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Jocelyn E. Sirkis, MBA, M.S., Director, Office of Professional Development, Community College of Philadelphia
Abstract
This essay recounts the moment the author showed her teenage son the christening gown she created for him in his infancy.The gown's hem is embellished with hand-embroidered lettering reflective of her idealized, early wishes for her newborn. Mothers often have high hopes for their children and often want to imbue upon them the traits that they hold most dear. But children are their own people - not an extension of their mothers - and often, for better or worse, come into their own identity.
Essay
I designed and created the elaborate, five-foot long gown fourteen years ago when my son was nothing more than a sweet, round-faced newborn. I remember working on it late at night in the dark hours I had between household chores, diaper changes and 2 a.m. feedings. Some of the work was done by machine, but the important part was crafted entirely by hand.
The gownEnlarge this imageAlong the bottom hem, I hand-embroidered six words in pale blue thread, each one a "virtue" that I imagined the gown bestowing upon him: HOPE, FAITH, COMPASSION, WISDOM, HUMILITY and KINDNESS. These six nouns were, at the time, my best hopes for my young son. For all the labor it took to create, the gown was worn just once then wrapped, boxed and stored carefully away.
I had no intention of taking it out again until the time came when some (as yet unknown) daughter-in-law would undoubtedly want it for the christening of some (yet unknown) grandchild. That plan was interrupted when I received an email from the college I work for inviting employees to enter an item in a "Faculty and Staff Art Exhibit." I don't have "traditional" artistic talent, but since textiles were welcomed, I figured I'd show the dress. Besides, my son was now a full-fledged teenager; I thought that seeing the gown would awaken him to the great love I have held for him since birth. So together we took the boxed dress down from the top shelf of my bedroom closet.
With more than a small flourish, I opened the lid, pulled away the blue acid-free tissue paper and demonstratively lifted the lace gown up high in front of me. My fingers pinched the shoulders of the lace bodice as I cast my eyes around one side so that I wouldn't miss seeing his response.
He folded his arms across his chest. His eyes glanced up and down before fixing on the band of embroidered words. He stood still for at least ten long seconds in total silence.
Finally, he let out a loud, awful sounding guffaw followed by a chortle. I turned the gown towards me, cast my eyes down to the hem, opened my mouth and said nothing. He shook his head and continued to laugh with a mixture of incredulousness and pity. No words between us were necessary. We both understood completely. The gown was indeed beautifully embroidered but the words no longer made sense. The attributes described the son I wanted to have but not the son I got.
To his credit, the young man standing before me is intelligent, determined and hard working. He is also highly egotistical and blatantly callous towards the suffering of others. This is not because he was raised this way; it is because he is this way and my influence hasn't had the sway I expected.
In fifth grade he began reading the objectivist works of Ayn Rand and took her message (selfishness is OK!) to heart. By thirteen he became known as the lothario of the local junior high school, breaking innocent little hearts and making them cynical about love. He's the kind of kid who'll sit down for a game of checkers with a preschooler and play to win, especially if there's money involved.
My son pounds his chest and speaks with a sardonic, biting wit. He walks around with a gummy smile and a firm handshake as though he were perpetually campaigning for office. He has the Superintendent of Schools on speed-dial. Spending time with him is maddening - like being stuck in a broken elevator with Donald Trump and Eddie Haskell.
So when his laughter started to ease, he pointed to the hem of the gown and asked: "If you had to do it all over again today, what six words would you sew on there now?"
I thought for a few seconds, then stretched my hand across one side of my pained face and slowly spoke: "RUTHLESS... FLAMBOYANT... AMBITIOUS... RELENTLESS... SLICK... and... DELUSIONAL.
But," I added with resignation, "that wouldn't make for a very nice christening gown, now would it?"
"Delusional?" he repeated, obviously taking exception to this one word. "You're calling me delusional? Let me remind you that you were the one who thought she had given birth to Gandhi!"
