“Do you think they ever thought about stopping, Granny?” I eagerly asked.
“No,” she declared sans any resentment. “They thought they were better than me, but I knew different. I had the Lord on my side,” she continued. “That is the only friend I need.”
I nodded in agreement. Tears welled in my eyes, as I felt guilty about the anger bubbling in me.
“It would take me all day, honey, to walk up there and back, but I made it every time. Yes, ma’am, I made it. Do you want to know something?” she asked trying to conceal a little smirk.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve outlived most of those folks,” she explained in her Southern accent. I smiled back at her listening attentively as the tales continued.
Sometimes she would carry my uncle to town because he was too young to go to school and she needed to work.
In the cotton fields, she would carry loads of cotton on her back and drag him around on a sack next to her while she worked, making any money she could. As the day continued I could do nothing but stare in amazement. This little ninety-pound woman was a powerhouse, and I had almost missed out on learning so much about her. I felt proud to call her granny, but I realized my feeling went much deeper than that. Granny Martha became a symbol of strength that African American females have always been known for since the beginning of time.
Swannee Rivers
2
IT TAKES A
VILLAGE OF
MOTHERS
Next to God we are indebted to women,
first for life itself, and then for making
it worth living.
Mary McLeod Bethune
My Womb’s Butterfly
Just don’t give up trying to do what you really want to do. Where there’s love and inspiration, I don’t think you can go wrong.
Ella Fitzgerald
Every time I went to the mall, I would end up in the baby store. What did I need from a baby store? The circle of kids in our family was too old for anything they offered, and there were no little buns in the oven.
As I stood admiring a lace dress, I felt a massive butterfly begin to flap in my belly. (You’ve heard the phrase, “I’ve got butterflies in my stomach”—well, that isn’t the only place where mine were located.) Placing the dress back on the rack, I picked up a sailor’s outfit and reflected on how cute it would look on my son. Then I corrected myself. Surely, you mean your nephew . Maybe . . . girl, you need to stop tripping . The butterfly flapped its wings again. Not knowing why the gush of tears was building in the midst of the flapping butterfly, I exited the store quickly, finding refuge in my car four rows away from the mall entrance.
Come on, girl , I encouraged myself, get this foolishness together. You know your motto: Kids should be like soda bottles— returnable. Why are you about to lose your mind about this? Where is this coming from?
Where was it coming from indeed? I had always wanted to be a mother. It’s right there in my senior year memory book. What do you plan to be doing ten years from now? My response: sitting on the beach, writing my third novel with my four boys playing all around me. The desire to be a mother was in the stack of papers hidden beneath my car’s passenger seat: piles of research on fertility clinics, weight-loss clinics—because one specialist told me I would never get pregnant as long as I was overweight—a list of possible donors that I needed to convince and study notes. I wanted to be somebody’s mama. I said it over and over again, as the butterfly flapped its way from my stomach to the back of my throat. I cried.
Months turned into more months. I made a sizeable investment in pregnancy kits, ovulation kits and specialists— only to suffer from several “almosts.” I know, you cannot be almost pregnant, but I refused to tell myself, No, you’re not pregnant , AGAIN, and I refused to acknowledge that the pregnancy misdiagnosis really had anything to do with a “possibly more serious medical condition.” So I instead believed in almost and maybe next time . When the months finally became years, the trips to the baby store ended, and I tucked the desire to mother my own child away for the night. I convinced myself that it was not my role in life to be a mother, and the desire was no more than fantasy.
Then one spring day, I arrived back at my condo after dropping off my nephew from a weekend of breaking the “auntie bank.” Turning on the iron to knock wrinkles from the dress I’d chosen to wear to evening worship, I suddenly felt something that frightened me; my womb’s butterfly was back and flapping with a vengeance.
Ignore it, girl. It’s the Value Meal. You ate it too fast, that’s all . I was clearly trying to convince myself of something that was not true. The butterfly was back. But why? I was resolved. I had accepted what everyone told me—I would not be a mother.
I grabbed my exfoliating scrub and turned on the shower full blast, as hot as possible. Surely, I could scrub away the voice in my head. It’s time for you to be a mother.
Your son needs you.
I lathered. More voices. I exfoliated. More voices—and harder flapping wings. I let suds cover each strand of my natural kinks and felt my sharp nails move along my scalp. More voices. The hot water washed everything away from my body—except the butterfly in my womb.
Finally, knowing that this was not a battle I was going to win and knowing that I was not going to birth a child, I decided to ask God, “What are you doing? I’ve been celibate two years, so I can’t be pregnant. I haven’t given birth, so I have no ‘son needing me.’ What are you doing?” Then I added, “Whatever it is, do it quickly, so I don’t think I’m going crazy.”
The next evening, I found myself sitting in an adoption orientation class. Three months later, on a warm August evening as I rushed home, I got a phone call.
“We have a little one for you. He’s just above the requested age range. Only thing is that he has nothing except what he’s wearing.”
“What do you mean he has nothing? Where is he?”
“He’s at our office in Miami Shores. The judge ordered him placed today. Your counselor called this morning and said she had a woman who had more love than any child could take, and your file was on my supervisor’s desk. Do you want him?”
“I’m turning around now.”
By the time I reached the building I was trembling. That butterfly was all over the place—my womb, my throat, my heart. When I walked into the office the social worker met me at the door extending her hand. She pointed to a little, thick man asleep behind me. The flapping began to subside. I touched his De La Soul hairdo, and he woke up. Concerned that I had startled him, much as he had startled me, I stepped back. But he reached for me, so I reached for him. He settled, rather peaceably, into my arms, resting his head on my shoulder.
The first few nights I kept staring at him. He didn’t seem out of place at all. His first little kiss on my cheek, his bear hugs, his amazing appetite—none of it seemed out of place. Since then we’ve had our share of tantrums and extreme stubbornness. Did you know a five-year-old could say the word “Mommy” at least a hundred times in a five-minute span? I sure didn’t!
I’ve been like mothers of old, crying and praying during two emergency room visits. We’ve had mommy-getting-called-to-school days; they discovered his stubbornness as well. We’ve had our first real report card. Every time I call a friend or my mom in a panic or just to share, I am tickled when I hear the words, “It’s called being a mother.” Along the way, we’ve even added a teenager to our divinely appointed family in the form of my nephew. So what do you know—I have two of those four boys I envisioned. Lately, despite losing the physical means to carry a child, my womb’s butterfly has been flapping again. While it takes a village to raise a child, I’ve learned that there are children waiting for the village to come get them; then we raise each other.
E. Claudette Freeman
The Wisdom of Motherhood
My doctors told me I would never walk again.
My mother told me I would. I believed my mother.
Wilma R
udolph
We all know it. Whether we decide to articulate it or not—it is one of life’s basic truths: Motherhood is sometimes a dirty, rotten, kick-you-in-the-pants, don’t-even-think-about-a-reward, thankless job! Yet most of us do it to the best of our abilities (heck, it’s not like we can get out of it at this point anyway) and pray that we’ll survive the journey—and allow our child to survive it as well.
As the mother of a seventeen-year-old daughter who occasionally thinks the sun rises and sets on her tail, there have been far too many times when I wanted to quote to her my own mother’s frequent words to me during my youth. Even though it’s been thirty or so years, the threat still reverberates in my head like it was yesterday—“Girl, I brought you into this world . . . and I’ll take you out!”
Yep, that whole motherhood thing is sometimes overrated. But, thank God, children grow and mature. And one day, and I must admit it’s a really good, even better than chocolate, day, they see us differently. They get their great epiphany. A point comes when they no longer believe we are here to ensure their lives are in a constant state of misery. But they realize that maybe, just maybe, there is a possibility that mothers know a thing or two.
Like most mothers, I’ll never forget the most significant of my daughter’s brushes with lucidity. It’s one of those “it doesn’t happen often, so I’ll never forget it” moments. She’d been sitting at the computer for a few hours, working on an essay for a college application, when she invited me into the room. As is our usual practice, she asked me to proofread what she had written. I was eager to do so, as usual, but I did notice that somehow this time was different. She had a curious expression on her face—softer, more gentle. And although I couldn’t put my finger on when she asked, I knew immediately after I completed the reading. Here’s what she wrote. And, oh yeah, check out that “with all of her wisdom” line. It’s my favorite!
I have always loved the game of basketball. I used to eat, breathe and LIVE the game. I’d go to school, go to practice, do my homework and then go to bed. My goal was to play basketball at a Division I college on an athletic scholarship—and no one would stop me.
During my junior year, I really took off. I was the top guard in my area, a key member of the All-Conference team, All-State Honorable Mention and the captain of my high school team.
I worked hard the entire summer leading into my senior year. Everyone knew that this was my year—and I was ready. Sports reporters predicted I would lead my team to a league championship—and further. And as the team’s captain and only four-year varsity starter, I was eager to deliver.
The season started well. I was averaging fifteen points per game and frustrating my opponents to no end. And then came the unimaginable. During the first three minutes of the fourth game of my senior year, I took the hardest fall I have ever taken. I came down on my knee and tore a ligament—every athlete’s worst nightmare.
It was surreal. As I lay screaming on the hardwood floor, I saw all my dreams for attending college on a Division I basketball scholarship spiral down the drain.
I don’t know if the tears and blood-curdling shrieks were more about what I knew was a serious injury—or the most cruel pain I have ever felt travel through my body at any one time. But it didn’t matter anyway. What I did know was that my life’s dream was over. My injury would require major surgery, and my high school basketball career was over. Not in a million years could I even begin to describe the kind of despair that comes along with the decimation of a dream so real, so longstanding, so wanted and so close.
What was I supposed to do? The scholarship offers disappeared and that was the only real plan I had for college. All my hopes and dreams were gone, and I had nothing to fall back upon—or so I thought.
But thank God for mothers. All along, I had counted on basketball for my future. But my mother, with all of her wisdom, had prepared an alternative plan—and I hadn’t even known it. For while I was spending so much time over the years practicing my jump shot and ball handling skills, she had encouraged—no demanded—that I spend an equal amount of time on academics. She had always disregarded my school’s eligibility requirements and instituted her own: honors courses, National Honor Society membership, volunteer efforts, four years of high school Spanish, and a minimum 3.5 grade point average.
Without fulfilling these, there would be no basketball.
So when I blew my knee, she was there to wipe my tears and remind me that everyone has options. I could still achieve my goal of becoming an orthodontist—on an academic scholarship. All I needed was a high ACT score. She also reminded me that over the years, I had always performed better under pressure and responded positively to adversity. All we needed, she said, was a steady plan to rehabilitate my knee, and I would be back on the hard court in no time. After quick consideration, I realized it was a dual plan I could live with. Now let me see . . . I could still play basketball and possibly earn an academic scholarship. It would be hard, but the idea made me smile! My response: “I’m a beast. Sure, why not!”
So I decided to focus even more on academics and study for the exam. At that moment I finally realized the almighty power of academics. I suppose Oprah would call it my “Aha Moment.”
So I did it. I buckled down and studied. The result was an ACT score that placed me in the top 10 percent of everyone who took it! It was the best result of the worst experience of my life—and for that I am both proud and grateful.
I’m sure tears were streaming from my eyes when I looked up and saw my daughter watching me for my reaction. Her essay left me speechless. I simply stood up, walked over, hugged her and whispered, “Thank you— and you’re welcome.”
She smiled and silently hugged me back in what I call one of those special mother-daughter moments. I knew this was her way of thanking me for all those nights of forcing her to do homework, study for tests, and exercise her mind as well as her body. Yes, as a mother, “with all of my wisdom,” I’ve realized that thank-yous are few and far between, but when they do come, they last a lifetime.
Lolita Hendrix and Briana Hendrix
One Day, You’ll Understand
A mother is not a person to lean on but a person to make leaning unnecessary.
Dorothy C. Fisher
I lay in the hospital bed with my newborn daughter, Jordan, snuggled against my chest. I watched her as she slept, a tiny angel swathed in blankets. Dark locks peeked beneath her sunshine yellow and baby blue knit cap. Her sweet face wore a look of perfect peace. Then her eyelids fluttered and slowly opened. Her big, brown eyes, my eyes, stared up at me. We drank each other in, mother and daughter, sealing our connection. In a rush, I heard my mom’s voice, and the voice of my grandmother and her mama, and all the mothers before them saying, “You’ll understand when you have kids.”
And suddenly I did.
I’ve heard that saying all of my life, delivered after I forgot to let my mother know I made it somewhere safely or pouted at some rule. It was a cliché, received with an eye roll when mom wasn’t watching and relegated to the dusty basement in my mind. But at that moment, gazing at my daughter’s face bursting with trust and contentment, I knew just what it meant. Comprehension hit me like a blaring alarm that jars you awake, like a blast of icy air that snaps you to attention. My husband and I are responsible for what happens to this little girl. She needs me.
In my first weeks as a mother, I journeyed from joy to fear and back every day. I delighted in rocking her and singing lullabies passed down through my family like balms. I marveled at how her head fit into the palm of my hand, at how her mouth stretched into a perfect O when she yawned. I memorized her features, her plump cheeks, long fingers, pink heart of a mouth, and the way she felt in my arms. But between the highs, there were the worries:
Was she getting enough sleep? Was she eating enough?
Would I be a good mom? Then Jordan got sick. Night after night she woke with a wail that pierced my soul. A doctor revealed that she had gastroesophagea
l reflux, a condition causing frequent and painful spitting up. My stomach twisted into a tangle.
I looked into the mirror one morning and saw my mother. She stood there, beautiful and scared. At eighteen, a child herself, holding baby me. I saw her at twenty-three, screaming when she saw a bloody gash on my forehead caused by my taking a foolish dare to jump down concrete steps. I pictured her at thirty, entering my flu-ridden bedroom with a flowered tray of saltine crackers and ginger ale and soft hands that stroked my face with love. She gazed into my eyes and said softly, “You’ll understand when you have kids.” And now I did; I felt it right down to my feet.
Nursing an ailing child sobered and terrified me. As stomach acid brought up by Jordan’s illness gnawed at the lining of her throat, caused her so much pain that she winced with every suck of formula, and finally she could only be fed when she slept, I rocked her and sang hymns.
Those spirituals I learned in church, “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms,” “I Surrender All,” and “Precious Lord,” were my lifeline. I sang them and felt linked to a legacy of women before me. I saw my mom raising her rich soprano to heaven in the gospel choir at Pittsburgh’s Brown Chapel AME, heard my grandmother singing, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” as she dusted or baked. If I just keep singing, rocking and loving, I thought, somehow we’ll make it through this trial. And we did.
Jordan is two years old now and free from the worst of that demon. But I know there are others waiting. I am a sentinel, ready to duke it out and wrestle them away. But in quiet moments, I exult in everyday treasures, like when she runs across the room, arms outstretched waiting to be scooped into my embrace. Or when she says a new word. Or when I do something she thinks is hysterical and she bursts into fits of giggles, her eyes sparkling and her infectious laugh bubbling deep in her tummy and magically gushing out, making me laugh and starting her giggling all over again. There are still times when fear catches my breath. Like when she loses her balance and falls or when she’s climbing and seems about to teeter.
Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Page 7