As I reflect on my relationship over the many years with my
own mother, I have many mixed emotions.
To me she was the beautiful stranger at 4 years old that
picked me up at the airport, when I came from Jamaica to Canada. In my
confusion I tried to understand and bond to the word “mother” when relating to
her.
She was the woman that was often unpredictable, who believed
in corporate punishment, that came out more as unleashed rage. Many bandages, visits
to emergency, wounded parts in my soul and meaningless “I am sorry”, would store in my memory bank until I withdrew them
one day and let them all go.
She was the 22-year-old pregnant girl that failed twice to
abort me and decided to have her 4th baby, because God must want
this one to live.
She was the woman that first taught me about God in hard
times by watching her read through the Psalms and believing like a true Jamaican
“don’t worry about a thing, cause every
little thing is gonna be alright”. Forcing me to go to church to pray for
her would one day build the foundation for a true relationship with the God
that loved me.
She taught me about my culture through soul food and Bob
Marley music on Saturday mornings while we cleaned the house. It was here that
I learned how to dance my troubles away as I “shot the sheriff” and “listened
to the three little bird sitting on my doorstep”.
She spoke to me that
black is beautiful as she helped to establish the first black history
after school program with the only black teacher in our school in Toronto in 1977
so I could have black pride in who I was.
She was also one of my best teachers as she modeled to me
what not to do as she told me what not to do. The double warning stayed with me
and unfortunately caused me to embrace the “super mom syndrome” as I vowed never
to be a mom like her.
She was the pair of arms that wrapped around me when I was
hurting, even if she was the cause of the pain. She whispered in my ears words
of love that kept me calm during my multiple illness and sicknesses. She always
wiped away my tears and told me to be strong.
She was the little girl that had been left alone in Jamaica
by her mother, who moved to England and had no one to show her how to love a
daughter. But she would try her best, it just came from a place of trauma and brokenness.
She was the abuser that abused, the hurt that hurt and the
broken mesh of a person crumpled on the floor trying to make it all better.
She was the voice that was louder than any other sound I had
ever heard that raised the decibels in every message that I tried to convey. Screaming
was a way of life in our household.
She was my champion in every arena when someone was trying
to push me into a corner and she taught me how to be a fighter, for myself and
for others. Her pushing me has given me the resilience that has helped me
navigate my way in this world as a black woman.
She was my road map to finding true love as I watched her
with her husband move to her boyfriend after boyfriend, after boyfriend…
looking for a man to just love her.
She was the person I hated one day and loved the next. My
emotions so twisted as my mind kept telling me “you have to love her she is your mother”
She was the mother that left me home at nights with a grown man
that she knew wasn’t my father, to go and party with her friends. She would miss
read my messages to her that I was being sexually abused and wanted a mother to
rescue me.
She was the secret keeper of the lies she told to me to give
me a better existence. She would also be the revealer of the truth that I would
seek to regain my identity.
She was the dividing wall between me and my true biological
father, hindering me from knowing the source of my heritage.
She was the mother of my half sister, 2 dead brothers before
their time and a brother I never knew growing up.
But then came God.
Today I recognize her as the tool used to sharpen and
strengthen me to learn to love.
The vessel that carried me for 9 months and gave me the
greatest gift of life.
The woman that resisted all stereotypes and boundaries to
allow me the freedom to reach for anything I desired.
The imperfect being that had a heart of gold trying to give
me something from nothing.
My commitment to my husband of 32
years as I broke the pattern and linked a different chain.
The reason I loved my own children so fiercely and unconditionally
The force that gave me a mothering spirit that allowed me to
have so many spiritual daughters and sons.
The sound in my message that says I have a voice and I have
something worth saying.
The well of grief that understands loss and learns to live
again.
The dreamer that taught me to believe in myself and to think
just maybe… anything is possible.
She is my mother and I have such love for her and gratefulness
that God knew who I needed to be my mother to make me the woman I am today.
I am proud to say I am my mothers daughter
Happy Mothers Day Mom.
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