She was the famed Mother Theresa, but boy, what an asshole.
Don’t get me wrong, much respect to the great lady from Macedonia. And look, I know she made innumerable sacrifices and endured endless hardships. I’m merely suggesting that even the best people occasionally have an off day.
Her story, as I understand it, she left her homeland for Ireland at 18 years old to learn English. This would have been 1928. Why not send her to England to learn English, I don’t know, but anyway, it was Ireland where she met my mother. Incidentally, speaking of her sacrifices, she would never see her mom or sister again! Truth. How about that for commitment to one’s craft? Her father had already passed away when she was a young girl.
So my narrative begins here, 1928, with my mom. She was the same age as Mother Theresa and actively volunteered at the local church where Mother Theresa was now learning the language. She rode her bicycle there, my mother did, several times each week and lunched with this new girl. She was the teacher’s assistant, teaching by immersion, and the girls were playmates, if you will. Spending time together in this way they created a unique bond, the one person her age with whom she related in real life terms. Mother Theresa would later travel to India and points more exotic. Despite my early harsh assessment, to her credit, she made an effort to keep this unique friendship alive.
My mother married before the second Great War and left Ireland shortly thereafter. After World War II my parents moved to the United States. They’d had enough of war and there was too much for bad memories. Time to make a new go of it, was the thinking.
The two ladies keeping in touch I found odd, given her massive draw on a worldwide scale. Yet, to her credit, she seemed to reserve a special place for my mother, a harkening back to a simpler, younger time. The correspondence was sparse, but consistent. I still have the letters and postcards. Yes, she sometimes mailed postcards, I guess, when too busy to write a full letter. Although, most correspondence was letters. My favorite, though, is the postcard from 1983 after receiving her Order of Merit award from President Reagan. She commented that the president was very handsome and said he made a pass at her, something to that effect. I’m pretty sure she was joking, but funny to think this saintly person could think in such a way. So she had this redeeming quality despite the Pennsylvania debacle of 1976 which we’ll discuss.
She had received the Peace Price from Pope John Paul five years earlier. I forget which numbered John Paul, but John Paul nonetheless. The Nobel Peace Prize would be looming on her horizon. Yet she was a very widely known image across the globe even then, a fascination about her. Then here she comes to share the bask of her glow with her friend from years ago, my mom.
She was receiving this award at the University of Scranton in Pennsylvania, the La Storta Medal for Human Service.
Now keep in mind, she never had time to meet with her own mother or sister. But here we were, she found time to meet with my mom and me for a publicity stunt drumming up donations for her various leprosy hospices, her missionaries and charities.
So it’s 1976, my mom was semi-retired and working part-time at the university in Scranton in a clerical capacity. Mother Theresa reached out through one of her handlers and arranged for a visit. This is where things took a turn for the worse, in my opinion. Look, to be fair to Mother Theresa, I can only imagine the stress, strains and pressures on her, valiantly waging war against poverty in India since the early ‘40s and such, but this is how our little get-together went.
We’ve all seen the images of the diminutive, graying, noble grandmotherly figure. But I tell you, that afternoon, lunching at the university cafeteria she was the tense personification of a bear trap waiting to trigger. It was awkward and very public with cameras all over. I was nervous, even though I was deep into my 30s by then. My mom had asked me to come with her because she too was nervous to be on camera alone with her friend from years ago.
Anyway, so, during the meal, I picked up a basket of buns to offer it to her, the first pick and get the meal underway. She picked one up and dropped it, accidental I’m sure, but still, it was clearly in her hands, unwashed before the meal, and there’s her bun rolling off the table and onto the ground. She tapped at it with her little black nun shoe, ostensibly trying to direct it back to me, but it was an errant connection sending it spiraling away from the table like a top. You know, the vintage 20thcentury child’s toy. She immediately turned her attention back to the basket and picked up a second bun.
“Pick up that bun off the ground and eat it. Don’t you dare waste it. There are people starving in Calcutta who are dying for the likes of that precious food. You’ll eat it,” she said to me as she started buttering the fresh bun. It was so matter of fact, her exact words.
“You dropped the bun, Theresa, you should eat that one. You’re handling and buttering my bun right now,” I fired back to her. She had to be careful of her reaction because of all the cameras, but if looks could kill, my insides would have been strewn all over those cheap wicker food court chairs.
“It’s Mother Theresa, you,” she said between clenched teeth before degenerating into unintelligible muttering and taking a bite of my buttered bun. Her use of the pejorative ‘you’ set off the alarms in my head. This is someone with whom not to dick around.
My mom and I looked at each other, she issued a barely perceptible head nod of assent. I got up out of my chair, picked up that battered bun off the ground and ate it. In one of the publicity photos you can see me in the background with that bun in my hand pressing it to my shirt. I was dusting it off.
Another thing, she never once said my name. Clearly she didn’t remember it. And this was irritating, she didn’t speak to me directly. She would ask questions about me to my mom, like I was eight years old and unable to hold a conversation with an adult.
“Is the boy married?” “Does he have children?” “What does the boy do?” I wanted to wave my arms at her, ‘Hello, Mother Theresa, I’m right here. Talk to me.’ But I didn’t want to disrespect my mom, the true great lady at the table that afternoon.
Then this, and maybe I’m going too far. She must have enjoyed the milkshake she had with her lunch, because as the meal was winding down, she beckoned to a waitress, said something to her, kind of quiet, conducting business surreptitiously, then pointed at me. The waitress and I made eye contact, she smiled and left. A few minutes later she returned with another milkshake, Mother Theresa’s second of the afternoon, plus two chocolate chip cookies to go. Acting on the instructions of the celebrity, the waitress handed me the bill. I thought this was some kind of joke, but no.
We exchanged good byes and fake hugs, she stole my mom’s coat and scarf, then she walked away. I shit you not, she ordered the extras to go, then stiffed us. Walking away she took a big pull of her strawberry milkshake, held it up high looking over her shoulder as she’s walking away. She was probably reveling in her bounty. But yes, she stole mom’s coat and scarf.
The theft, she was so smooth as if she’d pulled this move many times before. Upon leaving, right after the fake hugs, and at this time I was over her, but the cameras were ever-present, so we were obligated to behave. Hugs for the camera, then she reached for and took, not kidding, she took my mom’s coat and scarf that were hanging over the back of my mom’s chair. I mean, really, are you kidding me? She could have had them, we’d have gladly given them, but no, she elected for the five-finger discount. They still kept in touch after that, but my mom let her initiate contact.
You know what’s funny? She’s living this life of deprivation so the coat and scarf must have lasted her for years. Again, that was 1976. Well, you’ll recall the 1985 Chernobyl nuclear plant explosion. Months afterward, there’s the saintly one visiting radiation victims wearing my mom’s coat! You can check it out on some old You Tube clips, she’s wearing it!
But wait, there’s more, as they say on those late night TV infomercials. Back to 1983, the Order of Merit with President Ronald Reagan. You know how the media loved President Reagan, the body of footage of him with Mother Theresa was ample. There was one sequence between her and Nancy Reagan and you see her, Mother Theresa, giving something to Nancy, an article of clothing. My mom’s scarf! I can only imagine how well worn the thing was by then. And there’s Nancy, with the grace of a saint, if you’ll pardon the irony, acting so thankful for the gift. So there you have it. My mom’s coat and scarf have traveled the world better than 99% of humanity.
I know this sounds like I’m raking her over the coals unnecessarily, and in truth, yes, it is unnecessary. I just want the truth to finally be known. Although, I will grant her this, she did a lot of good in the world, massive amounts of good. I don’t mean to detract from her life’s work. This is someone who clearly has more Ws in the Win column than Ls in the Loss column. I’m merely suggesting that even Saints have an occasional off day.
[This fictional post was inspired by Clifford Irving’s fake Howard Hughes autobiography entitled Autobiography of Howard Hughes. There is a sequence where fake Howard Hughes seeks out the famed Albert Schweitzer, a theologian, philosopher and humanitarian, and finds him to be an irascible bastard. wdk]
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