My mom was daring. She was unconventional, a maverick, a beauty and as her peers insist, "very, very bright." And there are certainly many moms who can be described as such. But when you're living in a community of super-conservatives in the 70s and 80s who rely on tradition to navigate every impulse, it's actually quite revolutionary. This weekend is special for me. It's Mother's Day and it's my moment to take a moment to illuminate my mom.
Although she was the granddaughter of a Meharry Medical student and her family dated back to early 18th century Virginia as land-owning free people of color, my mom wasn't impressed by the high-brow. In fact, she preferred to socialize among everyday folk. She often broke bread in our kitchen with some recently-divorced or personally emancipated woman who was having difficulty lifting her chin. Well, my mom was the lifter and the encourager. She went out of her way to point out the beauty and possibility in these women who for decades had been told they offered nothing. And although I was aware this sacred activity was taking place, I was not interested. This little brother preferred my afternoon Scooby Doo or Speed Racer and a cold glass of milk. It wasn't until my mom lost her battle with ovarian cancer a decade ago did I realize the weight and breadth of her doings.
Her family was cash-poor. My grandfather, who owned a seafood market, had a very well-paying job but didn't handle his finances appropriately. My grandmother had come from a somewhat privileged background, but caring for her sickly mother prohibited her from taking advantage of the future she was expected to have. Well, my mother didn't believe history should be used as a blueprint for the future. Not her parents, or the world's. She didn't believe in yesterday and she certainly didn't believe in wasting today. She advocated independence, the forging of personal ideology, and supplying her children with every bit of knowledge about race, sex, work ethic and the danger of acquiescing to what other people think.
But what stands out the most was the spring of my First Communion. This was before my mom left the Catholic Church and decided to create her own spiritual tradition. For some reason First Communion was happening around Mother's Day. A week before, or after, I don't remember. But my mother had been dropping me off for catechism instruction at a church member's home. She would drop me off and then drive away and return in a few hours. The catechism instructor would let me stand in the living room, but no further than that. In fact, she wouldn't even let me sit. She would go into the kitchen and grab some water and then bring me back outside where she'd instruct me on the porch. And when it got darker, we'd remain on the porch, lights unlit.
Well, my mother pulled up early one day and saw me squinting in the dark. She quickly got out of her Nova, instructed me to grab my stuff and get in the car and wait. I was bit taken off-guard and surprised to see she and the instructor go inside, all the way into the kitchen. From my vantage point, I saw my mother doing most of the talking and from her facial expressions it was clear she was pelting the instructor with the truth-telling my mom was famous for. The instructor broke out in tears. Moments later we were on the road heading home. My mom looked down at me and said no son of hers would sit on a cold porch in the dark and learn about religion. Ever! Oh...she also said that church was "for the birds". And that's all that was ever said.
Moments like that were plenty. I'd need a year to list them all and give them their full color. But I so appreciate my mom. And today I'd like to celebrate her courage, her innate compassion, her planting the seeds for me to hopefully learn to be an unrelenting me. For showing me one daring example.
Happy Moms Day!
