From the Lower West Side

Youngest of five, Maryam grew up in the lower west neighborhood, the one no one makes it out of. She now filled the space of her childhood home in a way she had never before. Her brother sat across the room, arms folded defensively, and mouth formed in a pout. Maryam sighed to herself and crossed into the kitchen, grabbing her now cold tea. Her other siblings still lived in the area, the oldest two, including the one across the room she was now speaking to, moving back in after some troubles with the law or their partner or debt. She couldn’t keep it straight. Maryam was the only one who left, attending a faraway university, barely holidng on by scholarship and student loans. Despite her financial instability, she kept her vow she made at age eighteen to never come back to the lower west neighborhood. Yet, here she was, setting her tea down on the coffee table. There was still a carving of her initials on the corner which she remembered getting into deep trouble for. This was her home for so long. Now, it was a foreign space. One in which she didn’t belong.

“We can’t keep it. It is falling apart and will soon be a liability,” Maryam’s brother crossed his legs and sat back, looking up to the ceiling that yellowed with age.

She sat up, “our childhood was here, and what about your brother?” She pointed aggressively to the wall that separated the living room to her other sibling’s room.

“We can manage. It ain’t about us.” He uncrossed his legs and crossed the room, leaning against the doorway. Anxiety took over Maryam and she worried for her brothers.

“Listen, I know it’s hard here without Mama and Dad, but we have to move on. We have to live our lives.” She resented his words. Her Dad was always gone, having one excuse or another to not be around his children who were nothing more than another mouth to feed and another bill to pay. But life was very different without Mama. Mama made sure they had everything they needed and that they knew they were loved. Maryam was her Mama’s favorite, secretly of course. Still naïve and defiant, Maryam moved away at eighteen, declaring to never go back, not considering the toll it would have on her mother’s heart. Perhaps it was a way for her to prove herself to her Dad and what he gave up on years ago. Perhaps it was her way to prove to herself that she was greater than what was expected of her, greater than the lower west side. But only after her parent’s sudden death did she consider the way this affected her Mama. She must have broken her Mama’s heart.

“You should have never come back, man. You left us at eighteen and have no right to make decisions for us now.” Her brother stormed out of the room, but the walls were so thin it sounded like he was still right next to her.

She rinsed her mug and went her parent’s room hoping to salvage memories of her Mama. On the dresser were the only pieces of gold jewelry her Mama owned and wore every single day with pride. Her Dad gave them to her Mama in the early years of their marriage, the ones in which they were still in love. Maryam could still remember those moments she lay in her parent’s bed, curled up against her Mama’s thigh, and listened to her tell their love stories. She remembered how odd it was that Mama would cry as she told stories of love. Maryam couldn’t understand why such beautiful stories could bring such sadness to her Mama. Now Maryam understood, as she sat at the foot of her Mama’s side of the bed, tears flooding her eyes.

She opened the top drawer of the dresser and rummaged through the clothes. Mama rarely ever bought herself anything new for herself, only her children. Maryam could only recall one time her mother bought something new for herself. She wore the dress the entire day. She looked beautiful. Dad returned the dress the next day. Mama had a bruise for the next two weeks.

In the next drawer were her Mama’s few personal belongings. A small coin purse was snug in the corner. Dried flowers gently placed in a box and a family picture curling at the edges placed on top of a little black notebook. She held up the family picture taken on her neighbor’s film camera. Her Mama stood proud in front of their new home, the paint not yet chipped and the grass not yet overgrown. Her Dad was next to her, unsmiling and arms crossed. Her brothers mimicked him, crossing their arms less seriously. Her sister held a chunky baby. Maryam was not yet one years-old in this photo.

She set the photo down and picked up the notebook. She had seen it many times throughout her life, sometimes under her Mama’s morning coffee, sometimes on the lawn chair she sat in to watch the birds outside, always when Dad was not home. Maryam recalled one morning her Dad got home early from a weekend trip and Mama was sitting in her chair, writing fast and hard. She was so focused on her words she almost didn’t notice Dad coming up from behind. Last minute, Mama slammed the little book shut and shoved it up her shirt, panic overridden by the desperate need to appear as if she had only been sitting there, unsuspiciously.

Maryam opened to the notebook to the first page, dated in Mama’s delicate cursive handwriting March 21, 1952. Surprise formed Maryam’s posture, for that was the day she was born. It wrote,

My dearest Maryam Louise was born today at 11:38 this morning. Five children later and I am still in awe of how tiny her fingers are and how round her cheeks. I know she was just now born, but my baby is going to do beautiful things. I will do the very best for my babygirl, and I only hope she can one day find the life I had meant for myself. I will give her everything I can. Everything I haven’t been able to give my others…

Quickly wiping away tears at her Mama’s sweet and intentional words. As she flipped through the pages, she realized why Mama did not want Dad to see. Stories of her and her sibling’s accomplishments and disappointments, her Dad’s false promises and hopes, and Mama’s longings and desires, both familiar and shocking to Maryam filled the lined pages.

Sitting back, she took a deep breath and lingered in the vivid imagery her Mama painted in her head. Many blank pages followed her Mama’s entries, pages that were supposed to be filled by life. Pages meant for Mama to write on. A deep longing for the woman who meant the most in her heart, Maryam fingered the pages of the book, trying to feel close, even just one more time, to her mother. She landed on the very last page. Pages that should have been blank.

To My Babygirl, Maryam. I am so very proud of you and miss you with my entire heart, but I want you to know I understand. Shaking at her Mama’s honest words, Maryam read on. You have proved to be everything I knew you would and more, ever since the day you were born. I love your siblings dearly, but they are stuck here, in the lower west side. You have made it out. And with you, I send my very last hope.

Much of the writing was crossed out and rewritten over and over again. Her Mama, a perfectionist. Her Mama, wanting to give her the very best words.

I don’t want you to have to come back here, to the lower west side. I want you to continue on your path. Continue to be the person you are, the person I knew you would become and then more.

Enclosed in a safety deposit box near your college, the one a few blocks away, is $20,000.

Maryam screamed with surprise.

Your Daddy doesn’t know about it. I spent my life putting together these funds for a life better than mine. Now, I know I cannot leave your Father. This is where I am meant to be. But you, my dear. You are my hope. You are my future. You will gather these funds and become who I know you can be. Who you are. Take this money and do something beautiful for this world. You are the hope of the lower west side. Do not ask where the money came from. Just know it is for you. It is yours.

I love you mi amor,

Mama

Her mother signed it with the date at the bottom, which was dated a couple of days ago. Her Mama didn’t hate her or despise her. Her Mama saw her as hope.

Maryam held the notebook tight to her chest. Her Mama wasn’t disappointed in her. Quite the opposite. She was her Mama’s future. Mayrum was the hope of the lower west side.