My Mother

When I was young, 

Still a believer in the power of four-leaf clovers, 

The accuracy of paper fortune tellers, 

The infinite knowledge of adults, 

When I was young, 

My mother inspired me. 

I thought I understood her. 

I knew who she was to me, 

My Ima, 

And who she was to others, 

A wife, 

A teacher, 

A rabbi, 

A friend. 

When I grew up, 

My mother stopped inspiring me. 

I learned that my parents are people too, 

Not supreme beings. 

Their flaws were on full display 

And that became the only thing I could see. 

When I grew up more, 

I began to see the parts of my mother that I didn’t know in my youth. 

Her struggles, 

Her sacrifices, 

The opportunities she turned down, 

The difficult choices she made, 

The lives she might have led. 

I learned about the relationship she ended to follow her own dream, The graduate degree she abandoned upon becoming pregnant with my older sister, The harassment she faced in rabbinical school, 

a religious sphere that accepted her publicly and rejected her behind closed doors. 

I learned about the mistakes she had made, 

The failures she still lived with, 

The expectations she held herself to. 

I am still growing, 

And I see my mother as she is. 

When I say my mother inspires me, 

It is not with the naïveté of a girl who worships the idea of adulthood. It is with the understanding of a person

Who finds herself facing the same opportunities, 

Confronting the same challenges. 

My mother is not perfect, 

But she is a supportive and caring parent, 

A loving and loved spouse, 

A dedicated and passionate educator, 

A welcoming and socially-active religious leader, 

A person who can be trusted with times of great celebration and unimaginable grief. 

My mother is not perfect, 

But she is a fighter. 

She fights for herself, 

For the people she loves, 

For the possibility of a better world. 

If that isn’t inspiring, I don’t know what is.