Mama always wanted us to fit in. She was raised in Munford, Tennessee, population 600, and lived in the big house in the middle of town. She was a high school majorette, a cheerleader for the University of Tennessee, and the Kappa Alpha Rose. People were looking at her and she had to behave.
She expected us to do the same. And she’d remind us of what the rules were.
For instance, about sex before marriage. If we went to a wedding, and the bride stayed what seemed to be too long at the reception, Mama would raise an eyebrow and say, “Well, she wasn’t in a hurry to leave now was she?” which was code for, that hussy has already slept with her husband and she shows no shame.
It was not appropriate to flaunt or even mention sex, sexuality, or basic bodily functions. Her friend Mrs. Huntley is still unable to say the words period or pregnant. Instead, she mouths the words and gestures.
“Darling, we were so glad Nancy was having her (mouths the word period and gestures to her crotch with a swirling index finger), because we were afraid she might be (mouths the word pregnant and gestures the shape of a rounded belly).”
But Mama was adaptable. She came to see me once in New York for Christmas, and we were having friends for dinner. Most of them came from worlds my mother didn’t know, so to avoid a conversational train wreck, I gave her strict instructions. Don’t say anything about Jewish people, because Bob and Linda are Jewish. Don’t say anything about people who live together because Katie and Andy live together. Don’t say anything about people with multiple marriages because Barrie’s daddy has been married four times. Don’t say anything about gay people because Jim is gay. And she said, “Darlin’, can I say anything?” By the end of the evening, she knew everything about the lives of my guests and was their new best friend. Later, when a friend of hers at home complained that some of the guests at her daughter’s wedding were living together, my mother said, you know I’ve met people who live together and they were lovely.
In my world growing up, you didn’t question God. You let other people — mostly men — worry about politics. And you wanted to have money. Your husband would earn it and manage it, but you wanted to have it. And in the off chance you didn’t have money, Mama would say “It doesn’t really matter if you have money, darling, just as long as you look like you do.”
But as much as money mattered, you never talked about it. This was a hard and fast rule, which is difficult to break even now. One of my dearest friends from home calls me. Her daughter, who’s in the 8th grade, is taking a personal finance class and she is asking all sorts of questions about the family’s money. My friend is traumatized, but she knows this is a terrific opportunity to break the cycle and start healthy dialogues around money. I tell her to follow her instincts, give her the pep talk she wants. We talk later and I ask her how the money talk went. She says she couldn’t quite manage the money conversation, but they did have a good talk about oral sex.