All Parts Are Equal

My parents both came from families where there was a favorite…and it wasn’t them. They both spoke of the pain and isolation they felt as they grew up, of being on the outside looking in, of wondering how it felt to be special.

In their own ways, they each tried to exercise equality in their relationships with their children. My father told each of us that they were his favorite, saying (at least to me), “don’t tell the rest of them,” he would say in voice dripping with complicity, “but you are my favorite.” A fib, true, but I found great comfort and security in this ruse that he created…I knew to him, I was special.

He died my senior year of high school.

My mother, a plainspoken, at times, matriarchal overlord, decided that all of her children were equal, i.e. you are no big whoop. Case in point: I called my mother one day to relay the exciting news that I had been selected to sing at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. “Huh, is that something…Corey sang at the VFW last night…” Lest one thinks I am exaggerating another example: My sister, Patty called her to tell her that a publishing company had accepted her book proposal. “Huh…did you see Tim’s ad in the phone book?”

My mother and I really didn’t have a lot in common. She loved Johnny Cash, I loved Mozart. I loved to watch movie musicals and she was a devoted viewer of cable access polka programs. I liked reading about historical figures and she adored the National Enquirer.

My longing to go to college rated very little interest from her and even less when I decided to study music. “What a waste,” she told me when I revealed my plans. I didn’t say anything, but I knew if I had told my dad this, he would thought it was wonderful. It hurt that he wouldn’t be there to see it, and it hurt that she would be. It would be no big whoop.

A few years later, my graduation day neared but I had one last hurdle to overcome: my senior recital (the bane of every music major, might I add). I was performing a variety music: an Italian opera aria, three German arts songs, three French art songs, a modern English song cycle, and a set of Gershwin songs. I was excited that the night finally came but the bittersweet thought of my dad not being there tempered my jubilation. On the other hand, I knew my mother would hate all the music I would perform that night, but I decided to invite her anyway.

I write without an ounce of modesty, that I had a wonderful recital. Music didn’t come as easily for me as it did with some of my classmates but I worked very hard and it showed. I came down to the front of the theater and my professors and friends congratulated me on performance. My sister, Patty, whispered in my ear, “Dad would have been so proud of you…” and I choked back a sob.

My mom was standing there and even though I was sure she give her usual response, I asked her what she thought. A curious thing happened. She turned her back to me and walked away. The room got quiet as my friends and professors looked at me quizzically. I called to her and she kept walking. She finally stopped at the back of the room. I said, “Mom, what’s the matter?”

She wouldn’t look at me. I asked her again and again. She finally raised head and looked at me. She had tears running down her cheeks and she said “I just can’t believe you did all of that by yourself. I just can’t believe it…”

For the first and only time in all the years I knew her, my mother allowed that I wasn’t just like everyone else. What I had done, no one else had.

I was so busy lamenting my dad’s absence that I almost missed one of the most precious moments of my life. My mom thought I was special.

All parts are not always equal.