Not Yet a Woman

by WC Child

  In the midst of my recent loss and my desire to move my life forward, I came to the realization that it was time to reconcile the relationship with my mother. I always thought she owed me an apology, but in reality, I needed to forgive her, with or without it. I had learned from experience that the forgiveness was not for her, it was for me. I had to forgive her for everything, real or contrived, before I could finally let go of the difficult parts of our past.

  While she was locked up for all those years, she forbade Big Mama from bringing me for a visit. She did not want to be viewed by her daughter as if she were some inhuman subculture of nature that was no more important than an animal at the zoo. She didn’t ever want prison life to appear normal. In my mind, those instructions represented another form of rejection from her. I considered it equal to what I felt when she abandoned me at Big Mama’s house. I hadn’t felt like a priority in her life after my father died. I carried that insecurity into every relationship I tried to form. I didn’t know who would want to be with a person whose own mother didn't even want to be around; whose own mother didn't feel was a valued treasure. Those shackles had weighed me down for far too long. I believed she had the only key that would free me from myself. I needed her help to heal the broken child inside. But if we never communicated our true feelings, hurts, questions, and fears, healing could never begin. Too many unspoken words between us required a meeting with our vocal cords.

  It had been a long time since I had been face-to-face with my mother. I often feared I would be unable to recognize her if I passed her on the street. That fear quickly subsided when I saw her walk thru the café door. She looked the same, but different. Before our eyes could meet, my eyes were immediately drawn to her hands. Somehow, I expected them to still be stained with the red tint of blood as they were the last time I saw them. So much had changed about her physically from the woman who brought retribution to my abuser and defended my honor to the utmost. Her face showed a more seasoned version of the person I remembered. Looking into her eyes, I saw fragments of the same troubled eyes that had locked onto mine as the police car moved beyond my sight. However, beyond the sadness, I saw the fullness of the love I remembered from our early years. It made my heart smile. Her love for me was still evident.

  Although I had every intention of being guarded during our first encounter, parts of me softened as I genuinely realized I truly missed my mother. I was so happy to be with her again. No matter how many times I had told myself I could make it without her, I still loved and needed my mother more than I had been willing to admit. In order to get the most out of the reunion, I had to lean into the moment and accept the universe’s offering without fear of relational remission. I was ready for my soul to have peace.

  Our conversation had instances of silence as we struggled to find a common core of topics. We initially avoided any words of substance and chatted about generic subject matter. My mother’s comment about my picking up Big Mama’s coffee-drinking habit made us both smile. It served as the bridge to the discussion of her passing. My emotions were still raw and I wasn’t sure how long I could keep my composure while discussing such a sensitive topic. It was apparent from both of our reactions that the loss of such a vital piece of our family would not easily be overcome. My mother revealed she had sent Big Mama’s end of life announcement to me. She expressed her bewilderment over why I hadn’t attended her funeral. Those words felt like a kick to my gut. The high horse I rode in on had been reduced to an ass when the irony of this revelation became apparent. I had been angry at my mother for years for not being there for me. She had witnessed first-hand how I failed to be there for Big Mama. It would be hard to determine whose immoralities were greater. My level of intolerance diminished as we got deeper into our reunion. We were standing on level ground and our conversation could be one of commonalities, not superiorities.

  For the longest time I blamed my mother for so much that had gone wrong in my life; some legitimate, some not. I wanted so much for her to want me in her life that I tried to protect her feelings regarding her boyfriend. In doing so, I exposed myself to a dangerous liaison that culminated in my life being forever changed. I had been forced to carry around rancid secrets that constantly interjected themselves into my quest for rebirth. For years I had wondered about my mother’s swift action against my attacker. I hoped to finally get answers. No doubt he deserved every ounce of pain and anguish he experienced; I wondered why the punishment had been so harsh and so quick. Within three hours of my confession, his sentence had been executed. The separation of his manhood from his body had been the business she attended to after dropping me off at school. So much about what transpired that day existed beyond the scope of my knowledge. My questions regarding that episode should not have been unreasonable or unexpected. Pain cascaded down her face. Her body language spoke in code to her senses. It caused her to shift nervously in her chair while more truth was unearthed. I expected a detailed version of her rationale. Instead, I discovered we shared a deeper connection.

  Chapter 37

  Counterparts

  My mother had a story of her own to tell regarding the explosion of rage that poured from her as she executed the sentence of my abuser. Her story was similar to my own in many aspects, except for its outcome. The anger that festered inside her for decades found its way to validation. After being disappointed that she was not believed, she ached from feeling ostracized by her own family. Neither she nor the violator ever received the justices' each deserved. He was allowed to continue to sow his seeds of destruction and she remained stuck in an infinite loop of disbelief and pain. Conversely, my mother never once questioned my truthfulness and exacted the punishment she viewed would have been appropriate for anyone who willingly hurt a child in that manner. She had not been certain if I had been his first, but she made sure I was his last.

  The burden and shame she had carried around from her youth was lifted by her act of retribution. Her actions somehow healed the wounds of the child who had been forced to choke down her truth in shame. My mother had been adamant that I lived with Big Mama and not her family. I understood why. I would not have received the love and compassion needed to survive my ordeal with some modicum of normalcy. She had first-hand knowledge of the tenderness my grandparents would have shown. She had felt so alone during her ordeal and was thankful for the true love of the kind man she found in my father. He had softened her heart and helped heal parts of her brokenness with more love and patience than she felt she deserved. That depth of caring could only have come as a result of nurturing from a woman who had invested her own core values in her children. I could not have survived had it not been for the choices my mother had made on my behalf. For that I owed her my love and respect.

  After hearing her story, my mind reflected back to that horrible time years ago. The pain associated with that time found its way to the surface. The molestation stones had dropped into the water of our existence and caused a ripple effect that overshadowed portions of our lives. Concentric circles were formed when our history of abuse was exposed. We had lived parallel lives during parts of our childhood. I didn’t know if I could have been as strong as she had been forced to be. She had to constantly see the person who shattered the joy and freedom of the years that each child deserved. I will be forever grateful for the unselfishness of her sacrifice. Big Mama had known both sides of her story and that wisdom had directed her to encourage our reunion. She knew our developmental years had many things in common and we needed each other to survive the next phases of our lives.

  I understood how history changed people and personal choices determine if it will be for better or for worse. In my case, I chose to allow history to make me better. I had spent too much time objecting to my history without realizing that it was just that, history, and its rightful place was in the past. It had been bad then, so why would I continue to give it a second chance to wreak havoc on our lives. My version of the truth and my notions of disrespect had not been
based in fact. They had been mostly caused by the end of understanding being manifested in a lonely, confused child. Now, I had to be the person I thought my mother should have been, but my life couldn’t be directed by her life. I was forced to downplay her blame and stand in my own truth. I had to finally acknowledge the unmerciful influence she had on my life, even in her absence, but own my actions and my mistakes. We both shared the same fears, and in some ways, walked the same dark path. We were led by open wounds that never healed and resulted in our acting outside of our values, in search of relief. It became increasingly apparent that we still needed each other.

  It seemed that we talked for hours and both of us enjoyed the progress we made. Neither had known what to expect, but agreed it would not be our last meeting. We had started a new chapter in our lives. We accepted the failures and revelations that held us back and propelled us forward. There would be no happily ever after unless we were both willing to put in the work and allow our hearts and to heal naturally. Our mother/daughter relationship had been aborted decades earlier and we had to play catch up. The length of the disjointed path we were required to travel appeared daunting. We committed to take one step and one meeting at a time toward bridging the gap between us. This time when we embraced to say goodbye, time and distance were not waiting to separate us.

  Chapter 38

  Look Up

  My alliance with self-pity gradually ended. Because of my neglect, it moved on to another victim. I wouldn’t miss it. I felt myself peeling away the layers of defeat and watched it fall away like the withered leaves from a maturing bouquet of flowers. The hollowness from losing Big Mama was replaced with courage. I began to see beyond what was and what never would be again. I turned my attention to what was to come. I had to find my own way and find my light again. I was content to patiently exist until the unfamiliar became familiar and I regained my balance. After I became centered, the direction I chose to take led me to a new place and a new beginning.

  Getting acclimated to new surroundings was challenging, but necessary in order to start over. A fresh start in a new city was what I needed. Big Mama had given me permission to move forward and that was what I needed. One thing that I had inherited from my Big Mama was a love for good coffee. Remembering the days of old and the first time I tasted that caffeinated wonder of nature, made me smile. There had been many cups between the small saucers that were filled with a concoction that was more milk than coffee to my current morning ritual of a strong cup to start my day.

  Big Mama once told me that love comes best when people take time to get to know each other beyond the physical attraction. She always encouraged me to get to know and love myself before I tried to bring someone else into my life. She should know. She had been by my side through the revolving door of companions I discussed with her during my wayward college years. She understood the reasons behind my actions and was there for me, offering love, patience and words of wisdom. She knew I had been broken in so many places and required time to heal. After I reclaimed my heart from Adam, I vowed to take it slow in the relationship category. Those were my intentions. I just wasn’t counting on that wonderful specimen of a man I encountered that day.

  I had frequented this coffee haven many times, but that visit would be one I would not easily forget. Standing behind a well-dressed, well-groomed, good-smelling man unexpectedly stirred something in me, even though I could only see the back of him. Thank God for small favors, because if his face was anything like his body, I was in real trouble. I caught a glimpse of his profile and my body’s reaction was justified after I partook of only a small portion of him. The clerk loudly cleared her throat in an effort to refocus my attention from the man to the coffee. Feeling slightly embarrassed for consuming the eye candy, I began to fumble through my purse for money to pay for my drink. The clerk informed me that the gentleman in front of me had already paid for my purchase. I stopped grinning long enough to thank the clerk for the coffee and quickly tried to catch another glimpse of my benefactor. To my disappointment, he would have to remain a mystery for a while longer.

  For more than one reason, the coffee shop became my favorite decompression chamber. From my favorite table I could relax, people watch and take in the vibe of the surroundings. Several weeks passed and I still thought of my brief encounter with the mystery man. I fantasized about what it would be like to see his entire face, hear his voice and feel his touch. I was sure any type of physical connection would be electric. The fleeting glimpse of his profile had only whetted my appetite. I was ready to feast on the entire meal. The universe must have been reading my mind because the mystery was solved right in front of me.

  When I realized he was the one I had been fantasizing about, I was at a loss for words. My eyes methodically surveyed the entire landscape of his body and finally settled on his face. His baritone voice and the smell of his cologne temporarily put me in a trance that would have rivaled any hypnotist. I didn’t even remember his asking or my accepting his invitation to join me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him and nearly burned my tongue on the hot coffee. The dialogue going on in my head kept urging me to remain calm and not act as if he were the only cup of water at the first rest stop on the other side of the desert. The ocular meal was not one-sided; his attention was not totally centered on my face. Since I understood fleshly fascination, I suppressed the urge to inform him that my breasts didn't have eyes. They had come a long way from my youth. I smiled as the memory of my first bra hanging on the line with Big Mama's flashed thru my mind. Eventually, I learned that his name was Ben. Between pleasant conversation and genuine explosions of laughter, we enjoyed each other's company and made plans for a formal date. It took about a week for our magic carpet ride to begin.

  Getting to know Ben had been amazing. He appeared to be the perfect guy for me. He was a salesman who traveled extensively for work, but said he always wanted a family and a stable relationship. He was still searching for something he had not been able to find yet with the women he had dated. He was looking for someone special to give him a reason to take a desk job. Ben was well-spoken, charming, generous and respectful. Everything we did was vertical and filled with a mixture of meaningful discussions about current affairs and playful banter about our favorite childhood obsessions. No topic was off limit, felt awkward or had gone unanswered. I learned that he valued family above all because he too had lost one parent and had been estranged from the other for quite some time. He confided in me how he had dealt with his own grief and longings. I was honored that he trusted me enough to open up about such intimate details of his life. He trusted me with his emotions and that was a major component of building any successful relationship.

  The more time we spent together, the more determined, I was not to let that prize catch off the hook. Between the flowers being sent to the office, the candlelight dinners, the extended phone calls, and random gifts "just because", he was winning my heart. I was getting close to taking a giant step toward committing both my mind and my body to this man. Being in his presence was intoxicating and I looked forward to each refill. Somewhere inside my head I heard the voice of Big Mama. Her words were repeated like a broken record each time I excitedly told her about new gentleman callers. “Take your time, baby. That ain't the last man God created. If that one moves on without you, trust me, there'll be another. Don't be in such a rush to open up your pocketbook and pass out your change. That is not the place of love; you have to look above the waist for that. Once you find it, everything below the waist takes on a different meaning. One day you are gonna realize you are worth more than the space between your knees.”

  Chapter 39

  What’s Been Cooking?

  The relationship with my mother gradually became a source of strength for me. We talked once or twice a week and used that time to speak openly and honestly about our past. I told her about Adam; how deeply I fell for him, the child we lost and the difficulty I faced with letting him go. My level of comfort with h
er led to my disclosing an interest in Ben and the deep feelings that were developing between us. I admitted to her that I was both excited and afraid. I had gambled and lost with Adam. The recovery period had been treacherous for my body and my soul. I didn’t want the past to cast shadows on something fresh and new. Being able to talk to my mother about my new relationship was comforting. It served to further build the mother/daughter bond that had been abbreviated by time and circumstances.

  After much contemplation, I decided to introduce my mother to Ben. It would be one more in the line of firsts for us. Usually I would have shared my news with Big Mama. Since she passed and my mother was back in my life, the new relational dynamic was welcomed and appreciated. I was beginning to value her opinion and, in my mind, she would be as enamored with him as I was. I deemed their introduction as just a formality. It would further validate my instincts about how right Ben and I were for each other. He could be the one.

  My mother arrived for the dinner early and helped me prepare the meal for our special occasion. Being in the same kitchen cooking together reminded me of my youth and the joy we experienced as a normal nuclear family. Big Mama taught me well. The aroma that escaped from the food caused my mother to compliment me on my culinary skills. As we worked together, she probed deeper into the origins of my new relationship. At one point, I shook my head in amazement when I heard her voice repeat Big Mama’s usual litany of questions. I just smiled and enjoyed the moment as the fruits of a typical parental exchange.