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In this column, Kristen Mulrooney writes letters to famous mothers from literature, TV, and film whom she finds herself relating to on a different level now that she’s a mom herself.
Dear Marmee,
I always hoped I would be just like you when I became a mother. I dreamed that one day, my most literary child would write a book based on our family and portray me as an extraordinary beacon of light, wisdom, and patience.
So far, it’s not looking great.
I’m trying my hardest, but I wake up tightly coiled and exasperated every morning before anyone has even started asking me to play Roblox with them. Like most writers, I consider myself a Jo, maybe not in terms of talent but at least in temperament. Under your guidance, Jo learned to be less reactive and more in control of her emotions, so I’m assigning you the role of my new mentor. Congratulations.
It was a gloomy morning, fifth century, and I was nursing a hangover that felt like I’d been worked over by a shillelagh with something to prove. I was just about to take a shot of holy water—hair of the God that blessed me—when he walked in.
I should have known he was trouble. The green suit, the matching hat, legs as long as a toadstool on a Sunday bender. He had a thick red beard and knew how to use it. A leprechaun. I’d seen his kind before.
“We’re closed,” I muttered.
“You Saint Patrick?” the small man said.
“That’s what the heathens call me.”
“People say you work miracles.”
“People say a lot of things,” I replied.
“Word on the street is you beseeched the Lord to provide food to hungry sailors traveling through a desolate land, when a herd of swine miraculously appeared,” the stranger said.
“Bunch of hogwash. Listen, pal, I got pagans to convert. What can I do for you?”
“The name’s O’Bready. Clover O’Bready. I got a wee job for you,” said the man, approaching my desk. “What do you know about snakes?”
Art by Matt Smith
So what would happen when an ancient fuckin’ viking behrsehrkah would go behrsehrk is he’d fuckin’ go behrsehrk! N’ in ohrdah tah go behrsehrk he’d wohrk himself up intah a huge fuckin’ rage. Maybe he’d even bite down on his shield a little if he had one n’, yah know, fuckin’ chew on it some. N’ he’d be all foamin’ at the mouth n’ shit, n’ then he’d go n’ he’d completely fuckin’ blow a gasket n’ he’d go on a goddamned rampage n’ then he’d eventually crash if he didn’t fuckin’ die in the battle, n’ then he’d have tah go n’ rest n’ build his strength back up so as tah be able tah do it all ovah r’gain next time.
History is often understood through the stories of ‘great men’, reflecting capitalism’s encouragement of the individual and suspicion of the collective. Socialists, understandably, have traditionally sought to reject such narratives; a famous example is in the final address of Salvador Allende, the socialist president of Chile who, before his death in Augusto Pinochet’s 1973 coup, […]

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- by Lucy McDonald
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