A Mother's Day Tale

I woke up in the middle of the night—divinely inspired. Suddenly, mere days before our big trip, I knew exactly what to say to her and how I’d say it. A letter. Because a letter does not impose, a letter does not beg, a letter does not even have to go acknowledged. A letter just needs to be written. And then it surrenders and bows at the throne—waiting for its reader to decide the timing. Yes! I got giddy, in love with the elegance of it all.

Just a couple of weeks prior I’d been so scared to face my girlfriend’s mother that I’d put up quite a fight with my girlfriend about accompanying her all the way to Tennessee for Mother’s Day. It was a particularly bratty one that I loved to conveniently revive. Something or other about not being owned by my partner sang in the key of Mrs. Pancakes' “You Don’t Know Me”. And, for those who don't watch Rick & Morty, just know I topped it off with a pinch of white feminist rhetoric (optional) and I knew I had a winner!

In brief, I had complained that JJ had been presumptuous to assume I’d go anywhere with her as if I couldn’t have made plans with my own mother. I was “right” of course. This is why I loved this particular argument. Like Muhammad Ali, it’s a smart fighter—quickly shifting and changing strategies depending on its opponent. For this round, however, my opponent is a girlfriend who both adores me and also happens to be a woman. I felt the worry, anger, and disappointment sweep through her body at the mere suggestion that I might not be there because I wanted to spend self-care time. I understood. Tennessee was a 13-hour drive from our Baltimore home and her 11-year-old daughter hadn’t yet built the fortitude to withstand the hypnotism of the road enough to properly play co-pilot. I watched her sank at the realization she might have to go at it alone. My convenient feminism had frazzled her and backed her into a corner. I’d drawn blood even quicker than I anticipated. She looked defeated.

See, JJ, like many black queer folx, feared going home more than any strangers’ threats or the latest anti-queer legislation. This year the desire to be with Queen Mother coupled with her desire to propose to me somehow outweighed the fear. I had only come to recognize my own queerness recently and didn’t want to spend another minute living in shame. For us, that meant going home to Tennessee together more frequently. JJ had chosen Mother’s Day weekend as her opportunity to return this year. And she’d been counting on my help and support in a way that made me somewhat uncomfortable. But something about having her on the ropes didn’t feel so good either.

Though my girlfriend has been out since high school, I am the first woman JJ ever felt bold enough to bring home to meet Queen Mother. Let JJ tell it, her mother very much hates queer people. I suspected otherwise after meeting her for the first time last year at a funeral. I had shown up then open-hearted and unassuming which lead to her hugging me and apologizing for her bigotry. Her love for her daughter surpassed her own religious beliefs in a way she hadn't prepared for. But that was more than a year ago and we hadn’t spoken much since. So, I thought it best to continue exercising caution. This would only be the second meeting and religious dogma doth not evaporate overnight.

I quilled the letter intended for JJ’s mother from my notebook and into the blank spaces of one of those blackity black black tri-fold Hallmark Mahogany cards meant to appeal to me. I saw the words “Queen” and was unapologetically pandered to. It matched perfectly with the golden queen-themed Paperless Post invite I’d chosen for the Mother’s Day dinner. Subconsciously yet prophetically, I played up to this royalty idea from the invite to the decorations and dinnerware. I’d recently heard the term “Queen Mother” in an episode of Iyanla Vanzant’s Iyanla: Fix My Life. And it fit better for our Mother’s Day celebration than I even understood at the time.

Walking into the house, I was nervous and second-guessing my decision to let such a good argument go to waste. Would she speak to me? Did she want to hug me? Would she have a good time today? Would she know I helped JJ plan the whole thing? Would she feel my love for her daughter? Or be disgusted by it? My fears screamed. This is what I had been afraid of all along. This is why I’d put up such a fight about coming here in the first place. I didn’t like how vulnerable I felt knowing someone had the power to refuse and reject my wild heart. As I look back at the photographs from the weekend, I can clearly see my hesitance to get too close or show too much affection for the first part of the festivities.

I turned around, ready to fix my plate, but instead met Queen Mother herself—arms outstretched in my direction, my penned white-flag-on-a-black-card in her right hand. The tears she held back flowed more freely as we embraced intimately for the second time.

“Thank you,” she said as she continued to weep in my arms for a few minutes while I stroked her mid-back. With this hug, I could feel all of her gratitude knowing someone in this world loved her child as much as I did. I said my own silent thanks to God, my higher self, or whomever it is that provides 2:00 a.m. inspiration. My words on the card seemed to echo like the shot heard round the world. A ceasefire this loud had invited the Queen Mother to throw down her defenses as well. I had bravely circumvented this game of thrones and won bigger than I could have imagined. I felt lucky that she could so beautifully illustrate for me how good it felt to be wrong, lose, and just love anyway. On Mother’s Day this year, Queen Mother taught me that true love is hardly ever about being right.