My Other Two Moms

On this, the first Mothers Day in the post-mom era, it’s worth talking about my other two moms.

My first mother—the woman who gave birth to me—worked at the Santa Anita race track in Arcadia, California. She was in her late 30s, with a husband (who may or may not have been my father) in jail.

In 1965 California, abortion was illegal. But, then as now, where there’s a will there’s a way. I’m glad she made the choice she did, and gave me up for adoption.

I’ve never felt an urge to find or meet her—I know that’s an obsession for a lot of adopted kids, and no judgment against ’em. It’s just not my priority, and by now she’s almost certainly dead. (Brooksian Cumulative Mom Body Count, or BCMBC: 2.)

Besides, more information might spoil the script—as origin stories go, “Born the lawless son of a race-track hottie and a jailbird,” is pretty solid.

Mom No. 3 was Loa Tewkesbury, my high school English and journalism teacher and, perhaps more than any adult in my childhood, the person who set me on the path of my next 40+ years.

Normal kids meet their transformative teachers in the classroom; I met mine as the world’s most cocksure teenager during the summer between junior high and high school. She was the honors English teacher and advisor for the school paper, so I did what any budding junior narcissist would do: Looked her up in the white pages, called her at home, and proudly introduced myself as her next school photographer and future student-publication editor.

She could have hung up (I would have), berated me or whatever—but she didn’t. I became her student and, along the way, her friend.

She wasn’t perfect—she was mouthy, had run-ins with the school administration and held opinions that would get her fired today. But the power of “Tewkes” in my life—the Mom No. 3 part—was this: Through her, I learned to trust myself, learned I could write, and (to her frustration, I’m sure) learned that there’s a lot of slack in the system for people who want to chart their own path.

We kept in touch for more than 20 years after graudation. And even as I matured enough to realize not all of her values and ideas were gold, I couldn’t love her any less.

That’s the very definition of momlove.

About 18 months ago, I heard she was in a nursing home. Mind still sharp on the sharp days, but not all days were sharp, and now she was in her 90s. A nurse reminded her that she used to teach English, and it made her cry.

I drove out to Califirnia to visit.

I’d love to tell you about the Hallmark moment. But character weighs and shapes all of us, and my character remains pretty fucking resolute in avoiding uncomfortable things.

So, yeah, I drove to California. I went to the city where her nursing home was.

And then? I found other things to do, telling myself I was reminiscing about old places and old times.

She died a couple of weeks later. BCMBC: 3.

If there’s any fabric of meaning to be weaved from these threads of thought and feeling... Well, I’m not skilled enough to make it.

But I’ve figured out this much: A mother’s love is not the sole province of mothers. And a son’s love need have nothing to do with blood or proximity.

Greg W. Brooks. First published on Facebook, May 14, 2023.