Sons Who Reject Their Mothers Quotes

The black mother perceives destruction at every door, ruination at each window, and even she herself is not beyond her own suspicion. She questions whether she loves her children enough- or more terribly, does she love them too much? Do her looks cause embarrassment- or even terrifying, is she so attractive her sons begin to desire her and her daughters begin to hate her. If she is unmarried, the challenges are increased. Her singleness indicates she has rejected or has been rejected by her mate. Yet she is raising children who will become mates. Beyond her door, all authority is in the hands of people who do not look or think or act like her children. Teachers, doctors, sales, clerks, policemen, welfare workers who are white and exert control over her family’s moods, conditions and personality, yet within the home, she must display a right to rule which at any moment, by a knock at the door, or a ring in the telephone, can be exposed as false. In the face of this contradictions she must provide a blanket of stability, which warms but does not suffocate, and she must tell her children the truth about the power of white power without suggesting that it cannot be challenged.

Andy wondered if Jesus was once a supreme embarrassment to his Father, this hippie carpenter who ran around with the freak crowd until finally he gave up on his dreams and stepped into the family business, probably to his mother's regret. What a sellout, Andy thought. A truly kick-ass Jesus would have said, Go forsake yourself, and remained a humble builder. Now that would have been something to worship: the son of God rejecting God in favor of life, meaning death.

In addition to withholding love and attention and thereby frustrating her son, a cold, rejecting mother will often punish him for his normal needs of her. From this he gets the message that his neediness is unacceptable and shameful. He may begin trying to cover up his vulnerability whenever he can. Many misogynists use bullying and macho behavior toward women to defend against these unacceptable feelings of vulnerability. The unfortunate logic that follows from this is that if the misogynist's needs are unacceptable, so are his partner's needs. They remind him too sharply of his own. Therefore, he must deny them. This explains in part why many misogynists are so insensitive to their partners' emotional and even physical suffering.

Women in troubled marriages frequently try to work out their problems through their children. Whether a woman does this through the extremes of overwhelming demands, severe rejection, or smothering control, the results are the same: the boy becomes too dependent on her. Without realizing it, in adulthood he transfers this dependency, as well as the conflicts and fears that go with it, onto the woman in his life. The misogynist saw his mother as having the power to frustrate him, to withhold love from him, to smother him, to make him feel weak, or to make insatiable demands on him—and he now views his partner as having those same powers. The father who doesn't provide his son with any alternative to his mother's influence leaves the boy alone with his fears and his panicky feelings of vulnerability and neediness.

The world can be validly construed as a forum for action, as well as a place of things. We describe the world as a place of things, using the formal methods of science. The techniques of narrative, however – myth, literature, and drama – portray the world as a forum for action. The two forms of representation have been unnecessarily set at odds, because we have not yet formed a clear picture of their respective domains. The domain of the former is the 'objective world' – what is, from the perspective of intersubjective perception. The domain of the latter is 'the world of value' – what is and what should be, from the perspective of emotion and action. The world as forum for action is 'composed,' essentially, of three constituent elements, which tend to manifest themselves in typical patterns of metaphoric representation. First is unexplored territory – the Great Mother, nature, creative and destructive, source and final resting place of all determinate things. Second is explored territory – the Great Father, culture, protective and tyrannical, cumulative ancestral wisdom. Third is the process that mediates between unexplored and explored territory – the Divine Son, the archetypal individual, creative exploratory 'Word' and vengeful adversary. We are adapted to this 'world of divine characters,' much as the 'objective world.' The fact of this adaptation implies that the environment is in 'reality' a forum for action, as well as a place of things. Unprotected exposure to unexplored territory produces fear. The individual is protected from such fear as a consequence of 'ritual imitation of the Great Father' – as a consequence of the adoption of group identity, which restricts the meaning of things, and confers predictability on social interactions. When identification with the group is made absolute, however – when everything has to be controlled, when the unknown is no longer allowed to exist – the creative exploratory process that updates the group can no longer manifest itself. This 'restriction of adaptive capacity' dramatically increases the probability of social aggression and chaos. Rejection of the unknown is tantamount to 'identification with the devil,' the mythological counterpart and eternal adversary of the world-creating exploratory hero. Such rejection and identification is a consequence of Luciferian pride, which states: all that I know is all that is necessary to know. This pride is totalitarian assumption of omniscience – is adoption of 'God’s place' by 'reason' – is something that inevitably generates a state of personal and social being indistinguishable from hell. This hell develops because creative exploration – impossible, without (humble) acknowledgment of the unknown – constitutes the process that constructs and maintains the protective adaptive structure that gives life much of its acceptable meaning. 'Identification with the devil' amplifies the dangers inherent in group identification, which tends of its own accord towards pathological stultification. Loyalty to personal interest – subjective meaning – can serve as an antidote to the overwhelming temptation constantly posed by the possibility of denying anomaly. Personal interest – subjective meaning – reveals itself at the juncture of explored and unexplored territory, and is indicative of participation in the process that ensures continued healthy individual and societal adaptation. Loyalty to personal interest is equivalent to identification with the archetypal hero – the 'savior' – who upholds his association with the creative 'Word' in the face of death, and in spite of group pressure to conform. Identification with the hero serves to decrease the unbearable motivational valence of the unknown; furthermore, provides the individual with a standpoint that simultaneously transcends and maintains the group.

It’s all right, Alera. I don’t need a family.” “Maybe you don’t need one,” I said with a shrug, playing with the fabric of the quilt that lay between us. “But you deserve one.” I thought for a moment I had hit a nerve, but instead he made a joke out of it. “Just think--if I’d had Koranis as my father, I might have turned into him by now. I’d be brutish and pretentious, but at least my boastful garb would distract you from those flaws. Oh, and this hair you love? It would be gone.” I laughed at the ounce of truth in his statement, then fell silent, for some reason feeling sadder about his situation than he was. He reclined upon the pillows, considering me. “You know, in Cokyri, fathers don’t raise their children. I think maybe it’s better that way.” “How can you think that?” I asked, troubled by the decided tenor of his voice, and he sat up again, not having expected this reaction from me. “Your father controlled you and forced you to marry Steldor. How can you disagree with me after living through that?” “Because…” I faltered. “Because I love my father for all the good things he’s done. Because he made me laugh when I was a child. That’s what I think about when I see him. Not his mistakes.” “I couldn’t forgive him like you do.” “Could you forgive me? I mean, if I did something awful.” Narian did not immediately respond, unsettling me, but it was in his nature to weigh all things. “I don’t know,” he slowly answered. “But I would still love you.” He looked at me, an epiphany in his eyes, finally understanding my connection to my family. Then his expression changed, and I knew he was going to raise a difficult issue. “Explain this then. If that is how families are supposed to function, and you would forgive your father anything, and clearly my mother would forgive me anything, then Koranis fails because he won’t accept me. The women, you and my mother, are loving, but the man fails.” “Yes, but not all men fail.” “Prove it. Your father sold you into marriage, and the only father figures I’ve known have respectively made my life hell and rejected me.” He lay back once more, watching me, and though he had caught me off guard, I was determined to make my point. “Cannan is a just and fair man.” “Whose son is Steldor.” “Who has faults, yes--” “As all men do.” Frustrated, I threw my hands in the air. “Are you going to keep interrupting me?” “No, he said apologetically. “Go on.” “What about you? Am I, the woman who is in love with you, supposed to believe you’re a terrible person when I know better?” “I would be a terrible father,” he said, shifting onto his side. “What?” “Come, Alera, you have to admit it.” “I don’t have to admit anything, especially when I think you’re wrong.” “On what grounds?” I was so exasperated I wanted to tear my hair out. And his bemused visage only made it worse. “Because I saw you with that little girl this afternoon! You were perfect with her. And if you can be perfect with a stranger’s child, how could you be any different with our own?” “It’s different raising a child than talking with one,” he contended. “I never had a father, Alera. No one taught me how to be one.” “And did anyone teach you how to love me?” This stopped him short. “No.” “Well, you’re pretty good at it. So be quiet, and accept that our children are going to love you.” Narian’s eyebrows rose, and I started laughing. Taking my hand, he pulled me toward him and I lay down beside him, mirroring his position. “I’m sorry for yelling at you,” I murmured, giving him a light kiss. “You never know where a conversation is going to take you,” he said, gazing into my dark eyes. “I’m rather glad you did.

Very well. Since you won’t divulge her location, answer me this. Why would Miss Plum turn down a respectable offer of marriage from a gentleman such as my Bram?” “Why is it that ladies seem to believe I enjoy discussing these types of personal matters?” Mr. Skukman countered. Iris continued as if Mr. Skukman had not spoken. “Bram is a wealthy, eligible, and influential gentleman who owns his own castle—not to mention his stellar good looks.” “You’re his mother. Of course you’re going to believe he has stellar good looks.” “You don’t believe my Bram is handsome?” “Yet another topic I’m not comfortable discussing, but . . . I suppose if I really consider the matter, yes . . . Mr. Haverstein’s features are adequately arranged, but Miss Plum is not a lady who is impressed by a handsome face.” “She’s an actress.” Mr. Skukman let out a bit of a growl, which had Lucetta immediately stepping from behind the curtain. “Thank you, Mr. Skukman, but I think it might be for the best if I take it from here.” “Were you hiding behind the curtains?” Iris demanded. “Obviously,” Lucetta said as she headed across the room, stepping in between Iris, who was looking indignant, and Mr. Skukman, who’d adopted his most intimidating pose—a pose that didn’t appear to intimidate Iris in the least. “Now then,” Lucetta began, sending Mr. Skukman a frown when he cracked his knuckles, “from what I overheard, you’re here, Mrs. Haverstein, to learn why I rejected Bram’s offer.” Iris lifted her chin. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve sought you out.” “Lovely, and before we address those other reasons, allow me to say that the reason I refused Bram’s proposal was because your son was offering to marry a woman who doesn’t exist. He simply has yet to realize that.” Iris narrowed her eyes. “Bram could provide you with everything.” “I’m fairly good at providing for myself, Mrs. Haverstein.” Iris’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “What are you really playing at? Are you, by chance, hoping that because you turned him down, he’ll make you a better offer?” Lucetta’s brows drew together. “What else could he possibly offer me that would be more appealing than his name?” For a second, Iris looked a little taken aback, but she rallied quickly. “You may be the type of woman who prefers the freedom spinsterhood provides, so I would imagine you’re holding out for a nice place in the city, replete with all the fashionable amenities.” Even though Lucetta was well aware of the reputation most actresses were assumed to enjoy, and even though such insinuations normally never bothered her, a sliver of hurt wormed its way into her heart. Before she could summon up a suitable response, though, Abigail suddenly breezed into the room. “Lucetta is like a granddaughter to me, Iris, and as such, you will treat her accordingly, as well as apologize for your serious lack of manners,” Abigail said as she plunked her hands on her hips and scowled at her daughter. At first, it seemed that Iris wanted to argue the point, but then she blew out a breath and nodded Lucetta’s way. “My mother is quite right. That was unkind of me, and unfair. Forgive me.” Lucetta

After both of us have devoured the brownie, she pauses and wipes her mouth. She says that she wanted to take me with her, but she couldn’t. She had no money. My father’s family threatened to make her life miserable if she tried to take me away. Chaya, the oldest aunt, was the worst, she says. “I would visit you and she would treat me like garbage, like I wasn’t your mother, had never given birth to you. Who gave her the right, when she wasn’t even blood?” Chaya married the family’s oldest son and immediately took control of everything, my mother recalls. She always had to be the boss, arranging everything, asserting her opinions everywhere.

In a Chinese film, a man is responsible for the death of a child, his friend's son. He attempts, first of all, to make amends for the death with money. The father is prepared to accept it, but the mother rejects it. She wants vengeance: the man owes her a life in exchange. He then sees no solution but to die. But the mother denies him that too easy solution, the suicide that would unbind him forever. He must, then, renounce dying. Only on these terms is the mother reconciled to him. Those politicians who try to slip a bit of power to the 'intellectuals' (missions, commissions, etc.) - on the one hand, to prove to themselves that they have some, but, above all, so as to leave no one outside the field of power. 'If I knew that there still are on this earth some men without any power I would say that nothing is lost' (Canetti). As Nerval says of hours, so it is with books: it is already the next one, it is still the last one, and it is always the only one.

16 And my soul was rent with aanguish, because of the slain of my people, and I cried: 17 aO ye fair ones, how could ye have departed from the ways of the Lord! O ye fair ones, how could ye have rejected that Jesus, who stood with open arms to receive you! 18 Behold, if ye had not done this, ye would not have fallen. But behold, ye are fallen, and I amourn your loss. 19 O ye afair sons and daughters, ye fathers and mothers, ye husbands and wives, ye fair ones, how is it that ye could have bfallen! 20 But behold, ye are gone, and my sorrows cannot bring your return. 21 And the day soon cometh that your mortal must put on immortality, and these bodies which are now moldering in corruption must soon become aincorruptible bodies; and then ye must stand before the judgment-seat of Christ, to be judged according to your works; and if it so be that ye are righteous, then are ye blessed with your fathers who have gone before you. 22 O that ye had repented before this great adestruction had come upon you. But behold, ye are gone, and the Father, yea, the Eternal Father of heaven, bknoweth your state; and he doeth with you according to his cjustice and dmercy

Classification and then reduction, the mind’s strongest weapon against conscience, if it wants to relieve your conscience to kill innocents, it would classify them within a group and include with them those who deserve death in its view, then reduce all the small details into generalities, and ignore them. As it will not fail a trick, to make the killing of children and women an inevitable necessity, towards a higher goal and a better world. Thus began the story of Baibars himself, nearly twenty years ago, when the extremist organization decided to classify the entire American people as one group, ignoring that the number of Muslims killed by Muslims themselves was many times greater than those killed because of American policies in the Middle East, and then decided that the destruction of their opponents in the Middle East. The destruction of the World Trade Center in Manhattan. Their minds reduced all the details; a child playing in his father’s office, a girl waiting for her mother’s return, a wife on the plane eager to meet her husband, their conscience did not hesitate for a moment to kill thousands of innocent people, for the sake of their ultimate goal. And so did America itself, when it decided to avenge its murderers, categorized, reduced, and shot everyone. Its pilots saw neither the children nor the families in the homes they were about to demolish over their heads. So did Hitler, Napoleon, Hulagu, and every serial killer known to mankind. It makes you like a pilot driving a plane, throwing a bomb over the houses, not seeing the trace of what it did on the ground, and if he carried it with his hand and walked in the streets, and watched the children, women, the innocent, who would fall dead from this bomb, he would not detonate it, but he only sees houses that look like matchboxes from the sky, general picture, no details. Satan’s most powerful weapon for controlling the mind, or the most powerful weapon of the mind to control us, and at some point, it masters it, to the point where it no longer needs to justify, reduce, or categorize anything, kill your opponents, and all their offspring, destroy them, burn them, leave none of them. Since many minds are tools in the hands of Satan, it can manipulate them as it wants. Since its working mechanisms have become known to him, Baibars decided, why not? Why do not we make them tools for good. He used Satan’s own style, manipulated everyone, and at times, reduced, but according to his laws, do not reduce the innocent. He is not afraid, he made his decision in the war, and whoever made this decision must bear the consequences of it. He wished time would go back a thousand or two thousand years and freeze there, where the wars between human beings were fought with swords and arrows, at that time, not many innocents fell, only soldiers who made their decision in advance to war, to kill, knowing that they might die. Everyone had the time and the ability to think, make decisions, and even escape. While today, most of the victims of wars do not make a decision, they pay with their lives without anyone asking them if they want to be part of this war at all. Cities are bombed and destroyed over the heads of their inhabitants, and most of them reject this war from the beginning. When someone detonates a bomb in a mall, he does not ask the victims of his bombing about their political stances, their religion, and even if they want to be part of this war, and so do the planes, they do not ask, and their victims have no opportunity to make a decision. As for him, Baibars, he made up his mind It is to fight in defense of those who did not have the opportunity to take it.

Because I am the first and the last I am the venerated and the scorned I am the whore and the saint I am the wife and the virgin I am the mother and the daughter I am the arms of my mother I am the sterile one, and my children are many I am the well-wed and the spinster I am the one who gave the light and the one who never gave birth I am the wife and the husband And it was my man who bore me in his belly I am the mother of my father I am the sister of my husband And he is my rejected son Respect me always Because I am the scandalous and the discreet.

A CHILD LIKE NO OTHER A couple years ago I met author and speaker Leticia Velasquez, who wrote A Special Mother is Born, which includes her own story about raising a child with Down Syndrome. I was deeply struck by the portion where she talks about how, as her daughter Christina was sleeping in her arms, she thought about Jesus’ mom mothering Him; she then meditated on the commonalities between Jesus and children with special needs. This was her inspiration: Mary bore a Child like no other; A child who did not conform to society’s expectations; He was different from the others; He gazed upon Heaven when the rest could only see clouds. He reminded them of their failings, their lack of charity, their shallowness, their impatience, and their rush to judgment. His government tried to kill Him, and eventually succeeded. He had to endure constant misunderstanding of what He was trying to communicate, and bore the frustration of those who misunderstood Him. He was mocked and rejected, and at times, it seemed only His mother still stood by Him. She felt the loneliness of seeing her Son rejected because He was different, yet she bore the pain patiently because she knew that it was for us, the ‘least of these’ that He suffered and died.40

In Gethsemane, Jesus experienced the pains of a person dying of cancer. He experienced what it is like to be a queer kid who is constantly bullied. He experienced the birthing pains of every mother who ever lived or would live. He experienced the embarrassment of a gay boy having an erection at the sight of his school crush in the locker room. He experienced conversion therapy. He experienced rejection. He experienced the brutal physical and psychological attacks that trans women endure. He experienced the acid poured on a woman’s face for her defiance to the patriarchs. He experienced the fear, grief, and sorrow of every parent who has buried their child. He experienced sex slavery. He experienced his first period. He experienced menstruation, not simply from a vagina but from every pore of his body. He experienced rape. He experienced catcalls. He experienced hunger. He experienced disease. He experienced an ectopic pregnancy. He experienced an abortion. He experienced a miscarriage and stillbirth. He experienced the Holocaust. He experienced war – both the killing and being killed. He experienced internment camps. He experienced depression, anxiety, and suicide. He experienced sleeping on the street with the homeless. He experienced the slave master’s whip on his back and the noose around his neck. He knew the fear of every black mother who kissed her son before he left the house, praying he would return home safely. He experienced the effects of unrighteous dominion, corrupt politicians, and all manner of injustice. He experienced the migrant mother with no food or diapers for her baby as she desperately walked north in search of a better life. He experienced having his child taken away from him at the border due to “legal complications.” He experienced it all – every death, every cut, every tear, every pain, every sorrow, every bit of suffering imaginable and beyond imagination. He experienced an onslaught of suffering, which was so great that it took a god to bear it. He experienced death and came through the other side to show us the way.

My hate can kill a man. And it has. To look at me, you wouldn’t think it. You couldn’t tell that a brief fire as evil as hell burned within me, eating me up until I was nothing more than a plan of destruction with legs. I’m nothing: tall, slim, and dull. I'm just a skinny reject who’s lost everything, but it’s my own fault and perhaps, partially, Mother’s, fool that she was.

he had been sexually abused by his mother as a boy. After all, he did sleep in her bed until he was sixteen years old which is a very unhealthy situation. The rejection by an abusive father and a double-binding mother provided enough childhood trauma to qualify him as a person who could develop into a serial killer. He told me he loved his mother, but he considered her to be a prostitute. He experienced the double-bind love-hate relationship with her. This is a relationship where a mother behaves sexually and in a seductive manner towards her son, but rejects him as soon as he seeks intimacy. He could have killed the prostitutes because they represented his mother to him. It was a classic Oedipus triangle. He was in love with the seductive but rejecting mother figure, hated the father figure, and felt mentally castrated by both of them. Since he had problems getting an erection, he did not kill the prostitutes who were patient and loving towards him, as Sally had been. They represented the ‘Good Mother’. He killed the ones who became impatient and who probably belittled him, and they represented the ‘Bad Mother’.

Whether they mean to or not, driven parents make their children feel evaluated constantly. An example would be a father who makes his kids practice the piano in front of him so he can point out their mistakes. This kind of excessive oversight often sours children on seeking adult help for anything. As a result, in adulthood they may resist connecting with potential mentors. Certain they know the best way to do things, driven parents sometimes do outlandish things. One mother insisted on going to her adult daughter’s house to pay her bills because she was sure her daughter wouldn’t do it right. Another mother bought her adult son a used car he hadn’t asked for and was hurt when he didn’t want it. And one young man’s father made his son weigh himself every day in front of him when he gained weight. If you think back to the infant attachment studies described at the beginning of this chapter (Ainsworth, Bell, and Stayton 1971, 1974), driven parents seem similar to some of the emotionally insensitive mothers of insecurely attached babies.