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Mommy Loves You
 
Text Box: We are our parents. I turned that phrase over in my head a few times to fully digest its meaning. As I reflect back on my childhood, and the way mother raised my brother and I, I’m amazed at the job she was able to accomplish given the circumstances she was facing as a single parent. Father died when I was eight and mother was only twenty-eight. To an eight year old child-twenty eight is quite old, even ancient. Looking back now and understanding that mother was quite young to be a widow and raising two boys all alone. I can only imagine the stress she endured as she tried to balance her own grief, keeping us clothed, happy and fed. It’s a testament to the strength of her spirit that I don’t have any recollection of abject grief, depression or any kinds of mood swings by her. We never saw any manifestation of her inner turmoil which she was obviously experiencing given the circumstances of her husband’s untimely death. I would like to believe that she was able to find a place for temporary solace in something to ease her heart. It’s during those years after my father’s death that I retreated into the world of books and fantasies. During those hours, I was able to lose myself and dull my grief. My brother would find other self-destructive activities to vent his misguided feelings of abandonment, and essentially losing two parents. Death leaves a void that even in its silent cry; the grief of its survivors is easily recognizable. It’s in the way you seek refuge in your memories to make the days less lonely, the smile that is lifeless, tired from attempting to cover your heart’s grief, and leaving behind loved ones to fend for themselves when the foundation has been ripped from under them. When death comes to visit, it’s like an unwelcome guest taking up permanent residency in your life. It’s always there. No Text Box: knowing the man who gave me life haunts my existence, even today. When I look back now as an adult on the years after Father died, I have a sense of being displaced. It was never anything that was obvious or easily recognized, but more a feeling of not being complete. I was like a puzzle almost finished and from afar it appeared beautiful, but upon closer inspection the missing piece stood out and the emptiness was even more profound. A friend recently sent me a newspaper clipping from December 1977 about a writing contest I won in 3rd grade. I don’t have any recollection of this event. It was the same week Father died, and the face of the young boy staring back at me in the clipping wore the look of someone lost in a dream. I still own that face at times. With mother working, we were at times left to our own devices, and my brother did what little boys did-he got into trouble. I retreated further into myself until my voice was almost silent. People who came by often times thought I was a mute because after the obligatory good afternoons and how’s school going, I retreated into silence faster than a turtle into its shell. The thing I realize now is not that I didn’t have anything to say, but the things I would’ve said or asked would be frowned upon by the adults. The thoughts circulating in my mind weren’t the thoughts of an everyday well-adjusted child. And as the child of Caribbean parents, you learn quickly that kids are supposed to be seen and not heard. Your opinion isn’t valued, and you’re not encouraged to express any ideas that differ from those of your elders or else you’re labeled as rude and mannish (too old for your age). Text Box: Here I was a boy of nine, fatherless and a mother who would now have to be both mother and father. We basically raise our kids the way our parents raised us, and Mother followed the script that had been laid out before her. I knew Mother loved us both, but it was never expressed in affection, but rather in the day to day routine of life: making sure we got up for school, feeding, clothing, celebrating the holidays, but it wasn’t her way to freely show affection because it was never shown to her as a child. At any early age, I knew this was just how things would be, and I didn’t mind because the showing of affection during those times made me uncomfortable, and leaving it unsaid was okay with me. The only times I would show any outward emotion was when Mother handed out her beatings. They were classic beatings, and I can’t help but laugh now, but during those hours prior to getting spanked I was deathly afraid as I would imagine the crackling of belt against skin. Sometimes I would have the thought that Mother enjoyed shelling out these meetings as a way to vent, but that was the mind of a child at work. Mother would work herself into a lather of sweat and we tried in vain to dodge her swinging helicopter belt. She was like an assassin with that belt. At the precise moment you moved believing you were safe for a second, licks would be raining down on your ass faster than you could piss yourself. My brother would get the worst of it because he was always involved in some sort of mischievous behavior. I’m of the belief that after a while, he developed immunity to the beatings because the very next day in defiance of her authority, he would be back at it again. Mother used to always say, ‘Thi Text Box: is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you’ as we screamed in pain. She would threaten us to be quiet or suffer her wrath some more. I think she must’ve developed amnesia to say something as utterly ridiculous as keep quiet when your skin is on fire, and you’re praying to God to show you His mercy. But now as a parent, I know what she meant to say. You never want to see your child in pain caused by your hand. That stuff stays with you even when you believe that you’re doing the right thing in trying to teach your child right from wrong. Parenthood is like the lottery- it’s like the crapshoot of life. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. It intrigued me as a child watching my younger brother trying to con his way through trouble and life. He was ignorant in the assumption that he was getting over on Mother, but he was only fooling himself and setting himself up for failure. Adults have the benefit of life experience, but children are blissfully ignorant of their own stupidity. Many things I did as child, Mother must’ve have known but probably had grown wary of trying to keep vigil on two boys. So she picked her battles, and I do the same with my son today. Every bad deed seen doesn’t have to be disciplined. You measure the punishment according to the lesson that can be learned. The battles my mom fought with us as kids, I now fight them daily with my son. I wait to see if my words and actions will have left some impact on him, and the blank stares that now greet me will one day shine with knowledge, which will say, “I get it dad.” I get it Mom. 8/25/05--5:35pm