Introduction I'm told that even decorated soldiers' last words are often calling for "Mommy." That is the first feeling that washed over me. And on November 5, 2012, six days after I watched my mother die right in front of me, I opened up the New York Times obituaries and the feeling hit again . but it came with a wave of anger. I was so hurt my vision blurred. I couldn't believe what I'd just read, and I asked myself: How could I have been so stupid and so naïve? How could I have let my guard down? How could they have done this to my mommy? Days earlier, I'd written my own simple and rather short obituary about my mom and had sent in the required $1,500. The following afternoon I got a call from the Times saying they wanted to print it on the front page of the obituary section. I said they could position it wherever they wanted.
They explained that they thought Mom deserved to have a more prominent placement. This made me feel like maybe after all these years, Mom would finally get some modicum of respect. And deep down we all want to know our moms deserve respect, don't we? The Times added that they didn't want me to pay the $1,500, but I explained that I was fine paying and thanked them for the offer. Suddenly the person on the other end of the phone stated that the obituary was, in fact, already being moved to a more prominent part of the paper, so a bit more copy would be needed. This was the first red flag. "I am not giving an interview. Publish my written obit, please." "Well, we may just need one or two additional facts that you could clarify.
" "Listen, I submitted my personally written obituary about my mother and I sent in a check. Thank you." "OK, we don't want to upset you. How about we just take your obit and print that but add one or two additional facts about her upbringing and the like?" "Fine." They indeed called and asked one question about her deceased brother and if she had lived in any other city in New Jersey before moving to New York City. It was a two-minute phone call and it seemed fine. I was satisfied. A few days later, on the stoop of my apartment, I was shocked and horrified to read a piece I'd known nothing about.
It was a scathing, judgmental critique of my mother's life. I gasped and stared, wide-eyed, at the nasty, venomous piece of so-called journalism. The first line read, "Teri Shields, who began promoting her daughter, Brooke, as a child model and actress when she was an infant and allowed her to be cast as a child prostitute . died on Wednesday." What an opener! The obituary's author highlighted--completely out of context--the most salacious facts and quotes. He painted her as a desperate single mom who sold her daughter into prostitution and nudity for her own profit. He even distorted Mom's most famous quote, mistaking her wry humor for deep abuse--"Fortunately, Brooke was at an age where she couldn't talk back." This quote referred to the fact I'd been eleven months old when I shot my first ad, for Ivory soap, not to human trafficking of a minor into the sex trade.
Who the fuck did this guy think he was to write about a woman he never knew? How could he hurl such vicious allegations when an obit was supposed to be fact based? The piece was shocking and of the lowest common denominator, which was especially terrible coming from somebody who called himself a reputable journalist. Reading the obit, I felt myself beginning to lose it. I started to take deep breaths, trying not to panic or pass out. I ran into the kitchen and began pacing around the table as I sobbed and rambled: Why are they so cruel? Why can't they let her be? Why can't they let her die without being nasty? Why can't they be kind to her just once? Why was it so easy and acceptable for him to degrade her? Where was the human decency? Someone's mother just died. I walked in circles, crying and choking on my tears, and then left the kitchen and walked up the stairs to my bedroom. I bawled my eyes out and ranted for only a few minutes longer. Then I began to sense the rage. It was like a hot liquid traveling up my legs and all the way to my cheeks and actually radiating from my face.
The anger was terrible, but then I took a step back mentally and thought: Who is this guy? What is it about his own life and parental dynamic that caused him to write with such ignorance and venom? Why the drive to assassinate the character of a woman of whom he had no personal recollection, and whose path he had never crossed? What did she symbolize to him? If this dead seventy-nine-year-old woman could elicit such a vehement response and vicious reaction so many years after her prominence in the public eye had faded--never mind that a man who had never been a mother or a daughter penned it--there was something there that needed to be explored. The relationships between mothers and their daughters are often fraught and fascinatingly complicated. I knew mine was. But what did she trigger in him? Why did he care? Almost immediately, I knew what I wanted to do. It was time to tell our story--my mother's and my own. The story of my mother's trajectory through her life and through mine. The story of how I became who I am because of all she was. This book is about everything that went into being Teri Shields.
It is not a Mommie Dearest tale. But I'm not holding her up on a pedestal, either. There has been so much written about my mom, and most of it has been quite negative. This is by no means an attempt to idealize her or condemn her. It is simply my turn to tell the story as I saw and felt it. It's about the forty-eight years that I knew--yet never really knew--my mother. My life--those forty-eight years of it--always existed somehow in relation to hers. She affected everything in my life.
She was at the apex of it all. Nearly everything I did was for her, in response to her, because of her, or in spite of her. I was either emulating her or trying to define my independence from her. I was either trying to escape her or crash into her. I thought about her all the time. She was part of my every day. Even though I worked hard and succeeded at creating a healthy private life and home with my grounded husband and beloved daughters, as long as she was alive, Mom's needs were never far away. I remained preoccupied by her until she passed away.
And afterward as well, obviously, because I am writing about her every day. As a child, I literally couldn't imagine life without her. I used to think that if Mom died, I'd die, too. Now I'm still here, with two daughters of my own, and this book is about understanding what came before, and what comes next. Part One My feelings about my mother and about our relationship are so confused that to write them down with clarity would mean I had them all figured out, which I do not. --Brooke Shields's diary Chapter One Teri Terrific Who was my mother? I believe that I knew her better than anybody else did. And I didn't know her at all. I could wax philosophical and venture to say that my mother never fully knew herself, and that the persona she created became her reality.
She saw herself the way she wanted others to see her and built up the necessary barricades between her real character and what she presented. She made it impossible for even her daughter to chisel past the myth. For years, I thought she was the strongest, most honest and forthright woman ever. Looking back, I see that she was the most truthful white liar I will ever know. I understand a great deal about my mother and about her complex nature, but there were facts hidden, brushed over, and manipulated. There was information lost in translation and lost to booze. And there was much sadness and pain and deep insecurity. I have always felt that to really know another person, it requires a certain willingness to be vulnerable.
Vulnerability equaled weakness in my mother's eyes. I have asked myself these questions: How well did I know Mom? How deeply do any of us really know our mothers? And how well do they really know us? Ultimately, how much of who I am is my mother? Do I have to know her better to know myself? Of course, there is a lot I do know. There are stories, the ones she told me and the ones I heard from others. And pictures--so many pictures! They tell a story all their own. I know that my mother, Theresa Anna Lillian Schmon, was born in Newark, New Jersey, on August 11, 1933. She had an older brother and a younger sister, who was the apple of my mom's eye. Mom was a perfect example of a middle child. She overcame her low self-esteem by rebelling and being a trailblazer.
I smile thinking of her as a sweet but tough little kid whose attitude and humor made her a survivor. I am proud of my mom as a little girl. But for the most part, when I think about what I know of my mom's childhood, I just feel sad. Evidently her mother, also named Theresa, was forced to stop going to school at nine years old to become the primary caregiver of her three siblings. My grandmother's mother had passed away, and she became an instant mother to three kids. Later on, she lost her younger brother to a freak drowning accident in Newark. I can only imagine the guilt and anger that comes from losing a sibling at such a young age and while.