....LMB: "Andrea L. Sexton 1950-2003"....

January 15, 2004

Andrea Sexton was born May 9, 1950, in Newark, New Jersey. She lived with her mother, father and older brother, next door to her aunt, uncle and two cousins, and just one street down from her grandparents. They were all very close.

After high school, she went to Trenton State University and got a degree in education. That summer, she and some friends took a vacation to Europe, and while there, they made friends with several young Californian women that they ran across. Some time later, my mom visited these gals in California, where she met my father. While many folks my age can talk about their parents as young hippies, my dad was more of a young biker. Well, when his bikes were in working order. Seemed motorcycles enjoyed breaking down on him.

After getting to know my mother, my bike-less dad hitchhiked across the country to see her, from California to New Jersey and back. And the following year, he did it again. They eventually married in a lackluster ceremony at a California courthouse, then got married the "proper" Jewish way the following month in New Jersey. And because of this, every year they celebrated two anniversaries, one in late January and another on Valentine’s Day.

Settling in southern California, she began substitute teaching, but soon gave this up to raise my brother and me. Justified or not, my mother was impossibly proud of her boys, and spent most of the next few decades as a mother and housewife.

How can I describe my childhood with my mother? First of all, let’s say that it’s a miracle I didn’t die in the womb of sarcasm poisoning. I of course, picked up her sarcastic nature with a vengeance.

She was kind and loving, if super-protective. That last caused me no end of frustration as a kid. Well, as an adult too. Even in her final weeks, when she could barely speak, she found the strength to tell me “drive careful” before traveling back up to L.A.

My mother and I were very different people. There wasn’t a lot of common ground between us, which sometimes made it hard for us to spend time together. But we loved each other, so we both did our best to bridge the gap.

Mom was extremely outgoing and friendly (especially when compared to her husband and children). I can’t count the hours I spent as a child trying to entertain myself as mom ran into yet another friend she hadn’t seen in years while we were out at the grocery store. Or the bank. Or the library. Or a movie theater. Or a parking lot. I sometimes wondered how it was possible to know so many people. She was a very loving and giving person to her family and friends, but good luck arguing with her once she’d made up her mind.

But I can’t paint her as a saint, it’s just not in my nature. She was a caring, friendly, generous person, but some of her traits and behaviors were so infuriating that I dedicated part of my life to embodying their opposite. My mother’s tendency to guilt-trip led me to try to make my every relationship, every request and every suggestion utterly devoid of obligation or coercion. If a person doesn’t make a decision truly freely, it is dishonest and worthless. And despite her generosity, my mother managed to also be very self-centered. I am too, but my mother’s version involved making everyone else focus on her as well. While she was a self-centered pied piper, I became a self-centered loner, making no efforts to make people do what I want to do.

As her kids approached college age, Mom began teaching again, as an aide in special education classes for children with severe learning disabilities. As you can imagine, that sort of work can be an emotional roller coaster ride. She loved the children, she loved getting to know these kids, to see their determinations and passions and joys. She often marveled at their talents or kindness, giving them the care and attention that many of them didn’t get at home. But the teaching itself was extremely frustrating; some of these kids had such learning difficulties that even the simplest tasks was like asking them to fly to the moon. I remember one time that she’d spent a whole lesson with one child, on a single math problem, and the boy finally started to catch on. And the next day, he had forgotten it all. He was so angry, because he knew that he’d understood this material just 24 hours before, but try as he might, he couldn’t remember how to do it.

It would be easy for anyone with a teaching job this frustrating to sort of give up, to simply go through the motions of teaching, figuring there was no use putting in effort to teach kids who "couldn't learn." But my mom never succumbed to that. It never made me prouder of her than to hear her tell a story of a classroom breakthrough, of having gotten one of these young struggling minds to learn and grow.

As I reflect on her now, I see my childhood and think of the ways in which she taught me too. She took Adam and me on frequent trips to the library, encouraging us to read and learn everything we could get our hands on. We’d go as often as twice a week, and I’d leave with as many books as my little arms could carry. Her severe punishments when she caught me lying surely taught me how important honesty was to her, and lead to me to value the truth just as highly. And her example taught me that you were supposed to help out other people whenever you reasonably could. I do my best to live up to that ideal today.

I’m probably most thankful for a moment we had last year. At a time where her illness had receded, Mom organized a trip for the whole family to Maui. She loved Hawaii, making her prime vacation spot. She had imbued it in her mind with magical relaxation qualities. She began talking it up to me in the springtime, although we didn’t make the final plans till the fall. She told me about the condo we’d be renting, where she and my father had stayed before. She told me about how great it was, so close to the water, with such a great view, a balcony, etc. Some days later she told me about it again, and I politely listened again. And then again. She must’ve given me the identical monologue seven times before we went, making me pretty damn irritated with her.

And then we arrived. And it truly was amazing. Our balcony was maybe 100 feet from the lapping waves. The coastline stretched for dozens of miles in either direction. Deep blue sky, blue-green water till the horizon. Gently shifting palm trees, warm air with a calm, cool breeze. As night approached, the sun sunk lower, spilling deep reds and purples into the air, I turned to mom and said "I finally understand why you couldn’t stop talking about this place. You were right." She was thrilled. She’d finally shared something with me that mattered so much to her, and we’d connected. This is how I’ll best remember Mom, at this moment we shared of tropical peace and understanding.

I know that my mom was deeply fulfilled, proud of her two kids and devoted to her husband.

I can only hope that all the support and care we gave her during these last difficult years let mom know how deeply she was loved.