Mummy Buzz


An Open Letter to Jian Ghomeshi's Mother

while everyone is thinking of him, I am thinking of you

jian ghomeshi

We say we'll do anything for our kids; that we'll love them unconditionally. But few of us are ever put to the test like you, Ms.Ghomeshi, and you have been tested. 

Your grown son has been charged with sex crimes. People all over the world are talking about him. Innocent or guilty, it doesn't matter. His punishment—and yours—has already begun. His passport has been revoked, his bail met, he must live in your home, under your roof. You must take him under your wing. Canada's pariah, stripped of accolades, has been damned by public trial. Your Jian, who made you so proud... I can't imagine how that feels. 

Of course you stand by him as he loses the job he loves. You stand by, even as he confesses on social media to enjoying "adventurous" sex. You love him. You will handle it. It's the nature of fame, you say. They build you up, only to tear you down. Then the women start coming forward, and the accusations of abuse pour in, one after another... This is your boy. The one whose diapers you changed. The one you kissed goodnight. 

Maybe people stare when you go out shopping. Their whispers scratch at your ears. That's his mother. You can almost taste their pity, their contempt. Are they thinking that somewhere along the line there must have been something you could have seen as a parent that made Jian the child into Jian the man. You may be seen as guilty by association. So often a mom is accountable for what her baby does as an adult. Alcoholic? Blame your mother. Autistic? Blame your mother. Sexual deviant? Blame your mother. It's such a dull refrain, yet we tune into it. We can't help ourselves.

So while everyone is thinking of him right now, I am thinking of you. You, drawing the blinds against the glare of so many flashes and bodies camped out on your property. You, trying to shut out all the ugly words that will nonetheless play over and over when you close your eyes at night while your boy sleeps in the next room. The way he used to, all those years ago. 

And I will watch over my own boy as his chest rises and falls, so peaceful asleep, thinking of you and what it means to be a mother.