Putting My MAGA Mom on Blast ~via Nancy Colasurdo
I have known Nancy Colasurdo for many years, respect her as a journalist, and more importantly as a person. This post is certainly timely for many. /Ted
Most weeks I get on the phone with my mother to do her ShopRite order online. Sometimes we chat for a bit after.
This week I shared a cardiology issue I’m keeping my eye on. Like many, I’ve been making appointments for checkups before the end of the year while we’re in healthcare limbo due to the government shutdown.
Since we have a “no politics” zone in place in my family, I didn’t go beyond that with my MAGA mother.
However, she decided to inform me that I am the only reason she cares about the shutdown because she knows I’ll be affected, but she believes they’re doing the right thing by shutting down.
OK, what?
She’d already blown through our established boundary, so I asked in a decidedly level voice.
“What about all the other people … ?”
“I don’t care about them,” she said before I could finish my question.
(Note to self: Congrats on cultivating empathy in your adult years.)
She went on to tell me this isn’t about politics, it’s just common sense that we can’t continue to educate, feed and pay healthcare for “illegals” and that we’re becoming a communist country.
Oh, where to begin? I remained dispassionate.
“Well, what makes it about politics is that you believe that in the first place,” I said, addressing her first statement and pointedly not inviting discussion. I had no desire to wade into those waters. Nothing productive ever comes from that.
“As for what we’re becoming, your party has the presidency, the Congress, the Supreme Court, now the DOJ … so I’m not sure what you mean. But let’s not get into it.”
“Well, I would try to talk to you, but you’re too far gone in your Trump …
I don’t know the rest of the sentence. I hung up on my 88-year-old mother. Not as satisfying when it’s a tap on a screen as opposed to slamming down a receiver, but it had to be done. I would have said something I regretted. No question.
Mom, how dare you put me in this position again. Oh, and thanks for being mindful of that cardiology issue I’m having. This isn’t escalating my stress level at all.
You know why I’m writing about this? Because, goddammit, I keep lauding artists like Bruce Springsteen and Taylor Swift for being scathingly honest and forthcoming in their art. And here I am, trying to hide this aspect of my existence so people don’t think badly of my mother.
This is real, folks. Two things can be true. I love my mother. And she can be intentionally antagonistic.
My life. My art. My need to share. My need to release. I’m 60-fucking-3.
Enough with protecting. I’m not going to self-flagellate here. I’ve been quite authentic and vulnerable in my writing on this topic.
But sometimes the stuff that knifes my gut the most, well, I eat it. And carry it.
Who is that serving?
My readers so often express how they understand and relate to my columns. I appreciate my community and my role in illuminating aspects of our shared experiences. I don’t see any reason to short-change them by glossing over my own pain. It’s been acute this week.
Just go back and take a look at what my mother’s assessment of the shutdown is and you’ll be able to tell exactly what they’re saying on right-wing cable news. “Illegals” account for most of our ills. And I can only deduce the communism obsession means they’re pounding Zohran Mamdani. How original.
Years ago I learned I can’t penetrate her diatribes and pronouncements with facts. She takes them as opinion if they don’t line up with what The Five has told her. So I’ve long since left her to her dangerous fantasies. Sometimes they seem to make her happy, like she’s part of a club.
But every so often she feels the need to ignore our boundaries and get in a jab. It’s infuriating. The walls of my apartment, oh if they could talk. I’ve been vulgar and relentless in conversations with myself.
I’m also emotionally intelligent enough to know I’m not going to leave things hanging with an almost 89-year-old that I love. So I called her a few hours after I hung up on her.
“Please don’t do that again. You need to respect the boundaries we’ve had for 10 years,” I told her.
“OK,” she said.
I’m not confident that’s the last of it. If you knew my mother, you wouldn’t be either.
