This book is dedicated to everyone who has
a mother, who knows a mother, who is a mother,
who will be a mother, or just likes to say the
word "Mother."
That cat Joan is a baaaaad mother-
(Shut your mouth!)
But I'm talkin' about Adam's Mom.
-Theme from Shaft, Variation #1
God came to me last night and told me your purpose for
being here. I am going to help you write a new book.
-Annie Wilkes in Stephen King's Misery
Mothers. They are known by many names: Mama, Ma, Mommy, Mumzy, Mamasita, or, that old standard in my house when I was growing up, "The most whacked-out woman I've ever been humbled to claim as my very own relative who has single-handedly tried to jeopardize any and every relationship I've ever had." Aaaaah. Just writing that makes me feel better. You've heard that old adage "You can't live with 'em…"? Well amen to that, brother. It's also my firm belief that mothers should provide immediate family members with ample warning beFORE just "popping by" for a few minutes, or face serious consequences.
I know. You're thinking I've got issues. Fact is, when my wife and I moved into our house, it was my WIFE who didn't want to give my mother our new address. And for a while, it was peaceful. I was free-free, I tell you! No, I'm not being cruel, trust me. I should say this now, so we all feel better about each other: I eventually caved and told my mother where we lived, OK? Something about her wanting to see her grandkids… I don't know. (I think she's just using them as a ruse to keep tabs on my life, but my shrink says that might be a tad extreme.) Although I do love and care about her (as most sons who have been humiliated by their mothers most every day of their lives would), I've got PLENTY of reasons why I keep my distance. Most of which I tossed into a large box I hid in the corner of my garage for close to thirty years of my life. (You'll know more about that soon enough.) What it all boils down to is the simple fact that my mother is insane. Not dangerously insane, I'll grant you, but nonetheless completely bats.
Throughout my entire life, my friends would say, "Come on, Adam. Your mom's not nuts. She's just your typical overprotective Jewish mother." But I knew the truth. I knew there must have been some medical term for her, and I realized we had some serious boundary issues that had nothing to do with our proximity.
When I think about all the incidents involving her that I managed to live through… I remember (insert heavenly harp arpeggio here) all the way back to…
My first year of junior high school in Miami Beach. It was a typical hot and humid school day. I remember it like it was yesterday because I relive this day almost everyday of my life. I had a lot of friends. I also had a crush on a beautiful girl in my seventh-grade class; my first crush. Her name was Sara. She was everything a thirteen-year-old boy could want in a girl: She was pretty, she was popular, and she was a girl.
There I was, getting dressed with all my seventh-grade pals in the boys' locker room, as Phys Ed was just over. We were all joking around and laughing about stuff when suddenly I could hear that voice coming toward me from the distance. "Adam… ? Adam… ?" Could it be? No. Why would she be at school in the middle of the day? I tried to rationalize this as my heart started beating really fast. The voice was drawing closer… "Aaaaadaaaammmmm?" No doubt about it now. It was her. All the guys were panicking to get dressed in time. (In time for what?) The room became a blur as everyone was moving fast to at least cover up. But it was too late because she was…
I could see that my mother was carrying something as she stepped into the boys' locker room. No. (Yes.) No. (Why?) It was my sweater. And I remember at that moment she looked completely at peace with what she was about to do. As I lifted my slightly watery gaze to look past her, I could see she was not alone. She was shadowed closely by our school coach (who didn't know what the hell was going on), who was followed by Sara, who was followed by anyone and everyone who had ever lived in South Florida during the 1970s. The room settled down for one final peaceful moment as my mother stepped into the spotlight, clutched what looked to me like a bullhorn, and proclaimed, "You forgot to bring your sweater. It's going to rain today!"
Those were the last words I heard as the room went black.
Seriously, don't feel bad. I came home that day and retreated to my bedroom, where I shut the door, stared at the various Elton John posters covering my wall, and fell asleep listening to "Someone Saved My Life Tonight." In the end, the whole experience made for a great icebreaker with classmates, co-workers, prospective dates, and psychologists. Where was my father during all of this? When I was eight years old, he lost his three-year battle with pancreatic cancer at the age of forty-three. Being the only child, I had to assume his place as the man of the house. My mom thought it'd be a good idea for us to move closer to her folks in Florida. Thus, my education from the fourth grade through high school took place in Miami Beach.
My mother never wanted to be a single mom, but like so many other women, she was thrust into that situation at a very young age. And in my humble opinion, I think my mother did a great job raising me. She may not have always behaved rationally, but she was there for me. All the time. Everywhere. 24/7. Without fail. Alienating most every other human being I'd ever seen her encounter. In fact, if those Christmas carolers are reading this right now, please accept my sincerest apologies on her behalf. I really thought you sang quite beautifully. You remember. Back in Princeton, New Jersey, on a snowy Christmas morning… I was only seven years old, and I'd been up all night with a flu and fever, and well, you understand. I guess you just picked the wrong apartment doorstep to stand on. I remember you all running like hell from my mother when she chased you down the block with a long broomstick, convinced you were disturbing my sleep. You guys were good.
And to that really nice elementary school bus driver: If you're reading this, I'm sorry about that day when my mother forced you off your own bus, only to allow my grandmother the opportunity to take it for a spin around the block a few times. I'm sure you were wondering what the hell was happening in that half hour or so, and I do hope if my mother hadn't already told you that day, this helps: You see, the brakes had to be tested before I was allowed to ride. All good! Thumbs up.
And if my mother is reading this right now, please stop asking me when someone I know in the entertainment industry will be turning this story into a feature film. I have no connections to Leonardo DiCaprio, and Steven Spielberg is a very busy man.
I had no choice but to accept my costarring role in my life's popular, nontelevised reality show, Adam's Mom, as best I could. During my last year of high school, I started to contemplate where to escape to for college. There were only two requirements:
It had to have a good music school and-more important-the school had to meet my GET-ME-AS-FAR-AWAY-FROMMY-MOTHER-AS-YOU-POSSIBLY-CAN distance minimum. I got brochures for schools in Italy, Australia, Iceland… any place that sounded really far. Eventually, I settled on just moving across my own country when I got accepted into the music school at the University of Southern California. And pretty soon I was thinking that California was the place I ought to be, so I loaded up my car and I moved to USC. But as I looked in my rearview mirror and saw my mother waving good-bye, I knew that this was far from over.
Driving that distance of 2,731 miles helped me feel like an independent adult male for the first time in my life. With each new time zone I entered, my past felt farther and farther away.
Soon after arriving at school, the letters started coming. Not the typical "How are things going?" and "Miss you" type of letters that came to many students who were away from their families. Oh, no. These were different from the get-go. Much less mainstream. Less predictable. Less normal. The letters I got asked odd questions. Some would tell me strange stories about people I had never heard of, while others would warn me of perilous events. I'm quite sure that anyone else would have ignored these letters or destroyed them altogether. But not me. Even when they pushed me over the edge, I tossed them into that (soon to be large) box I kept hidden from every other form of life I knew. I couldn't take the chance that they'd be discovered by anyone. Not counting the ones I destroyed out of pure frustration, I managed to collect more than 1,000 letters. Some of which have remained in that box, unopened to this very day.
A little over a year ago, I walked into my garage and just stood there and stared at that box, wondering what was inside. I must have remained frozen for a good thirty minutes before reaching down to pick it up. I carried it into my family's new house, and carefully placed it down on the floor in the middle of the living room. It looked so out of place, so used. The plastic was torn on one side of the box from the weight, but it managed to hold itself together. My wife couldn't believe it, but she knew what I had in mind. It was time. Time to reveal what sort of peculiarities I was being sent in the mail to that very day, and collecting in that box for all these years.
Now you're probably thinking, Who in this day and age (and in their right mind) still uses the United States Postal Service to communicate with others? Why not use a phone or e-mail? Well, first of all, my mother is a little old-fashioned. She wants nothing to do with computers. She doesn't own one, nor will she think about learning how to use one, so corresponding with her via the Internet is out of the question. And while there have been some terrifically embarrassing phone messages from her over the years, nothing compares to her letters. They allow her the proper space to better detail the never-ending array of fears, warnings, and curious discoveries that forever cloud her brain. For my mother, her letters are therapy. For me, her letters document my reasons for therapy.
