A Review of Apple, Tree: Writers on Their Parents

June 30, 2020 § 2 Comments


apple treeBy Jennifer Ochstein

I’ve begun seeing my dead mother’s face in the mirror. Mothers have been dying all along, so this is no new phenomenon. But it surprised me. While I’ve seen her in some of my gestures and actions (honking weirdly like a duck in an attempt to be funny or not answering the phone when I don’t recognize the number), it wasn’t until she died that I saw her ghost in the mirror.

My fixation forms on a common feature, our mouths, the way we smile when caught off guard. Stretched dry and crooked, it replaced her full lips as multiple sclerosis took over. It’s the same smile that causes me now to sometimes stand in front of the mirror like a teenager trying on different smiles or to delete photos in which I detect that same shape on my mouth. I practice and search for the smiles that allow me to see my own face again rather than the shadow of hers. Maybe it’s a matter of vanity, the recognition that I’m a few years older than the age she was when diagnosed with MS.

But more than that, I think it’s the need I have to distance myself from the fact of her death. Her physical absence is most difficult. I don’t want to only see her as a shadow in me. Without her physical presence in the world, I’ve felt more alone than ever. I had certainly imagined her death beforehand. But on the other side of it, it’s the fact that startles me. Sometimes I mutter a liturgy to myself, “My mother is dead. My mother died.” How could she go? How could she be dead? Oddly, I don’t know how to answer those questions. She was here. Now she’s not. I miss her.

I’m also reminded that I’m trying to do what many of us do when it comes to our parents: discover inheritances while carving out space for how those inheritances evolve. I was reminded of this when, about a month after my mother’s death, I read Apple, Tree: Writers On Their Parents, edited by Lise Funderburg. In the introduction to the collection of essays, Funderburg writes, “What other inheritances could be explored through those flickers of likeness we stumble upon … I decided to ask people … to consider that space between the apple and the tree, to make meaning of it.” As I see it, humans are a meaning-making species, and to consider the people we’ve become based on how we’re shaped not only by our inheritances but also those spaces is necessary work. I knew my mother would die and yet I didn’t. How could that be? What does that say about me?

Not all of the writers featured in Funderburg’s collection have seen their parents die, but they, like most of us, try to make sense of the likenesses, inheritances, and the spaces that make us who we are while examining with a keen “I” and eye toward the influence of parents on their children. It’s hard business.

One keen examination of the “I” in light of the eye comes from Kyoko Mori’s essay “One Man’s Poison.” Mori describes her abusive father as a “complete narcissist” (with good reason, which she details throughout), but concludes that the same narcissism has a home in her as well. “The pragmatic selfish streak he passed on to me is undoubtedly a poison,” she writes. As she recognizes the poison in herself, she also realizes that it can be medicinal rather than deadly. Inoculated with small, recognizable doses, the poison acts “like a weakened virus that immunizes us against life-threatening illness.” And in these small doses, she’s able to overcome the legacy her mother left: depression and suicide. Maybe even more importantly, she writes, “ … I inherited the right amount to immunize myself from the greatest danger of all: my father himself.”

Contributor Mat Johnson’s examination of his mother’s multiple sclerosis in “My Story about My Mother,” resonated in particular with me, probably because his mother has MS and my mother died from complications associated with MS. As he details his caregiving and her decline, I see my own mother’s experience as well as my own. This is part of what makes this collection so sharp. The examinations are broad. Rather than sentiment, these essays make use of clarity, the most powerful eye, the kind we all need when considering our inheritances.
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Jennifer Ochstein is a Midwestern writer and professor. She’s published essays with America Magazine, Sojourners, Hippocampus Magazine, Connotation Press, Lindenwood Review and more.

 

 

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