I won’t forget that spring weekday, and what happened in my 6th Grade classroom. We were trapped inside because of the rain, and we were tearing mid-century modern room up in a way that might have made Mies van De Rohe horrified. Laughter echoed off the ceilings, and the pure joy of good kids playing ran down the halls.
I had a Whoopee Cushion, and made exuberant fart noises with it at every opportunity. This was so not like me that my classmates were delighted and screamed with laughter. It was so not like anyone else that our gym teacher hauled me out in the hall, slammed me up against a wall, and gave me a lecture about how “the football team” would pay for my misconduct. What? I wasn’t even on the football team. His choking hand on my neck was simply stunning – no one had ever touched me that way before. When I was disciplined at home I was simply told to leave the room. No one had ever hit me. My friend Andrea came out in the hall and warned the teacher – “If you hit him, you’re in Big Trouble. And I don’t like you – never did.”
Andrea was then as now a mistress of understatement. Her glossy hair and perfect uniform hid a budding Woman With Ooo-Rah.
Speaking of Women With Ooo-Rah, Mom showed up about 15 minutes after I called her with my Emergency Dime.
“You.” she barked at me. “You will behave.” Then she turned on the gym teacher.
“And you, you bully. How DARE you touch my son? Who and what gave YOU the right to put your hands on an 11 year old boy? Do you want my husband up here to teach you a lesson? Do I have to do it? I’ll do it right now if you like.” (MomCrocker’s ridiculous 1970s Lord & Taylor embroidered shirtdress looked like a suit of armor, and despite this, I’ll always love my Mom and this was one of her finest hours.)
To the principal, Mom was every bit as vicious: “We don’t strike our children, ever. Not my husband, not me. It only teaches them that you are right just because you are bigger and stronger. You TRASH who hit children deserve everything you get in return. Get something through your thick Catholic head, Maureen – Do. not. touch. my. son. Not you, not you (she poked the gym teacher in the chest, hard). No one in this GODDAMNED school!”
OK, so MomCrocker was a tad unhinged. But hell if I wasn’t loved from my chestnut cowlick to my Topsiders. I was In Trouble, but Mom was swinging an axe for me. She tucked her Coach bag under her arm as though it was a pike.
“My daughters are in an Episcopalian high school for a reason, and that reason is standing in this room. You people sicken me. Come, Thomas.” She stopped at the door. “Touch him again and you’ll be dealing with my husband. You’ll find me pleasant by comparison.” Mom hauled me out of Sister Maureen’s office and into our Lincoln. The parking lot was eerily quiet and I noticed that Mom hadn’t bothered to park in the lines.
“Thanks, Mom,” I ventured.
“Thanks, baloney. Listen, kid. You’re sweet and good and smart way more than your Dad and I can handle.” Mom’s manicured hands cradled her face and she cried a little. This made me so damn sad for her that I wanted to cry myself. “Just be good, for Christ’s sake. Be like your Dad. Don’t be like me.” Mom was pretty depressed after losing what would have been my little brother when she was 7 months along, and while the general consensus was that she should take another Haldol and get over it, Mom was more complex than that solution. She lit a cigarette and didn’t move the car just yet. “I suppose you’re my bridge partner today. Janice doesn’t have a prayer.”
“Mom, you stuck up for me…”
“Your Dad would have done it better, but he’s in Syosset. Working.” She began to drive down Roslyn Road. The dappled shade played over the navy blue leather and rain splashed down from the trees.
“Yeah. Dad’s cool. But my Mom kicks it.”
“Did I?”
“You sure did.” I slid across the front seat to hug her.
“Put your seatbelt back on. Most accidents happen within a half mile from home.” Mom’s radiance lit up the whole front of the car. “Perhaps we’ll go to Hildebrandt’s.” The vintage 1950s ice cream parlor in the next village was Mom’s Happy Place, and when she made the turn down East Williston Avenue, I was thrilled. As I ate my banana split, I saw that Mom was appraising me. I’ll never know what she saw – maybe my inner fury, maybe The Gay, maybe both. But I know that whatever it was, she was proud, and she ate her sorbet with a grin. It was like a thought balloon over her head: “My son who actually makes that school uniform look good, and who does what’s right and who makes me laugh, and who might be a decent man someday.” And I was thinking “My pretty Mom who tries to be serious all the time and she can’t do it because she’s funny, really funny, and she is Bad News, like Dad and like me. They love me because they have to, but I think they like me too.”
Real Women have Ooo-Rah, like a goddamn diesel Marine. Do Not Hurt A Real Woman’s Kids. She will cut you.
Real Women leave a legacy. It may be an art collection, a shelter for abandoned kittehs, or a properly raised child. It doesn’t matter. Her Real Womanhood lasts far past her life.
A Real Woman knows the power of her appearance, and while she does not dress or put on makeup to please others, she knows that her attire will get scrutiny. She is proud of her femininity and owns every part of her body, all the curves and every eyelash. Enhancements give her strength. When Mom put on that dress, she knew that she would be taken seriously. Capri pants or a mini would not have done it. Mom did it proper: she tore into that school there like A Serious Suburban Mom, and her bravua was what every kid wants to see from his Mother.
A Real Woman is a good friend, and she knows that the best virtue of friendship is forgiveness. She wants it for herself and feels that it’s not fair to deny it to a buddy. It’s part of her Ooo-Rah.
A Real Woman is loyal – her Man may do stupid things, but he is Hers. Her kids may be awful, but they are Hers. Her family may be like woah, but they are Hers. Her daughters are treated like miniature women, and her sons are re-creations of her husband. She passes on her strength and character like a gift.
A Real Woman is smart and funny: she reads and makes jokes about what she reads. Life is an endless source of amusement for her.
A Real Woman appreciates Beauty. Art, an animal, the sunset, a kid, a handcrafted thing – all these make her stop in her tracks. She sees things for what they are, and nothing is lost on her.
A Real Woman knows that her complement is another Real Person. If he is a Real Man, she treats him with respect. If her partner is a Real Woman, she knows that she is her other half. She is fine on her own, but her life works better in tandem. Her gifts are best when shared.
A Real Woman is honest. She stands up for what’s right and she doesn’t tolerate any nonsense. She appreciates fancy things but they do not define her. A Real Woman can survive a zombie attack and whip up a tuna casserole for her family with a baseball bat next to the kitchen door.
Dedicated to MomOf3, who brings the Ooo-Rah on behalf of one and all.