn’t like the current occupant of the White House because, among many things, he’s unbelievably unkind. Narcissistic. Small, and sad. He lives in a neighborhood of one. 

I’ve been thinking about this concept a lot, especially since Friday night, when the world learned of the passing of the great Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. As Ginsburg was Jewish, many offered up the traditional honorific “May her memory be a blessing,” which is quite a beautiful thing to say. 

One explanation I came across described the phrase as the idea that a person brings a certain amount of merit, or rightness, as a result of their performance of good deeds. They are judged based on this merit and continue to accumulate it after passing through the good deeds they’ve inspired and taught others to perform. Saying “May her memory be a blessing” isn’t about looking back fondly on her memory; it’s about looking forward and taking her memory with us as we commit to continuing the good deeds she performed. For Ginsburg, many also adapted the honorific to “May her memory be a revolution,” a phrase that has most recently been used for those who have died in acts of violence and oppression. 

If there’s a way to honor my mother, it’s to welcome more people as your neighbors. It’s to fight on behalf of those who need a voice, and those who need your support, and to keep fighting even when you’re very, very tired. Even when a customer is being rude. Even when you come home and have to take a nap to rest your aching hands and legs. Even when you find out you need to undergo radiation for the cancer that has spread to your brain. Even when it seems like everything is falling apart. That, believe it or not, is a revolution. 

My brother, Daniel, and I are who we were because of our parents, but in so many ways, we have our education and our careers because our mother was willing, in middle age, to learn a bunch of produce codes. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her because there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for us. Imagine what we’d all be like if we fought like that for everyone. Imagine what it would be like if there were more Eileens in this fallen world. 

And it needs to be said: Imagine if we had a health care system that was built around people, not profits. Imagine if I hadn’t had to publicly shame Texas Oncology into working with my parents so that she could receive care while uninsured last year. Her response to this initial denial I think sums her up best: She was … confused. It was naive but I don’t mean that in a negative way because it was so pure. 

The concept of *not* caring for someone in need was foreign to her. And to me, there’s just so much beauty in that. We did the best we could with what we had and with what friends, family and strangers were so kind to share. And she held on until the very end, until it was time to go to her real home. She never once complained. She never stopped smiling.  

I know I’m better for having had her in my life, but the world is still so much less without her. I can’t replace her, but I can take what she taught me to try and do my best for my family and for others. I promised her, that night as she was fading away, that I would take care of Dad. That was her biggest concern at the end. I promised her we’d be OK. 

I know I can do it because I’m her daughter. I can do anything now.

May her memory be a revolution.