A Lesson in Respect...Or Lack there of.

My mother stomped me out once. Literally, feet ‘pon mí body sum’n serious. I remember lying on my bedroom floor, curled up in a ball, crying. Anticipating when the next kick would come crashing down onto my young, but mature body. I was about 14 or 15 years old at the time; The “smelling yourself” age as my people call it. As I laid there after the altercation all I could think was “How? How could you say you love me and do me like this? Treat me so bad.” Let’s rewind a few years so you’ll have a better understanding of how we got to this point.

Growing up, my mother was everything I believed a woman shouldn’t be. Aggressive, loud, partied way too much, and way too hard. Dressed way to inappropriately for her age, and on top of that she drank and smoked excessively. Cigarettes being absolutely disgusting to me, and to top it off, she was high from the time she rose, to the moment she closed her eyes to rest. YUCK. This was the most unladylike trait any woman could ever possess in my young mind. Whenever I came to her for advice, she would always say the same shit; “You don’t have no friends. You gotta watch people ‘cus they ain’t shit.” I heard her but, I rejected it mostly, because I felt like I did, have friends, and could trust them. And since I wasn’t like her, I would never experience the betrayal she had which caused her to lack trust. Making her bitter and extremely self-centered.

Men were the center of my mother’s universe. When it was time for dinner she fed her guy of the month first, then my siblings and I, and finally herself. Most of these men never truly being deserving of the royal treatment and privilege provided to them. They were rude, controlling, and abusive men who took my mother and her desire to love for granted. Like the burger joint they were often in and out. Only being present when it benefitted them in some way. I never understood how she could be so stupid, so oblivious to their games. To their bullshit. How she fed into it so easily, and kept letting them back in. Especially since she didn’t give me half as much of the attention that she gave them.

See, I grew up in an environment where children were to be seen and not heard. Told what to do by their superiors, never to question it or backtalk. Simply put, do what the fuck you’re told, stay the out the fucking way or, get your ass whooped.  This never felt right to me and although I learned to oblige, it definitely never felt good. Having feelings and ideas that need to be expressed, I eventually began to speak my mind. Regardless of what the repercussions may have been and although my opinion often fell on deaf ears, I didn’t stop me from expressing myself. As if my mother and I already didn’t have enough problems, this drove an even deeper wedge between the two of us. Always being on completely opposite ends of the spectrum we butted heads…A LOT.

She should’ve been more affectionate, more communicative, and all the answers to life’s problems she should’ve had. She believed I was cute, for dark skin girl, but oblivious to all the strains this life came with. All of its unfairness and unexpected tribulations. Ignorant to how easily life would chew you up and spit you out as she often told me. She had her beliefs and I had mine. She lived in her world and I lived in mine. Causing friction in our relationship because we couldn’t get through to one another clearly. Both feeling the need to be right and missing the point of sharing information in order to grow and overall learn from one another. 

The lines were blurred because her aggression was mixed in with her speech. Making it difficult for me to decipher between her frustration at a situation over her frustration with me due to her inability to express the difference. Causing me to miss the lesson she was teaching and taking her anger personally, making it my own. She had explored and experienced some of the things in life I had not yet seen, some dark things, causing her to be a bit pessimistic at times. Spending almost every day of my life with her I saw her flaws often and deduced her. Subtracting all the love from her. Turning her into the antagonist of my story. In the midst of focusing on all that she wasn’t, I missed all that she was.

While my mother didn’t show me affection with hugs and kisses as often as she yelled at me, she showed me love. She shared her knowledge with me endlessly, keeping it simple, and plain. Straight no chaser.

She made sure I was fed, food for my soul and that was balanced in nutrition even though it was unhealthy at times.     

* Smiles widely.* 

Full course meals; greens with hammocks, cornbread, fried chicken, beans & rice, cornbread, dressing. Food that made me feel whole and full. Reminding me that I was a part of something; That I am, a part of something. 

She disciplined me in order to teach me right from wrong. I still feel it’s unnecessary to whoop a child, to create an understanding but this was her way, the way she knew. She expressed the importance of not judging others because you never know what they are experiencing or may have experienced. Never underestimating anyone. She showed me how to take care of myself with proper hygiene. Told me not to take shit from anybody because I’m nobody’s tool to be manipulated and used for their entertainment when they damn well please. She Showed me how to heal my wounds when I slipped and the only option was to get back up and try again. To the best of her ability she nurtured me, wholly. Teaching me the meanings of both grace and karma, simultaneously.

“I hate you,” were the words I yelled at my mother right before she beat my ass. Repeating it as she walked toward me, closing the distance in between the two of us she asked me in complete awe “What did you say?” She asked slowly through gritted teeth with her bright yellow face turning red. Without shame. Without remorse, I yelled again at the top of my lungs “I HATE YOU!” And before I could continue with the reasoning behind my statement she was on my ass like white on rice.

After 15+ years of taking care of me. After choosing me when all my family, our family, attempted to convince her she was too young to raise a child and that I would ruin her life. After everyone said an abortion would be her only choice. Not an option but her only option; She chose me. Ignoring the doubt, ignoring the hate, ignoring the fear, she chose ME. Yet, here I was spewing hate at her because I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand that she was giving me all she had, all she knew.

As an adult, 10 years later at the tinder age of 26 years old, I see things a bit clearer now. What I once saw to be a woman trying too hard, behaving like a child; Partying too much and dressing scandalously, I now see as a regular old human, being. Dressing to express herself and how she feels in a moment. Hurting and healing from her own experience, doing her best to stay alive and not sink into the darkness surrounding her. Doing what keeps her alive, and joyful. To keep her from sinking into the abyss of nothingness. Learning at her own pace, as she danced, as she smoked, as she made delicious meals, and spoke her mind freely and loudly, to never be mistook. She moved to the beat of her own drum. Loving fiercely, and her imperfections, made her, inscrutably, her. Showing me the duality of people. Teaching me that there are no womanly things or things exclusively for men. Just, human things, and that varies based on each human, being.