...to Cry at The Hunger Games

I didn't want to go.  All week I've been telling my kids and my friends they'd have to go without me.  Based on the half of the book that I was able to gut my way through,  I knew this movie, if faithful to the book, would send me into an emotional tailspin.  My sons encouraged me to finish the book, assuring me the experience of the whole book would redeem the emotional toll spent.  My friends made arrangements to meet at the theater so they could join the rest of America in sending the opening weekend's tickets sales soaring off the charts.  The Italian Mama declined each request to join them.

But when my youngest's plans to go with friends fell through, I volunteered to go with him so he wouldn't have to sit alone.  Besides, I wanted to know what my kids would be watching so I could do whatever damage control might be necessary.

Turns out, they were the ones who needed to control the damage.  From the opening scenes my stomach knotted and my throat tightened so that I had to remind myself to breathe.  By mid-film I was weeping.   With tears streaming down my face, I turned to check on my eleven year old, who assured me he was fine and patted me on the shoulder in a vain effort to comfort me.  That only made me cry more.  Why was he OK with this?

For those of you who missed opening weekend, think The Truman Show, Apocalypse Now, Survivor, Twilight, and American Idol all wrapped together with a pinch of Romeo and Juliet.  Like any other artistic endeavor, it's being derivative did not detract from the quality of the movie: it was devastating and riveting.  And therein lies the problem. Parents blithely dropped off their tweens; teens gleefully texted each other as they lined up with their friends; and grown-ups happily waited with anticipation while munching on popcorn and Big Gulps for a teenage snuff film minus the sex but just as obscene. 

After the movie, everyone streamed out of the theater chatting with as much nonchalance as they had while eagerly waiting on line to get tickets. Parents picked up their tweens, and teenage girls twittered about whether they liked Gale or Peeta better.  I choked back the tears until I got in the car and cried even harder when I saw that no one else seemed phased in the least by what they had just seen.   Perhaps they're not old enough to know that they hadn't just watched The Hunger Games; they had participated in them in no less grotesque manner than the fictional residents of the Capitol.  And for that, the Italian Mama wept all the way home. 

... to Perform Unnecessary Acts of Kindness

Long before I was old enough to be the Italian Mama, I was a newly minted college graduate with a degree in English literature which, when combined with a subway token, provided me with the means to get an uncomfortable ride downtown.  With the economy in deep recession and with few concrete career goals in mind, I set off to New York City to find some kind of track for my aimless young life.  With deep ambivalence, I took a job as a staff assistant at a major advertising agency in the heart of mid-town Manhattan.  Oh, sure, it sounds glamorous and exciting - working on the 55th floor of a mid-town skyscraper; riding elevators with top advertising executives and hired talent (including Bonanza's lead actor Lorne Greene, who looked a little surprised when I didn't recognize him); strolling Fifth Avenue in my navy pumps and matching handbag on my lunch hour; watching commercials I played a small role in producing run on TV - but the job consisted mostly of answering phones, delivering copy to the typing department, opening mail, and making travel arrangements for my bosses (I worked for twelve!).  I earned just barely enough money to pay a very low rent on an apartment in New Jersey that required a one and a half hour commute each way on jammed-packed, malodorous commuter trains and subways. (Yes, there were multiple trains and subways on this commute.)  I ate yogurt I brought from home almost everyday for lunch, and dinner often consisted of soup and croutons. I mention these facts not to evoke sympathy so much as to note that all of these circumstances tended to detract somewhat from the Hollywood image you might conjure of a young single woman working one block away from Cartier, Tiffany's, and Trump Tower. 

© Copyright 2012 Roy Tennant. FreeLargePhotos.com

Having grown up in a sedate suburb of a small Pennsylvania city, my time in NYC/NJ developed certain characteristics that I recognized as responses to this unfamiliar, hyper-stimulating, gritty, and somewhat aggressive environment.  One response to feeling very vulnerable in a place where danger seemed to lurk around every corner  (remember NYC in the early '80s?) resulted in my total mental isolation from the hundreds of strangers who crossed my path  everyday.  I made no eye contact; I assumed a conspicuous appearance of oblivion to those around me (all the while on heightened alert for any abnormal and possibly threatening behavior); and in many cases, I displayed hostile signs of shutting people out: a well-placed scowl to the skeevie guy sitting opposite me on the subway; a brief and perfunctory nod to the token lady in the kiosk; a gruff order placed to the hot dog vendor. (Yeah, I ate them and survived! Shocking!)

It wasn't until I left the city and moved to a small college town that I realized how steeled against the potential dangers around me I had become.  It is hard to go out of your way to be kind and courteous to others when dropping your hostile defenses could result in losing your matching handbag to a quick-thinking street thug.  (I actually witnessed just such an event right in front of me in the middle of the afternoon.  Remember, this was the early '80s before Mayor Guiliani cracked down on the rampant street crime in the city.)  In my new small-town home, I realized I no longer needed a death grip to hold my purse; I didn't need to muscle my way ahead of people to enter a building or elevator or public transportation; it was OK and even pleasant to politely ask for menu items at the local cafe and offer a genuine and friendly smile upon receipt.  I slowly abandoned my aggressive posturing and gratefully relinquished this toxic lifestyle. 

Now the Italian Mama revels in witnessing unnecessary acts of kindness, helpful or courteous actions that are completely uncalled for by any kind of handicap or need, but done for the sheer joy of watching people's reactions to the unexpected gift.  I suppose people who enjoy city living manage to muster the courage to commit these types of acts and still feel safe. I never found the strength to sustain the confidence such neighborly behavior requires.  Maybe I was never meant to live in a big city.  Or maybe I just wasn't old enough.   

...to Hold the Door for You

Waiting by the door to The Waffle Shop for my husband to arrive for brunch, I watched a man a few years away from his mid-life crisis rush ahead of his mother to open the door for her.  His gracious act struck me as all the more sweet and gallant because it was unnecessary.  While his mother rocked her totally grey do, she also appeared to be fit and able to open the door herself had she gotten to it before he did.  But he wouldn't allow that. He honored his mother by graciously performing this unnecessary act of kindness.  I could almost hear his words: "Don't trouble yourself, Mom, I'll take care of that for you," and a tingle of joy ran up my spine.  The Italian Mama  smiled not only for the man's gallantry but also for his mother who obviously had done her job well.

When I walk around campus, even students who don't know me always hold doors open for me, sometimes inconveniencing themselves to do so.  Granted the Italian Mama is old enough to look like she needs the help.  Let's face it:  I don't look twenty anymore, and  I'm always burdened with my giant "Mom Bag" (complete with children's emergency medicine, provisions for various contact lens crises, several different kinds of eyeglasses, and a wallet bulging with receipts (not money) slung over my shoulder and a 40 pound backpack on wheels.  But even with all of these impediments, I'm still more than capable of opening the doors myself, so I feel like a special courtesy has been granted me when these well-mannered students offer to help.  More impressive is when they hold the doors for each other.  They momentarily leave their plugged-in, digital realities and say with this gesture,  "I know you are there, and with this simple act I can make your life a little easier even though you don't need the help."  How lovely is that?! 

I thought about all of this as I waited for my husband. When he arrived, I opened the door for him,  not because he needed me to but just because I'm old enough to know the importance of unnecessary acts of kindness.