My mother recently disowned me ─ in writing. Since she was, for many years, a rockin' great copyeditor, her epistle was impeccably crafted. The woman always knew how to use a semicolon to underscore a point. No emoticons necessary.The moment I spied the envelope, I knew what would be in the letter. The crisp typing of my name gave off a familiar vibe, one I characterize as Pissed Off Martyr. I was not at all surprised by the content, nor by its tone. I grew up with this stuff, this "stuff" being the ritual disowning of family members and then returning them to boil in the family crucible before disowning them again. My mother's mother did this with such predictive frequency that it became somewhat of a family joke. No joke.
When I mention being disowned, Christian friends look at me with horror and pity. I hasten to assure them it has nothing to do with becoming Christian and, keyn eynhore, Roman Catholic. Other Jews roll their eyes and groan. I don't have to explain a thing. The story is so bizarrely familiar that we end up swapping stories and laughing. I find the shared laughter weirdly comforting and it sure beats the other options. Mother's Day? Oy vey.
