When my mother died, we who had sparred with her over the years of our growth and maturity said with relief, well, we won’t have her intruding herself in our lives again. Our saying it may have been a kind of swaggering, or maybe we were in shock, trying to hide what was really inside us. 5My mother had often made the declaration that she was never going to die. She knew what was here, she would say with a laugh, but she didn’t know what was there. Heaven was a long way from home. She was staying right here.So we just accepted it as fact that she would be the death of us instead. When her own death came first, we didn’t know what to make of it. There was a thinness in the air. There 10 was silence where there had been sound and fury. There was no longer that beautiful and compelling voice bending us to her will against our own.The house that I grew up in was four-storied, but we were an extended family, continuously adding new members, and the perpetual joke was, if we lived in the Boston Museum, we’d still need one more room. Surrounded by all these different personalities, each 15 one wanting to be first among equals, I knew I wanted to be a writer. Living with them was like living inside a story.My mother was the dominant figure by the force of her vitality, and by the indisputable fact that she had the right to rule the roof that my father provided. She was a beautiful woman, and there was that day when I was grown, eighteen or so, ready to go off on 20 my own, sure that I knew everything, that I said to her, “Well, your beauty was certainly wasted on you. All you did with it was raise children and run your sisters’ lives.”My mother had done what she felt she had to do, knowing the risks, knowing there would be no rewards, but determined to build a foundation for the generations unborn. She had gathered us together so that the weakness of one would be balanced by her strength, and 25 the loneliness of another eased by her laughter, and someone else’s fears tempered by her fierce bravado, and the children treated alike, no matter what their degree of lovability, and her eye riveting mine if I tried to draw a distinction between myself and them.We who had been the children under her command, and then the adults, still subject to her meddling in our intimate affairs, were finally bereaved, free of the departed, and in a rush 30 to divorce ourselves from any resemblance of her influence.When one of us said something that Mother might have said, and an outraged chorus shouted, “You sound just like her,” the speaker, stung with shame and close to tears, shouted back, “I do not!”Then as time passed, whoever forgot to watch her language and echoed some 35 sentiment culled from my mother responded to the catcalls with a cool, “So what?”As time increased its pace, although there were diehards who would never relent, irections

Question

When my mother died, we who had sparred with her over the years of our growth and maturity said with relief, well, we won’t have her intruding herself in our lives again. Our saying it may have been a kind of swaggering, or maybe we were in shock, trying to hide what was really inside us. 5My mother had often made the declaration that she was never going to die. She knew what was here, she would say with a laugh, but she didn’t know what was there. Heaven was a long way from home. She was staying right here.So we just accepted it as fact that she would be the death of us instead. When her own death came first, we didn’t know what to make of it. There was a thinness in the air. There 10 was silence where there had been sound and fury. There was no longer that beautiful and compelling voice bending us to her will against our own.The house that I grew up in was four-storied, but we were an extended family, continuously adding new members, and the perpetual joke was, if we lived in the Boston Museum, we’d still need one more room. Surrounded by all these different personalities, each 15 one wanting to be first among equals, I knew I wanted to be a writer. Living with them was like living inside a story.My mother was the dominant figure by the force of her vitality, and by the indisputable fact that she had the right to rule the roof that my father provided. She was a beautiful woman, and there was that day when I was grown, eighteen or so, ready to go off on 20 my own, sure that I knew everything, that I said to her, “Well, your beauty was certainly wasted on you. All you did with it was raise children and run your sisters’ lives.”My mother had done what she felt she had to do, knowing the risks, knowing there would be no rewards, but determined to build a foundation for the generations unborn. She had gathered us together so that the weakness of one would be balanced by her strength, and 25 the loneliness of another eased by her laughter, and someone else’s fears tempered by her fierce bravado, and the children treated alike, no matter what their degree of lovability, and her eye riveting mine if I tried to draw a distinction between myself and them.We who had been the children under her command, and then the adults, still subject to her meddling in our intimate affairs, were finally bereaved, free of the departed, and in a rush 30 to divorce ourselves from any resemblance of her influence.When one of us said something that Mother might have said, and an outraged chorus shouted, “You sound just like her,” the speaker, stung with shame and close to tears, shouted back, “I do not!”Then as time passed, whoever forgot to watch her language and echoed some 35 sentiment culled from my mother responded to the catcalls with a cool, “So what?”As time increased its pace, although there were diehards who would never relent, irections

Reminiscing over her mother and family memorable

there were more of us shifting positions, examining our ambivalent feelings, wondering if the life force that had so overwhelmed our exercise of free will, and now no longer had to be reckoned with, was a greater loss than a relief. 40 When a newborn disciple recited my mother’s sayings as if they were gospel, the chiding came from a scattered chorus of uninspired voices.Then there was the day when someone said with wonder, “Have you noticed that those of us who sound just like her are the ones who laugh a lot, love children a lot, don’t have any hangups about race or color, and never give up without trying?” 45 “Yes, I’ve noticed,” one of us answered, with the rest of us adding softly, “Me, too.”I suppose that was the day and the hour of our acknowledgment that some part of her was forever imbedded in our psyches , and we were not the worse for it.But I still cannot put my finger on the why of her. What had she wanted, this beautiful woman? Did she get it? I would look at her face when it was shut away, and I 50 would long to offer her a penny for her thoughts. But I knew she would laugh and say, “I was just thinking it’s time to start dinner,” or something equally far from her yearning heart.I don’t think she ever realized how often she made the remark, “Speech was given man to hide his thoughts.” At such times I would say to myself, she will die with her secrets. I had guessed a few, but they had been only surface deep, easy to flush out. I know that the 55 rest went with her on her flight to heaven.________________ psyches: souls A. She liked all of the children equally. B. She regretted having so many children. C. She resented the roles she played in the family. D. She made sacrifices for the well-being of the family. 11
8. According to lines 1 through 4, what is the family’s immediate reaction to the mother’s death? 9. What do lines 17 through 27 reveal about the author’s mother? 10. Read this sentence from lines 52 and 53 of the passage. “Speech was given man to hide his thoughts.” Based on the passage, what does the statement reveal about the mother? 11. Give a good example of the mother’s power in the family supported by evidence.
12. Why did the author most likely write this passage? 13. Read this sentence from lines 40 and 41of the passage. When a newborn disciple recited my mother’s sayings as if they were gospel, the chiding came from a scattered chorus of uninspired voices. In this sentence, the word “chiding” means 14. Which lines show the first change in the family’s feelings on the death of the mother? Why?
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Answer 1

8. The family's immediate reaction to the mother's death is relief and a sense of freedom from her intrusion in their lives.

9. Lines 17 through 27 reveal that the author's mother was a dominant figure in the family who provided strength, laughter, and support for her children and siblings. She treated all the children equally and did what she felt she had to do to build a foundation for future generations.
10. The statement reveals that the mother believed speech was used to hide one's true thoughts. This suggests that she may have had a tendency to hide her own thoughts and feelings.
11. One example of the mother's power in the family is shown when the author says, "Living with them was like living inside a story." This implies that the mother's presence and actions made a significant impact on the family dynamics and daily life.
12. The author most likely wrote this passage to reflect on the complex and conflicting feelings they had towards their mother and to explore the impact she had on their lives.
13. In this sentence, the word "chiding" means scolding or reprimanding.
14. The first change in the family's feelings on the death of the mother is shown in lines 35-41, where some of them start to question whether her overwhelming presence was a greater loss than a relief. This indicates a shift in their perspective and a reconsideration of their ambivalent feelings towards her.