Veni Vidi Vici

It's a statue of Julius Caesar. My mom would know that right off the bat. One of my most vivid memories of my mother is her telling us kids about Julius Caesar. In the Shakespeare version, he was assassinated on the floor of the Roman Senate by a group of his friends. When Mom got to the part where Julius Caesar said, "Et tu, Brute?" she started crying. She said, "Can you imagine? His best friend turned on him!" She broke down, and at that moment my understanding of literature was born. It dawned on me that a story or a play or a piece of music could reach you deep in your heart and cause you to feel compassion or true sorrow or even joy.

At the time, I was a little uncomfortable with my mom crying over something that happened centuries ago. But I got it. Just recently, listening to West Side Story with the kids in the car, I couldn't help but choke up during the Jet song. The Jet song! It's not even sad. I blubbered to the kids about how tragic it was that Tony decided to go to the dance, and how he killed Bernardo, and it ruined his chance for happiness. The kids were perplexed by my breakdown, but maybe a little subdued. I thought of my mom and how her passion taught me so many lessons. Here I am, unwittingly passing on the same lessons to my children. That's what I thought until "Officer Krupke" came on and Golda said, "Mom, can you keep your eyes on the road? We're all going to die because you're doing jazz hands."
Well, Moms aren't perfect. If I aspire to be as great as my mom, I won't do too badly. Happy Birthday, Mom! Thanks for Julius Caesar.