Moms

I’m grown now, supposedly, completely. But they say when something tragic happens to you, you stay that age. My mother was murdered when I was six years old. So began my (self-imposed) life journey. A painful, yet sometimes immensely satisfying quest; Someone to fill my mama’s shoes.

It took me almost thirty years, a suicide attempt and a lot of brooding, crying and journaling, to realize there’s no such shoe filler. No one can take that place. It’s a loss. I had to take the L. But I didn’t have to go quietly into the loss. I had aunts, cousins, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, a step-grandmother, camp counselors, teachers and older friends I referred to as my sisters. They saved my life. They took special care with me and loved everything about me. Taught me to love myself. As a child, my dark skin was viewed by many, as a flaw. “You’re cute for a dark skin girl” is a phrase I heard way too many times. These women, my village helped me revel in my dark skin and look at it as a gift. They showed me what to do when my period first arrived on the scene. They braided my hair. They took me to the movies and fancy restaurants, museums and amusement parks. Told me great things about myself, daily. Many times I’d just be happy going to work with one of my surrogates. They distracted me from my own motherless misery, by simply taking me along for the ride. They’d randomly include me in any and all of their day to days and I’m forever grateful. As an adult, I’m extra grateful to these women who extended love and kindness and special attention, even with their own set of issues. As a child, you rarely think, “Wow, my aunt has so many personal issues going on right now, but still finds time for me.” These women showed me so much love and care and gave so much of their time to make sure I was doing okay. And I ask myself daily, if I’m doing enough for others. I have two wee ones of my own now and use the lessons I learned from my army of surrogate moms.

I recently loss one of my surrogate moms to covid. My Aunt, my father’s baby sister. She was only a few years older than me, but I’m stuck at six years old, so she seemed older. She was responsible and grown from an early age. She was motherly, referred to me as her first child . I can’t express the level of deep love and gratitude bubbling in my heart for her on a daily basis. She was young and living her life and pitiful me was dragging myself along for any and all adventures she was willing to take me on. I enjoyed her company, she enjoyed mine. I confided in her, she confided in me. She was gifted from God with an amazing ability to do hair. She did my hair for my prom. I complained and said I didn’t like it. She proceeded to spray a whole bottle of hairspray in my hair and told me I did like it. And she was right. I look back on those pictures and still love it. And thanks to all the hairspray, I was the only girl at the prom with hair not destroyed by the humidity. She owned a hair salon, and as a teenager, I’d break my neck to go with her every single day. I wasn’t interested in hair or learning to do hair. I was just interested in basking in the presence of my glorious Aunt Tracy. She didn’t judge me. She loved me. Just pure love for her niece. As life goes, she got married and had two actual daughters of her own. I noticed how I would fall back, go away, when one of my surrogates had their own children. So I gave her space to love her other two precious daughters. I recently looked at the last few texts we sent to each other. And though I’m mostly inconsolable, I find some peace in knowing I told my Aunt exactly how much she meant to me and how she helped save my little miserable existence. In other words, she left this earth knowing how much I loved and appreciated her.

My mother got pregnant with me at fifteen years old, birthed me at sixteen, birthed my sister at twenty-one and was gone from this earth at twenty-two years old. She was murdered by her boyfriend when she attempted to leave him. The classic and cliche, “If I can’t have you nobody…blah blah blah” That cliche robbed me of my mother’s love. Though, a mother’s love is eternal. I truly believe I learned (or maybe just projecting issues) to not stay in any awful situation too long.

So I live each day to the fullest, Tabula Rasa. I tell people how I feel about them, daily. I’m dedicated to leaving no life-thrilling stone unturned, because a future is not promised to anyone. And I learned, for the love of God, don’t take any relationship too serious until you’re Fifty years old.

I spent most of my teenage years and early twenties, pitying myself, feeling left behind. Thankfully, I came to the realization: the best way to honor my mother’s existence is to live a full, gratitude filled, beautiful life. I’m paying attention to life’s blessings not life’s spankings.