I’m Supposed to Protect You from All This

A Memoir
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A Vogue Best Book of the Year

"What Ferrante did for female friends—exploring the tumult and complexity their relationships could hold—Spiegelman sets out to do for mothers and daughters. She’s essentially written My Brilliant Mom." —Slate 

A memoir of mothers and daughters—and mothers as daughters—traced through four generations, from Paris to New York and back again.  

For a long time, Nadja Spiegelman believed her mother was a fairy. More than her famous father, Maus creator Art Spiegelman, and even more than most mothers, hers—French-born New Yorker art director Françoise Mouly—exerted a force over reality that was both dazzling and daunting. As Nadja’s body changed and “began to whisper to the adults around me in a language I did not understand,” their relationship grew tense. Unwittingly, they were replaying a drama from her mother’s past, a drama Nadja sensed but had never been told. Then, after college, her mother suddenly opened up to her. Françoise recounted her turbulent adolescence caught between a volatile mother and a playboy father, one of the first plastic surgeons in France. The weight of the difficult stories she told her daughter shifted the balance between them. 
                It had taken an ocean to allow Françoise the distance to become her own person. At about the same age, Nadja made the journey in reverse, moving to Paris determined to get to know the woman her mother had fled.  Her grandmother’s memories contradicted her mother’s at nearly every turn, but beneath them lay a difficult history of her own. Nadja emerged with a deeper understanding of how each generation reshapes the past in order to forge ahead, their narratives both weapon and defense, eternally in conflict. Every reader will recognize herself and her family in I'm Supposed to Protect You From All This, a gorgeous and heartbreaking memoir that helps us to see why sometimes those who love us best hurt us most. 


“A richly detailed memoir about the contradictory life narratives that connect and divide four generations of women.” –New York Times Book Review

“Piercingly honest and uncommonly generous, allowing space for the vagaries of memory and different generational spins.” –Vogue 

"Poetic and powerful." —Elle

“Arresting…[Spiegelman] investigates the complicated, contested mythologies of her maternal family…[she] is insightful about the malleability and power of memory…eloquent…[and] sharp.” NPR

"What Ferrante did for female friends—exploring the tumult and complexity their relationships could hold—Spiegelman sets out to do for mothers and daughters. She’s essentially written My Brilliant Mom." —Slate

"The complexity of mother-daughter relationships provides an apt canvas for Spiegelman’s candid, beautiful prose and heartbreaking insight." —Real Simple, Best Books of August

“If the sins of the fathers are visited upon the sons, so are the sins of the mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers visited upon the daughters. In this first book by Art Spiegelman’s daughter, those sins are cause for a fierce exhumation of the author’s maternal lineage…The greatest success of this poetic, searing memoir lies in its universality. What mother has not hated her child in at least one terrible moment; what daughter has not, for at least one terrible moment, wished her mother dead? … beautiful [and]…compelling.” —San Francisco Chronicle

“A beautiful, insightful read.” —Travel and Leisure

“In her sensitive, probing memoir [Spiegelman]… excavates the lives that lead to hers, to understand what came before, to understand herself… Spiegelman approaches her subjects with sensitivity, wisdom, generosity, and honesty, with an acute sense of the responsibilities and risks involved with sharing other people’s stories… more than anything, [she] shows us, in intimate detail, what a strange thing it is, to have a mother, how painful, how powerful.” Boston Globe

"Tender and delicate." —Entertainment Weekly

"Vivid reflections of a common humanity and a tractable memory.” –Dallas News

“A brilliant examination of the mother-daughter dynamic, the things we desire from one another, what we can—and cannot—give, and how we find ourselves.” —Refinery29, The Best Books of 2016

“Spiegelman takes on the onerous task of picking at the narrative threads of her mother’s adolescence and unravelling it to find the truth. The result is this memoir, which is a beautiful thing. A word to the wise: your inclination will be to read this as fast as possible, but take your time. The language and the story both deserve your patience.” —The Frisky

“Spiegelman’s brilliant excavation into four generations of her maternal line is nothing short of astonishing…A meditation on memory and the nature of truth as much as a family history, I’m Supposed to Protect You from All This introduces a stunning new voice in the field of memoir.” –Bookpage, an August Nonfiction Top Pick 

“[Spiegelman] writes candidly and beautifully about the complex relationship between mothers and daughters.” PureWow

“If we see the modern memoir as a route towards the self, its measure might be taken by the nature of the trip: is the driver speeding or taking you on a languorous country jaunt?...Life is short, and I sometimes feel long memoirs should be criminalised – but then you get an author as open and thoughtful as Nadja Spiegelman, and you only wish the drive were even more circuitous; the scenery is wonderful, and the observations wry." -The Saturday Paper

“Stunning and artistic…[a] touching, surprising consideration of the unclear inheritances of family, and the certain fallibility of memory... [Spiegelman] writes page-turning true stories of women, their work and love, which read like novels, and gains the rare sort of understanding that precludes the need for forgiveness.” –Booklist, Starred Review

"A fascinating, gracefully written glimpse into the complexities of family life." -Kirkus Reviews

"Nadja Spiegelman’s memoir works like a series of Russian nesting dolls: in every mother, she finds a woman who was once a daughter. Her prose is luminous and precise; her portraits intricately tender but charged by the wild electricity of familial love. I felt myself moved and expanded as I read this thoughtful, probing book—and I called my own mother the moment I was done." –Leslie Jamison, author of The Empathy Exams

“'I have always known what it means to be a character in someone else’s story,' writes Nadja Spiegelman, whose birth was 'marked by an asterisk' in her father’s immortal Maus. I'm Supposed to Protect You From All This unpacks that asterisk into an astonishing memoir, a dense branching forest where the lives of daughters, mothers, and grandmothers intersect, tangle, and separate in a way I have never seen before. Spiegelman's narrative complicates, blurs, and questions the line between the self and the other—that basic fault-line of all autobiographical writing—as perhaps only a story about mothers can.” –Elif Batuman, author of The Possessed

"This stunning memoir of mothers and daughters blew me away with its beauty and honesty. At once unflinching in its exploration of maternal cruelty and unabashed about the wonders of a mother's love, it manages to capture the complexity of that bond like nothing else I've ever read. An extraordinary achievement." –J. Courtney Sullivan, author of The Engagements

"In this mesmerizing book, Nadja Spiegelman sets out to understand the women in her family—her French mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, who expected little from men, wouldn’t dare ask intimate questions of their elders, and were more preoccupied with war than introspection. Spiegelman’s prose is witty, tender, assured and poetic, and her investigation progresses like memory itself, a realm in which nothing quite hangs together but everything makes sense. The unexpected symmetries between the generations, as well as the inevitable insults and pains, make this artful memoir feel like the story of every family."–Sheila Heti, author of How Should a Person Be?

“Nadja Spiegelman has written a passionate, penetrating, swiftly paced memoir about her mother, her grandmother, and herself.  In sharp contrast to many writers working in the genre, who naively assume they are in possession of the definitive, true version of their stories, Spiegelman nimbly interrogates the workings of memory itself—its shifting shape and unreliability, its fictional character. I am proud to play a bit part in this complex love story about three generations of women and what each of them remembers.” –Siri Hustvedt, author of The Blazing World

“Spiegelman's sagely poetic 'memoir' is maybe best described as the biography of a mother seen through the eyes of a daughter. Spiegelman explores what it is to become a woman born of strong women, how firm and porous are the boundaries between the generations, how enduring and mutable is the invincibility (and the vulnerability) a woman passes down to her daughter. Spiegelman's  intimate portrait of female identity and idolatry is intelligent, forthright and heartbreaking. Her sentences will haunt me forever."Heidi Julavits, author of The Folded Clock 


chapter one

When I was a child, I knew that my mother was a fairy. Not the kind of fairy with gauzy wings and a magic wand, but one with a thrift-store fur coat and ink-stained fingers. There was nothing she couldn't do. On weekends, she put on safety goggles, grabbed a jigsaw, and remade the cabinets in her bedroom. She ran a hose from her bathroom to the roof to fill my inflatable pool. She helped me build a diorama of the rain forest, carving perfect cardboard birds of paradise with her X-Acto blade.

"Maman," I asked her when I was four, "when will I be a fairy like you?"

"When you're sixteen," she replied. And so I waited, and I watched her.

Once, during a thunderstorm in Brazil, my mother pulled the rental car over to the side of the highway by a dark, deserted beach. She beckoned to my brother and me. We uncurled from the backseat and leapt out into the electric rain. We followed her, leaving my father shouting her name from the road, his voice barely carrying over the storm. We stripped down to our underwear. My mother held out her hands, one for each of us, and we ran straight into the water. The ocean picked us up and slammed us down against the sand. We screamed with laughter. We ran back in. The sky fractured with lightning, opened, fell into the ocean. The waves reared twice as tall as my mother.

At the car, my father was pale, his voice quiet with awe and anger. "Jesus, Françoise," he said, shaking his head. We were late now, as usual, and my mother drove the car fast down the highway toward the pitch-black sky. Though we had been in two accidents, I did not know my mother was a reckless driver until I was in my twenties, when friends told me so. The things my mother did not see about herself, I did not see, either. We fell asleep in the backseat, my brother and I, mouths open, gritty with salt and sand, our hair drying in wild curls.

My mother disdained most dangers as American constructs, invented by timid women who washed their vegetables. She was always certain that nothing would go wrong. "No one ever told me it was dangerous to swim in a lightning storm," she would say when I laughingly mentioned the memory years later. Her voice pitched defensively; she did not like to be teased.

There were other vacations, too—the vacation when my mother, sick of the other moms who complained about the lack of apple juice at the breakfast buffet, absconded from the resort and let me drive the rented stick-shift jeep along the dirt roads, even though my feet barely reached the pedals. The vacation when my mother booked no hotels in advance, just took off driving down the coast of Costa Rica, buying us all the strange fruits that they sold by the roadside. My father rarely came with us. Once, in a forest, my mother scooped the earth into her hand and put some in her mouth and ours while she explained about building immunities. We were often sick as children, and then rarely. We knew, my brother and I, that it was only fear that led to danger. My mother cast around us her conviction that we would always be safe, and it held us like a force field.

“Do you know when I finally felt free of my mother?” my mother asked me. It was a story she told several times, more allegory than anecdote.

I was a baby, six months old, and she'd taken me to France to meet her family. This was during the golden years, the ones I'll never remember: the years when she never put me down. She wore a big coat and me strapped underneath it. We shared a body. In the night, she woke and came to feed me before I'd even opened my mouth to cry.

But on this evening, when she arrived at her friend's home for a dinner party, she was instructed to leave me in the host's bedroom. She did so reluctantly. As food was served and wineglasses refilled, I began to cry. My mother leapt up from the table.

"Leave her," the French friend said. "The noise doesn't bother us." My mother continued to move toward the door.

"She'll never learn to stop crying if you pick her up each time," the friend said with the tone of absolute authority the French often invoke when imparting wisdom. You'll catch a cold if you go out with wet hair, bread is more caloric when it's underbaked, you'll never sleep if you drink ginger tea in the evening.

My mother hesitated, then sat back down. My wails grew louder.

"She'll tire herself out," another friend declared. But my mother had already left the table again and gone to take me into her arms. As she soothed me, rocking me, pressing me to her body, she heard fragments of the chorus of disapproval from the other room. Now, the baby . . . When my child . . . She's just got to . . . It will only encourage her . . .

This is what it would be like, my mother thought as I quieted against her. This is what it would be, if I raised her here. Everything would happen all over again.

She thought of her loft in Manhattan, with its high industrial ceilings. She thought of the streets where we were invisible, she and I, in the jostling Chinatown crowds. And she knew she was free.

"I realized that I could reinvent motherhood," she told me now. "I was so far from all this in America. I had no blueprint, no rules. And so I invented it. Every piece. I had no idea what I was doing. But I knew that it was going to be different."

Now, now that I knew her past, I saw both. I saw all the ways in which she worked to be a very different mother from her own. And I also saw how much the past, so long kept secret, pulled us into formations like a deep ocean current, from so far below that we barely knew we were not moving on our own.

My mother ran away from Paris to New York City when she was eighteen. My family had always lived in the SoHo loft she moved into her first year in America, in 1974. I tried to recognize the space as it was in the old photos. It was a jumble then, crowded with furniture she’d hauled up from the street, the rooms partitioned by bookshelves and makeshift screens. Shortly after my birth, my mother created real walls and doors and staircases, leaning ladders to mezzanines and rope ladders to nowhere, trapezes carefully drilled into anchor beams-the floor plan inside which I stored my childhood.

We visited her family in France twice a year: her divorced parents, her two sisters, a cousin. They were all the family I had. Nine people in all, if I counted myself. There was no one left on my father's side.

My grandmother would not let herself be called Grand-mère, so we, like everyone else, called her Josée (she spelled it sometimes with a final e, sometimes without, and pronounced it joe-ZAY). Josée lived on a houseboat moored on the outskirts of Paris, where the Seine doubled back to touch the city's northwestern border. She had purchased it as a shipping barge and transformed it into a luxurious home in a style entirely her own. There were cream-colored carpets and sliding Japanese doors. There was a Jacuzzi in the center of the space beneath an octagonal skylight that opened like a flower, and a table that rose out of the floor at the touch of a remote control. You took off your shoes at the entrance, or, if you preferred, there were little plastic bags that you could slip on over your heels. This houseboat, and the several others she had renovated and sold before, had been featured in magazines. She kept them in a stack beneath the hanging red lacquer fireplace. In the guest bathroom, the walls were covered in pictures of her travels: in a sari on an elephant, in blackface and leopard pelts, in leather chaps and nothing else (alongside a certificate stating that the "bearer bared her knockers at Mardi Gras 1998"). My grandmother was beautiful long after she was beautiful. She carried and dressed herself in a way that left no question. She had blue eyeliner tattooed around her eyes. She never asked me about myself.

There was always a moment of held breath as my grandmother seated us around her table, her choices as deliberate and pointed as a queen's. Those seated close to her were in her favor, those seated far away were not. Love was a zero-sum game. My mother, because her presence was rare, was often seated close. Her sisters, from the far end of the table, tried not to glare.

Even at a young age, I was aware that my aunts were trapped in their parents' orbits, like moths with singed wings around a flame, though how I knew this I am not sure. They were grown-ups, yet not grown-ups. They pitched their voices to the same resentful whine in response to their mother as I did to mine. Andrée, six years younger than my mother, felt closer to my own age. She broke her knees in motorcycle accidents, lived in Paris's roughest neighborhoods, and had wild love affairs. Sylvie, older than my mother by a year and a half, was constantly leaping up to serve and clear the plates, sighing loudly as she did so, the family martyr. But when she talked to the children—her son (our only cousin), my brother, and me—she was capable of great bursts of laughter, the glugging unself-conscious guffaw of a child.

During these visits, I followed my mother's lead. I knew in my bones that her family was dangerous, and she had taught us to be wary of them, like fast food or crossing Canal Street. She treated her sisters with the polite reserve she displayed toward women she didn't trust. With her parents, she was as effusively kind and respectful as she would have been with someone else's parents. I followed suit. My voice went up an octave in Paris. I said mostly merci, oui, merci, s'il te plaît, c'est delicieux, merci. I stood on tiptoe to kiss an endless number of cheeks.

When I was young, I watched my mother brace herself before each encounter with her family—the hard looks she gave herself in the bathroom mirror, the lipstick applied like armor. At the table, much of the conversation took place in language too encoded for me to decipher, but I sensed that the banter was laced with barbs, a poison center to every compliment. And I heard the comments that were directed at me—the grave pronouncements of disaster over my newly cut bangs, the way everybody agreed, with knowing nods, that I certainly didn't need a second slice of cake. I dreaded those dinners, but I adored the cab rides home. In the backseat, I felt awash in the safety of our family, finally shrunk back to its correct four-person size, a rare feeling of unity between us.

My mother was giddy with relief. "The best thing I ever did was move my life an ocean away from them," she often said in those moments.

"I'm so lucky I escaped," she said at other times. "It's the only way I survived."

But I couldn't imagine. The past was always there on her body, but I couldn't see it. It was in the scars that I traced with a fingertip as a child, in the strange things that set off her anger. It was even in my own body, a feeling of damage and danger that had no name and no explanation. It was underneath everything else: that deep foundation on which we were both built. But like her French accent, which forty years in America could not fade—and which her children, so used to her voice, could not hear—the past was too present for me to see.

How could my mother ever have been a girl? I knew what it meant to be a child, how emotions could knock you flat with their sheer strength, and how adults never seemed to understand. But of my mother's childhood, I knew almost nothing. Most of her scars were from accidents. A nose that broke four or five times. The place where the sharp metal spike of a fence had pierced all the way through her arm. A gash in her head from a sharp corner in a corridor of her family's apartment. ("I didn't know you had a red pillow," her grandmother Mina said when she found my mother lying down in her room afterward.) Those were the funny stories. It was the scars on her wrists, the scars on the soft hidden places inside her body—those were the scars she didn't tell me about, and I didn't ask.

"After the divorce, my father used to come into my room and . . . ," my mother began once, then caught herself. "I'll tell you when you're older." When I told her that my high school girlfriend had cuts all over her arms, she said, "You know, when I was that age . . ." Then, with a quick sigh: "I'll tell you when you're older." There were moments when details slipped, when she seemed not to realize how strange certain things sounded, or forgot for a moment that I knew how to listen. Her father had wandered the hallways naked, terrifying the young maids. One Christmas, he had preemptively removed her appendix. But when I asked her directly about her life, she told me only the funny stories, the easy ones: the time she and her sister broke the bed and blamed it on their obese grandmother, the time she cut her sister's hair while she was sleeping. I saw only the edges of the holes, the aftershocks of the explosions. "I'll tell you when you're older," she said when I tried to reach for more. My mother understood: There was room for only one of us to be a girl. There was room for only one of us to be a woman.

As a child, I tried to cast spells of my own invention. I spun my dolls around three times, spat on teddy bears, put pieces of wire beneath my pillow. I lived in awed fear of a faded pink fairy figurine that I believed controlled not only my fate but that of the other toys. The real world was overlaid with a shimmering second world of signs and symbols. I continued to believe in a magic realm long after my friends had stopped. I did not want to grow up. I did not care about my clothes. What stood on the other side of childhood—an uncomfortable awareness of my body, my mother’s growing anger—held no appeal for me. I wanted only to fall out of this world, with its looming dangers, to that other, shimmering place.

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