Mom and me

Both my nonna and mother dodged my questions for years. When I was young and asked Nonna how she grew up in Rotondella, she answered, “I have no good t’ing to say. T’ey are no good stories.” And she refused to say more.

When I asked Mom the same questions, I was met with silence – or feistiness. I remember clearly the day I asked her why I couldn’t find her marriage certificate to my dad in the Allegheny County records. She looked at me as if I had slapped her. Then, turning away, she stayed silent for what felt like a long time before finally telling me where to find the documents. It was only later that I learned she had been married before.

My reflection: I remember my own silences, especially when people asked about my older son and his addiction. How’s Jeff? Some questions felt compassionate; others, intrusive, as if to remind me that my child was sick and theirs were just fine.

Something to think about: Sometimes silence protects us. It can be a coping mechanism, a way to avoid opening old wounds and causing ourselves pain. At other times it boxes us in and stifles our growth. The stigma and shame of addiction kept me silent for years. I feel certain that for my mom and nonna, the shame of past traumas kept them silent for even longer. What a sadness.