My Mother's Legacy

I have not seen my mother - the woman who carried me in her womb, dreaming of who I would become, who labored and strained to bring me into this world, who nursed me, who taught me to braid and who used to lovingly stroke my forehead and kiss my cheek - in ten years. She lives with her three children from her second marriage in my hometown (the "big town" near my hometown), next door to my grandmother, whom I visit every time I am in Oklahoma. It isn't an access problem. I haven't visited her because the other side of my mother is too difficult to remember - the screaming, the hitting, the insulting, the ponytail yanking side. That is the side that tried repeatedly to take her own life, including once while I sat huddled beneath my covers trembling and terrified, afraid to breathe. The memory of that mother gives me anxiety attacks when I hear her voice.

But no matter the negative legacy my mother has given me, I was old enough when she walked out of my life (at age 12) to have some loving, fond memories, and an appreciation for certain things she taught me, things she passed along to her lookalike dauhter.

She showed me what motherly tenderness could be. When she wasn't angry, when she wanted to, she could be very sweet to me. I remember after she left I would lay in bed at night and try to relive certain moments: like the times I sat on the bathroom countertop for her to curl my hair, or the last night we lived in the same house, when she tearfully gave me the ring she had received from her mother, an heirloom she had always been planning to pass along but had intended to wait to give me until I was sixteen. I would close my eyes and remember her goodbye: she thought I was asleep as she sat on the side of my bed and stroked my hair, brushing my bangs off of my forehead, and I kept my eyes closed and my breathing even and tried to record the moment in my memory. (Even now when I do that to Eden it takes me back to that moment fifteen years ago). I have been lucky enough in my life to have many positive, nurturing women who have taken me under their wings and taught me how to truly nurture another person, but there is no substitute for a mother's tender hand.

She gave me my blue eyes. Her family is full of blue eyes - her father had them, her broher had them, all of my cousins had them - but I am the only one who inherited them from her and I love them. They make me feel connected in some weird way to that half of me.

She taught me to love reading. She read to me constantly from a very young age, and I remember by the time I started kindergarten I could already write all of my letters and could even read a little, even without the benefit of preschool. She was also a writer; she drafted a manuscript for a book (she never let me read it; she said it was too old, too heavy for me). I read letters and poetry she wrote. I kept letters she wrote to me and the creases are worn from my constant rereading. My love of the written word and my knowledge that my mother was a writer led me to constantly express myself in writing also. I wrote my first poem one afternoon just before she left, and her pride spurred me on more than anyone else's could. Although I don't have the opportunity to write creatively very often anymore, it is a truly precious part of my life and I still think in poetry (or at least somewhat poetic prose) sometimes.

While I cannot yet bring myself to quite say I'm really thankful for the "other" side of her, that part of my life is a huge part of who I am now, and some of that is good too: it taught me how not to respond in anger, it taught me compassion and bravery as I took blows for my little sister, and it made me firm in my conviction that I want my daughter to always know I love her more than I can say.

I am truly thankful for my mother. Maybe one day I will be strong enough to resume some sort of relationship, but for now I will leave it at forgiveness (if not complete forgetfulness) for the negative and appreciation and thankfulness for the positive parts of her legacy to me.