Before the likes of Kris Jenner, there were infamous stage mothers like the Lohans, Barrymores, and Culkins, who often propelled their children’s careers to stardom only to watch them crash and burn. Teri Carter, mother of Brooke, epitomized the archetype of the stage mother that many people loved to despise. She thrust her daughter into the spotlight at just 12, allowing her to appear nude in Louis Malle’s film Pretty Baby. This marked the beginning of a series of controversial choices for Brooke, where clothing was often an afterthought. Teri’s parenting style even drew criticism in her obituary in a major publication.
Stage mothers provide a lens through which we can reflect on our own parenting flaws. But what is it about these women that elicits such disdain? Perhaps it’s because most mothers harbor fierce ambitions for their children, desiring recognition for their talents, beauty, athletic ability, or kindness. While many mothers keep their dreams and ambitions tucked away, stage mothers openly advocate for their kids, showcasing their achievements in a way that ordinary mothers often cannot.
In Brooke Carter’s heartfelt memoir, There Was a Little Girl, she uncovers the complexities of her relationship with Teri. The book offers a candid and unsentimental exploration of their intertwined lives. Although it’s hard to come away with a favorable view of Teri, one can’t help but see Brooke as a resilient survivor. Many of the public’s judgments about Teri didn’t negatively impact Brooke as much as her mother’s struggles with alcohol did.
Reflecting on my own upbringing, I was reminded of my mother and our experiences in the early 1980s when I briefly tasted fame. At 13, a family friend suggested that my single mother, often tight on funds, consider having me model. My mother, bewildered by the idea, prioritized my quirky humor and academic dedication over my appearance. Despite her Scottish reserve with praise, her joy was palpable when I became editor-in-chief of my middle school literary magazine.
Modeling wasn’t on our agenda, but we attended an appointment at Wilhelmina Modeling Agency. My mother, a journalist, relished unusual experiences for their narrative potential. She reassured me during the elevator ride, “If this doesn’t pan out, we’ll get milkshakes and buy books.” This was our comforting ritual when things went awry.
Upon entering the agency, I was scrutinized by two petite women dressed in black, who seemed more interested in my looks than my words. They directed me to walk down a hallway, a task I couldn’t complete without bursting into laughter. I often wished I could have discovered my flaws privately instead of under their scrutinizing gaze.
The agency’s response to my vacation snapshots was judgmental, marked by comments about my “ethnic” and “unusual” nose. In hindsight, I wish my mother had stood up for me, asserting that I wanted to be a poet or a spy, not someone evaluated based on superficial attributes. Instead, the women arranged for more photos, which eventually led to a feature in Seventeen magazine. This newfound interest resulted in me becoming Wilhelmina’s youngest signed model.
The agency experience left me feeling insecure, constantly critiquing my appearance. Teenage girls are adept at self-doubt, and I sometimes wish I could have navigated my insecurities at my own pace. Regardless, I became a model, landing on the May 1981 cover of Seventeen, changing everything for me.
Most of my teenage years revolved around modeling, which led to a role on a soap opera. Although I still cherished literature, I became quieter, refraining from sharing my silly jokes. My mother likely felt a twinge of guilt, but we never addressed it directly. I was glad to contribute financially to our household, and we both viewed it as an unshakeable dream—until it wasn’t.
In 11th grade, when my contract on the soap wasn’t renewed, I decided to take a step back instead of rushing to Hollywood as urged. I wanted to pursue higher education, and my mother supported my decision, allowing me to leave that world behind without a second thought.
I believe my mother was a good stage mother, doing her best under challenging circumstances. Most of the time, she made wise choices for me. When I was offered a role in a film featuring nudity, she wisely refused to let me take it. After a high-fashion shoot, I expressed discomfort with how photographers treated me, and she ensured I wouldn’t have to endure that kind of modeling again. She also rejected the idea of me getting a nose job, despite others insisting it would boost my fame.
Good stage mothers do exist, and while they might not be the center of sensational stories, there’s much to learn from their fierce pride and determination. Teri Carter is a complex figure, and Brooke’s memoir serves as both a tribute and a critique. While Teri did exploit Brooke’s talents, she also shielded her from many fallout of the controversial choices she made. Teri’s mantra to critics was simply “forget them”—a sentiment I wish my own mother had echoed during my modeling days.
Stage mothers, like mine, are often driven by the conflicting desires to promote and protect their children. Perhaps our disdain for them stems from the fact that all mothers possess these complicated feelings, but stage mothers act on them in a more visible and extravagant manner.
In conclusion, Brooke Carter’s reflections on her relationship with her mother reveal both the struggles and triumphs that come with navigating fame and family dynamics.
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