With their unique pen and their own sensitivity, artists present to us their vision of the world around us. This week, we give carte blanche to comedian Mariana Mazza.
Today, it’s Mothers’ Day.
The celebration of ladies who took a human out of their body.
A human who incubated for nine months.
The ladies who had a heartache. Vomited.
Ate things weird.
Have become hormonal monsters.
Who have gained a lot of weight.
Have lost some.
Loved being someone’s special vessel, as yet unknown.
Hated having their organs compressed by a sprouted bean which would take up a lot of space.
Those who had to stay in bed. All along.
It’s the party of the ladies who screamed.
Torn.
Yelled.
Cry.
Breath.
Cry.
Love.
Strong.
Too strong.
It’s the celebration of women who made a human.
Which was created out of love.
By desire.
Out of passion.
Sometimes by bad luck.
Sometimes by mistake.
Sometimes out of obligation.
Sometimes in terrible conditions.
Poorly controlled love.
We celebrate the woman who agreed to keep within herself something that would become her whole.
His universe.
His reason for living.
His obsession.
Its oxygen.
There are those who have been there for a few days.
A few weeks.
Some months.
A few hours.
They will have held him in their arms.
Just a little bit.
Afterwards, he will leave.
He will go back to sleep.
A long time.
Even if their status will have been fleeting, they will remain so.
Even if they have never seen the miracle break through their open and fragile bodies.
Even if the miracle left too quickly.
Even if everything.
We give flowers to those who have chosen to multiply.
Separate from themselves. Who accepted that things would change.
They will never have to sleep.
We celebrate a human who will never again be his own priority.
It will be someone else who will occupy his thoughts. Always. For life.
It is the celebration of those who have been lucky enough to be able to change their social status.
For some, it was easy.
They called themselves “Mom” nine months after trying once. Bulleye.
A shot.
A little hot, Barry White playing in the background. Phew bam. The next day, hello, I’m coming, mom. For others, it took longer.
Months, years.
A puncture.
Injections every week.
Endless meetings.
Recurring couple bickering.
An imminent separation.
They prayed to the man who lives in the clouds. Crying. By losing hope.
And a miracle. When they let go, on vacation, in the shower. On the sofa.
In the toilet of the seedy snack bar.
A miracle.
There are mothers who will haunt their mothers.
Who will pray to them.
Cry them.
Regret them.
Our mothers’ mothers.
And there are the others. Those who will never be able to be called mom.
Little mommy love. Mom. Mommy. Mama.
Those who will be eternally envious of the luck of others.
Who will hit themselves on the head repeating that their body is too weak to carry life.
Who will cry in secret. Or not.
Who will never live their dream. They will see him again. Always.
There are mothers who will regret it.
They won’t want it anymore.
Will give up. Abandon it. Quit the game. Never look back.
By fear. Out of disgust. By illness.
Or vices.
It will be visceral.
These vices are too strong to turn back.
Those who will leave him in front of a door.
In the street. Elsewhere than with them.
Those who will never have the tools to try. One very last time.
Today is the day of the year when we say I love you and thank you to all mothers.
And there are the other mothers. Those who have never given birth.
There are mothers who will not want to bear life.
They will want to take care of the life carried by another. Without having to get it out of their guts.
Dog mothers.
I hear the sighs. I do not care.
Cat mothers.
Of bird.
From a domestic pig.
Of fish.
That won’t stop them from loving with their guts.
To love like a mother, without bearing the fruit of a desire.
To all of you.
Adoptive mothers.
Spiritual mothers.
Divine consciousnesses.
To all the godmothers.
The aunts.
The cousins.
The sisters.
Girls.
The guards.
The neighbors.
Angels.
Grandmothers.
Mothers-in-law.
The mothers.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Happy birthday, Mom.
P.-S. : There are also fathers. But how can I put it… it’s not your day.
Who is Mariana Mazza?
Born in Montreal North in 1990, Mariana Mazza is a comedian, actress and author. In humor, she notably won the Olivier of the year in 2017 and 2022. Regularly invited on television (Tower, good evening, LOL: who will laugh last?) in addition to playing regularly in series (The arena), we have also seen her on the big screen, notably in Creepage. She published the novel in 2022 Montreal North, which is inspired by the childhood of the woman who was born to a Lebanese mother and a Uruguayan father. She has just finished touring her second solo show, Rude – Forgive me if I love you.
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