In 2016, Teresa Strasser wrote an essay for The Arizona Republic about her mum's birthday rejection and dying wish and all the years between. — Dreamstime/TNS
TERESA Strasser’s words jumped off my screen.
“Once upon a time,” she wrote, “a million years ago, in a San Fernando Valley far, far away, my mother had a birthday party and nobody showed. Not a single kid.”
Strasser was sharing this story on X – a repository for rants and ramblings and occasionally a beautiful, vulnerable gem that reminds you that we humans will put up with an awful lot to stay connected to one another. This was one of those gems.
“Days before she died,” Strasser continued, “her last words to me were, ‘No funeral.’ And I knew why. It had been six decades since she sat in a wilting paper party hat, staring at a door that never opened, but my mum’s shunning still stung. She’d be damned if she was going to get no-showed again.
“Her parents had emigrated from Ukraine, fleeing Nazis,” Strasser went on. “They weren’t exactly familiar with American birthday party customs, RSVPs. My mum was the weird kid in class, with weird foreign food in her lunch. Still, she thought kids would come.”
They didn’t.
“Her last wish was from the broken heart of a child,” Strasser wrote, “which makes you rethink every child blowing out candles at every bounce house and neighbourhood park and dining room in the world. ... If a canned air trampoline park or cardboard crust pizza joint doesn’t seem like a real good time, I get it. But in honour of my dead mum, remember that a child’s birthday party is sacred ground, even if that ground bounces, or is covered in garish carpet.”
Strasser is an Arizona-based author and television writer. I tracked her down after reading her post. She had spent the day reading through the replies on X.
“It’s just a heartbreaking slew of stories – empty ice rinks and melting birthday cakes and fire stations rented out for parties and maybe most heartbreakingly, stories of so many kids on the autism spectrum who never ever get invited to parties,” she told me.
“I had no idea how many people would have experience with this. I’m stunned to see the responses from not just parents but older people, close to my mum’s age, who have similar memories.”
Little trauma
In 2016 Strasser wrote an essay for The Arizona Republic about her mum’s birthday rejection and dying wish and all the years between. She interviewed Gina Marianetti, a Phoenix-based therapist who specialises in childhood trauma, depression and social skills development.
“In therapy we often discuss Big T’s and Little T’s,” Marianetti told Strasser.
“Big T’s are the traumas that most people understand, car accidents, death or hospitalisation. However, over the last decade we have come to realise that the Little Traumas or Little T’s have as much of an impact on the brain and self-concept as do the Big T’s.”
I asked Strasser what compels her to tell and retell her mum’s story.
“I really think just like the little girl version of her stared at the door and prayed for her classmates to show up to her party, some version of her would have loved a big funeral, well-attended, maybe with a live band,” Strasser told me.
“She loved music. My stepfather was a trumpet player, so my make-believe mum funeral would’ve featured a hot band with a big horn section.”
Instead, she invites us into her mum’s little girl heart and nudges us toward a little more kindness.
“Go to the party,” Strasser said. “Two hours might change another child’s life. If you can, invite the whole class to your party.”
Her story also makes me think about how big and generous a heart can grow, even when it’s broken early.
“Because my mum was first generation – Ukrainian and Polish – she was very highly attuned to the fact that her parents didn’t understand American customs, especially around birthdays,” Strasser told me.
“They’d be like, ‘We got you a bike and that will count as your birthday gift in three months. Hey, be happy you aren’t being chased by Nazis.’ That was the general vibe.
“I’ll never forget when I was in fifth grade,” she continued, “and my mum was struggling financially as a single mum, but without hesitation, she bought me a lavender polo, like a real Ralph Lauren, not the Braggin’ Dragon or whatever was cheaper.
She got it. She didn’t want me to be an outcast, and she did her best. I loved my birthday parties, because my mum made it her business to make them special.
We lived in San Francisco, near the Mission District, so she bought a piñata, and got up early to stake out the best party spot at Dolores Park.”
They always invited the whole class. Of course they did.
“I don’t remember ever not loving my birthday,” Strasser said. “My mum broke the cycle for sure.”
What a legacy. – Tribune News Service
