Mom & Me Four Archive

    My mother's voice was tight with dueling intent. She spat the words "too old" as though they were the the punchline of an unspeakably rude joke. These were the first words with which my mother greeted me when she awoke from her nap today.
    I know better, now, than to answer questions like this directly. It's best to first seek the source. "Why do you ask?" I said.
    "Every time I talk to [her dead brother] about teaching again, he tells me I'm too old."
    I've been doing this long enough so that I'm practiced in proceeding briskly through the facts to the heart of the matter. "Well, let's see," I said. "[Your brother] died in 1977..."
    I noticed, peripherally, that the news of her brother's death wrenched her from the Time Zone in which she'd awakened. She winced. I pretended not to notice. I didn't skip a beat.
    "...At that time you hadn't yet turned 60. So, yes, he was wrong. You were not too old to teach then."
    "Good. That's what I told him."
    "In fact," I continued, "as I recall, you made successful enquiries, both here and in Texas, but decided not to teach because Dad wanted the two of you to travel and, besides, he was busy changing residences every two years or so."
    A curtain closed over her face, then parted.
    Oops, I thought, Dad's not dead yet, either. Or, well, he is now. I'll give her a moment.
    Hesitantly, looking up at me as though my opinion would determine the furnishings of her world, "Do you think I'm too old to teach next year?"
    "Well. That's a good question. You're 89 now..."
    Astonishment. Disgust. "I am not!"
    "Oh, that's right. You're still 88. Sorry. Didn't mean to age you prematurely," I joked.
    "That's right! Watch that, girl!" Rakish grin. Then a frown. "I'm not 88, though."
    I decided to stick to the original subject. "You know, some people teach right up into their 90's. I've heard of some college professors doing that and I vaguely remember a story on some TV news magazine about a woman in her 90's still teaching elementary school. So it would be inaccurate to say that anyone is 'too old' to teach. The question isn't one of age but whether one has retained one's skills and abilities and kept up with the teaching racket."
    I expected her to come back with something along the lines of, "Well, then, that's settled. I can certainly still teach." Instead, she surprised me. "Do you think I can still teach?"
    Yes or no? Fantasy or reality? Her world or The World? Which will it be today? Something about her earnestness led me to choose The World.
    "You know what, Mom," my perpetual preface when I know she's in for a shock, "I'd have to say, no, I don't believe you could still teach."
    No verbal response but her eyes were dancing to the tune of, "Well, why the hell not?!?"
    "Your short and long term memory and your creative mentality just wouldn't work in a classroom anymore. Not to mention, the instruments are different, teaching involves computers, now, and you know how you get along with those, you'd have to take classes in Arizona History to be certified, I don't think you'd do well in those..."
    She dismissed all this with a toss of her head. "Teaching's teaching. None of that matters."
    "Well, yes it does, if you want to set foot in a classroom. They're not going to take your word for being a prepared teacher. You're going to have to audition before you perform. Trust me on this: You wouldn't audition well."
    She was incredulous. "Well! I can catch up on what you're calling 'the instruments'. That would be no problem."
    "Mom, I won't even let you breathe on a computer anymore, since you killed two. Let me give you an example of what you're up against. Let's fill out a pretend application."
    "Oh, that'll be a piece of cake."
    "What's today's date?"
    "Let's see...nineteen..."
    "We're in the two thousands, Mom."
    Astonishment, again. "When did that happen?!?"
    "How about the month?"
    "Hmmmm...December."
    "No..."
    "February?"
    "Wrong..."
    "March?"
    "No fair. You won't be able to turn an application blank into a muliple choice quiz directed at the Department of Education."
    We both laughed. Interestingly, once she got the point she didn't ask what today's date really is.
    "Mom," I said, gently, firmly, "it's not your age. It's your state. This is where you are, now. You've moved beyond the classroom." I recalled the short 'morality story' I'd read over a year ago in a Caregiver.com editorial featuring the editor's octagenarian uncle, who had to be coerced against his wishes into going to an Adult Day Care Center but once there discovered 'a new life' that involved lots more activity and, hallelujah, a chance to feel useful again teaching other senior citizens, he was thrilled, all his relatives were thrilled, everyone lived happily ever after, wouldn't you like your Ancient One to be a Pepper, too...and I thought, no, Mom's beyond that, too. I am hoping to have her participate a couple days a week in an excellent Adult Day Care program I've finally found, here, we reviewed and she likes but I know it's not going to be a teaching experience for her. I decided not to embelish the truth with fanciful tales of possible teaching opportunities that may still exist for her. "Mom, you may not be able to teach formally, anymore, but your life is still a teaching instrument. You loved teaching and you made your life into an opportunity to do what you love. You did it well. You loved doing it. You are a teacher in your soul. You still love teaching. You always will. And, you will never stop being a teacher. You can't, even though no one is ever again going to be willing to hire you to teach." I stopped for a minute and silently communed with her eye to eye. "Mom," shit, the tears started, "you are such a teaching fool,"...I hiccoughed a wet laugh...
    ...she snickered and gave me that "Oh god, you're not going to cry are you! You and your dad!" look...
    ..."that this will not be the last time you decide you're going to teach 'next year'. And, I will be here to remind you, when necessary, of two things: You won't ever again be teaching in a classroom but, you know what?" Now I was sobbing and my mother was patently amused at my emotional flow. "Through what I write about you and me and our life together, you will be a teacher long after you die. So, you know," sob, sob, sob, "you may not ever handle another classroom, but you'll never stop teaching either."
    "Well, that's very sweet, Gail," she said. That's her way of saying, "Jesus, you don't need to work yourself up over this, I'm fine."
    And, see, that's the thing. She is fine. She won't remember my sorry little explanation about how she's still teaching. The teaching she's doing through my journaling isn't the kind of teaching around which her heart revolves. She will remember, again, in a few days, a week, maybe a month, that she isn't teaching now and that she'd better get busy if she wants to teach next year, probably in Martelle.
    I doubt that we'll have another confrontation like the one we had today. This is the first time she's asked if she's too old to teach. Normally, she'd be convinced beyond any doubt that, of course, she's fit to teach. And, depending on the circumstances, I'll either respond from her world or The World. But, you know, I'm glad I thought to tack on my emotional apologia today because, well, whether or not my mother realizes it, whether she ever comes to grips within herself that, classroom or not, teaching is the axis around which she organizes herself, what I said is the truth. Teaching is her past, her present, her future and her legacy. It's the language of her truth. Even in her Ancient Now. Especially now.