My Real Mother


Another Mother's Day come and nearly gone. Fields of flowers picked, packed, and presented. Servers at every kind of dining establishment run off their feet. Mountains of chocolates hurriedly purchased at drug store and gas station. I like to think there is an incredible amount of love in the actions undertaken today. I fear, though, that there are far too many who found today a chore, a tiresome burden, or an obligation that consumes a perfectly good Sunday. To anyone who was resentful of having to spend time or thought on your mother today, I'd say I envy you.

My mother, Ruth, died about seven-and-a-half years ago and I only wish there were more days, Mother's Days and others, that I could spend with her. Of course I remember arguments and unhappy days, but as an adult I came to realize just how fortunate I was to have her for a mother. I wonder what kind of person I'd be without her. Had things gone differently, I might have found out, for I was adopted by my parents.

I was an unwanted child and my mother took me in and raised me as her own for the rest of her life. I harbour no resentment for the woman who gave birth to me. I think it was an act of great kindness to allow my mother the chance to raise a child with love and care. If ever I were to meet her, I'd thank her for allowing me the life I had by giving me up.

Speaking to my father today, he told me how, when my parents first got me, my mother was afraid to hold me, afraid she'd drop me or hurt me. How incredible to take in a child from a stranger, when you have no idea what you're about to do, and raise it as your own flesh and blood.

She soon learned to hold me and never stopped holding me in her heart. No matter how far I wandered, I knew she was always thinking of me. Sometimes her thoughtfulness would be expressed in the most inexplicable ways: buying me shirts in colours I detested; shipping parcels of canned goods across the country to make sure I was eating (never mind it would have been cheaper to just send a cheque); sending blankets to me in a tropical country. I realize now that it was simply her taking care of me. It makes me smile.

Sometimes, when I discuss my adoption with people, they will ask me if I know who my "real parents" are. My answer is always the same: "My real parents raised me." They changed my diapers, cleaned up vomit, took me to the doctor, taught me how to ride a bike, worked to make a home and a life for me that, while not extravagant, never left me feeling wanting or unwanted.

Certainly there are mothers who qualify for the title merely because they carried a child to term. Mothers who are cold, uncaring, or abusive to their children. Such parents are terrible and their children are under no obligation to feel affection for them. I consider myself very lucky to have had a mother who truly wanted me and always loved me fully. Whatever good there is in the man I've become, it is because of her. Anyone who can say that about his or her mother should spend more than one Sunday a year to let her know how much she means.

“The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.”
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

One of the marvellous and exciting things about the English language is its malleability, the way that words are minted, used, stretched and changed to allow us to communicate ideas. Unfortunately, this means that some words are stretched to the point of unrecognizability. “Hero” is one of those words. It is a word that is used to describe people who are merely victims or who show courage in the face of adversity. It can be used to describe those who merely do what they should be doing, however admirable or brave it might be. Like a sweater that fit well thirty pounds ago, stretching a word to cover everything that wasn’t there before results in the original design being lost.

It is time to remember that true heroes have walked among us. April 15^th was the birthday of Hugh Thompson Jr., a true hero.

As a Warrant Officer flying in Vietnam on March 16, 1968, Hugh Thompson and the two crew members of his helicopter, Specialist Glenn Andreotta and Specialist Lawrence Colburn, intervened in what is now called the My Lai Massacre, to save the lives of civilians. A U.S. Army unit was killing indiscriminately during its operation that day and Thompson, who was flying reconnaissance, seeing dead children, women, and old men and no weapons, voiced his concern. At one point, he landed his helicopter to stop troops from attacking a group of civilians, ordering his crew to fire on the U.S. troops if the troops attacked the villagers. After rescuing the civilians, he filed an official report. He participated in Pentagon inquiries when the scandal broke and also testified for the House Armed Services Committee. As he became known to the public, he received hate mail and death threats.

Dr. Philip Zambardo, a psychologist who studies the nature of heroic action, has identified what constitutes heroism:

Simply put, then, the key to heroism is a concern for other people in need—a concern to defend a moral cause, knowing there is a personal risk, done without expectation of reward.

Thompson exhibited true heroism on that day, recognizing that, even in war, there is a line that should not be crossed, actions that are impossible to justify. He had nothing to gain from his action and much to lose. He did what needed to be done because it was right and he was there. He would not stand by. He was haunted by what happened until he died in 2006, but how much worse could things have been had he not intervened?

Thank goodness there are heroes among us. Thank goodness the word still has meaning.


Further information:

Hugh Thompson talks about My Lai

Photo: Public Domain