Free
Woman in deep thought. Photo courtesy of Nappy.
The day my Mahmee passed my entire life changed. My thoughts were swirling around in my head, like a violent windstorm. They forcefully flew out the window in my mind and transported me back in time. First back to that small village on a tiny tropical island. I landed smack in the middle of a weekday morning. The bright lights and midday heat were suffocating. I recalled the day she left us for the second time. My brother and I hugged each other and cried in the open courtyard of our childhood home. We were broken, it felt like my little heart was torn in two.
We were left alone with our old grandmother. My baby sister was filled with glee; for her, Mommy had to go to America so she could get everything she wanted. As we remained at the hospice, I quietly walked around the clean sparse room as she lay on the bed. Her warm body laid prone and uncovered on the single bed. As I waited for everyone to come to bid their final farewells, seeing her lying on the bed served as visual proof that she had transitioned. Nevertheless, in my heart and mind, it was all so surreal. It didn't seem real.
As I walked out of the hospice and got into my car, I was besieged by memories. They kept creeping up on top of each other. First one thought, then two, and before I knew it, my thoughts laid in a pile at my feet. I didn't know how to feel.
The first couple of weeks after her transition I walked around like a zombie, numbed and dumb. My emotions fought with each other for dominance. One minute I was angry, then remorseful. I felt abandoned again, then joyful because she was no longer in pain. Then I felt guilty for being joyful. There were so many questions left unanswered, so many conversations we never had.
My mother’s story is important, it greatly impacted who I was and influenced the woman I became. Even after her death, she still influences me. I didn’t reflect on the extent of control she had over my life and my decisions until I waited for her transition. Days turned into weeks as I used every free moment to reflect on the known portions of her stories and discovered that there were so many missing pieces to the puzzle.
My mother and I didn’t have the best relationship. In my limited and narrow perspective, she was blamed for most of my childhood mental and soulful injuries. I believed the decisions that I made in my early adult years were the consequences of decisions that she made. At that time, I did not know or understand the dynamics that shaped my mother’s perspective, her mindset, or behaviors. Our harsh survivalist culture was forced down the throats of the children, no conversations, no questions allowed, no answers provided. Just do what I say.
My tunnel vision only allowed me to focus on myself. I couldn't understand the harshness of her words or anger when it was directed toward me. I didn't understand why there were times when we couldn’t articulate how we felt or why we felt a certain way. We acted or lashed out at each other. I started seeing her abrasiveness in me in how I treated my children. I learned that I too can be so abrasive when all I wanted to do was to demonstrate my love and desire for the best things for them. I saw it in my daughters and that displeased me. I realized how connected we are and how things can flow from generation to generation.
Who was this person? Why did she leave so many unanswered questions? I wanted to know what governed the decisions that she made. I wanted to ask her why did you leave your children behind? How did you get into a relationship with your children's father? What happened during your childhood?
I wanted to walk in her shoes and see the world from her perspective. Who was this woman? Now I understand that every one of her children and grandchildren saw, acknowledged, and had a different relationship with her. The bits and pieces that she shared with us weren't enough. I wanted to know what hand my grandmother and others had in the shaping of the woman my mother became and how the circumstances in which she was raised shaped her?
This led me to question my perspective of my grandmother, her primary caregiver. I saw my grandmother as the sweetest, most loving, and kindest human being. However, as I remember bits and pieces of my conversations with my mother; her perspective of her mother didn't always align with mine.
My grandmother often boasted about raising three 3 generations of women. The daughter she birthed, two gifted to her by family friends, my younger sister, and myself. This woman poured into me and I was richly blessed because of it. Did she treat earlier generations differently? Did my sister and I benefit from the life lessons that she learned before our birth?
When freedom began.
Finally, my eyes were opened, and I saw my mother as a woman. A woman like me and a million others. She was a woman before she was my mother, two different beings. I saw her as a complex woman with a story of her own, one who has been hurt, rejected, and abused. Yet part of her was loving, fragile, determined, fearless, adventurous, bold, and daring.
As a single mother, she refused to accept the hand that she was dealt. Now, I see the woman who learned how to push past adversity. How she quietly hid her hurt and brokenness. She pulled on the tenacity of her spirit to make certain that her legacies not only survived but thrived. At the age of thirty-eight, she left everything familiar to immigrate to America ensuring that future generations were allowed to achieve the American dream.
We as people often seek compassion from others but refuse to be compassionate towards others. The compassion that I felt for my mother, “the woman” flowed like a waterfall, rushing into every area of my being. I thought about our broken parts that have been marred and overlooked by neighbors, coworkers, family, and friends. Parts that are fragile, broken, and show how much we all have in common. Parts that sealed our bond, how we sang and prayed when we were down. How loyal, faithful, and how hard we loved. I discovered we all have so much in common.
I've finally made peace with my Mahmee. This past year I've come to understand the importance of peace. How critical it is to have peace when you rise in the morning, peace during the difficulties of the day, and peace when you retire at night. Not only do I claim peace, but its companion - freedom.
My mother’s death has now left me free of restraints, the opinion of others, or society's standards. I offer no judgment and will not accept condemnation. I am accepting others for whom and what they are. Today, I can confidently walk in my purpose. I can be peculiar, kind, inquisitive, and dare to change the world. This is all because I've finally accepted my mother for the woman she is, not for the mother I perceived she was.
A story about “Healing, letting go of the past, living in the present, and moving forward in FREEDOM.”
