An ode to those who mother us
Those who love and care for us are not always our parents. For Mother’s Day, The New York Times asked readers to tell us about the mother figures in their lives.
Judith Shapiro: Mrs Halbeck, my third- and fourth-grade teacher in the 1960s, made no secret that she found me delightful, and her support and affection meant the world to me. I clung to her optimism and cheerful approval. To this day, I still have a postcard from New York that she sent every child in her third-grade class.
Kelly Sandoval: I come from a multicultural background, but the Puerto Rican side of the family lived far away. Alina, my best friend’s mom when I was in the third grade, taught me so much about my culture. Going to the store was a lesson in salsa music, visiting a theme park was a vocabulary lesson, taking a shower was a lesson in how to care for my hair and holidays were a lesson in large family gatherings and delicious food. All of these little things added up to a more full picture of my culture. Without Alina, I wouldn’t know a part of myself.
Fallon Alvarez: My mother died when I was 19, one month before I was supposed to study abroad in Cambridge, England. When I showed up, Linda, my host mother, picked me up from the bus stop and made me tea and crumpets. The first thing she told me was that I could cry whenever I needed to. A dam broke, and I just cried and cried. Even though I was only supposed to stay with Linda’s family for a couple of days, they picked me up every weekend from the university for the remainder of the semester. We’re still in touch 25 years later, and whenever I see Linda, she still treats me like her own daughter.
Bella Muntz Kirchner: Tenzin became our nanny when I returned to work, five months after giving birth to my youngest daughter. She taught my baby to take a bottle and solved her dry scalp with coconut oil. She planned fun adventures for my toddler around the city. When I contracted the coxsackievirus from my toddler and my throat was raw with sores, she made me a beef broth from scratch with Tibetan dumplings and sent me to bed. She guided me through my early days of motherhood, understanding in a way I didn’t that new mothers need mothering as much as their babies do.
Chantal Roberts: Mom passed away when I was 5, and I was mothered by three unmarried aunts and two older cousins in an all-female household. It was a caring, nurturing but feisty upbringing that I got from this ragtag bunch of artsy idealists, who raised me to believe that I could be anything I wanted to be and do anything I set my mind to.
Mary Hayes: My mother died on my 16th birthday. She left me many “mothers.” Flossy, Frankye, Viola and Lois. Aunt Flossy was five years older than my mom and was her best friend. Mom and I lived with Frankye and her three children while my father was in the state penitentiary. Viola, who lived next door to us and belonged to a Swedish “homesteader” family, embraced me as if I were her own. Lois taught me that it was possible to enjoy a hamburger without ketchup. I lived with her family in Seattle for three summers. I am blessed to have had each teach me, love me and guide me.
Manuel Figallo: My sister Rita was born six years before I was. If I had a nightmare and woke my mother up, she would tell me to climb into bed with Rita. I loved my mother, who was sweet but overwhelmed with raising four children while my dad worked long hours. Rita was always there, always loving. She introduced me to the library and cleaned me up when I was in second grade and had an upset stomach in the school bathroom.
Harriet Liss: My mother was diagnosed with brain cancer when I was in college. A small group of her friends circled around me. One started a travel fund so that I could visit with my mom on the weekends. Another donated money after college so that I could get grief counseling. Later, when I was in graduate school and working full-time, they organised a monthly breakfast with me. They never uttered a word about their own busy lives or families. They sat and listened, never intrusive, always supportive.
Madlyn Dickens: Her name was Mrs Dunn — my best friend is her daughter — and she took me under her wing. When I was flunking out of high school, she and my guidance counselor had me apply for art school. I got in. Hers was the sofa I landed on when things got messy. Hers was the supportive voice when I made great strides. Before her Parkinson’s got bad, I was able to tell her, “Your thumbprints are all over every inch of my life and who I’ve become.”
Anya Sanchez: In the late 1980s, my parents returned to India from where we lived in Toronto. They needed me to get married — I was 21 — so I got to live with my “mami” (my mom’s brother’s wife). She gently cared for me, from the buffalo milk she boiled, cooled and put in a tall glass with chocolate and sugar to the letters she wrote in longhand to prospective suitors every Sunday, when the matrimonial section of arrived. When I decided to take a stand and remain single, she cheered me on.