The Essence of Motherhood

This story is dedicated to all mothers, who sacrifice and influence their children in ways beyond their recognition or awareness. Pivotal moments are the true essence of motherhood.

I was just a teen, only sixteen years of age and barely on the cusp of adulthood, when my mother died unexpectedly. It changed my life in ways well beyond the scope of the obvious. It’s now been forty-six years since her passing, and I still often ponder the chain of events that occurred as a result of her death and cannot help but wonder if, somehow, she sacrificed herself so that I might achieve and learn more than I would have if she had not died.

Just to give a bit of background, I’ll start by saying that like many, I grew up poor and a product of a broken home. My father, who drank excessively at times – mostly during holidays and stressful situations – left my mother when I was only eight years of age; the year was 1966. My sister, who was fourteen, insisted that it was the best thing that could have happened. When it transpired, I was not so sure, but as the years progressed, I came to see that she was right. Being older, my sister had seen far more than I had: horrible fights that included both verbal and physical abuse. My mother was a passive soul and never fought back. Sometimes I wonder if she was too passive and should have stood up for herself more, but I never wonder if her nature was an inherently good one, because I know it was so beyond the shadow of any doubt.

Following my father’s abrupt departure, he was completely out-of-sight and his whereabouts unknown for a complete year. During that time, my mother was scared, frantic about how she would pay the house note (only $40 for the tiny, matchbox house we lived in), as well as worried about being able to provide the necessary food and utilities. My maternal grandmother lived nearby and was always willing to help, but my mother was a proud one and found it difficult to ask for any kind of help, especially financial. Instead, she sought work as a substitute teacher. And each month, she would make the one mile trip in her old, beat up Dodge Rambler to the office of my father’s attorney to pick up her monthly support check of only $60. There were more times than not that the money was not there, and at that time, there was little that could be done to pursue the missed payments. Just before my mother died - eight years later - she said my father owed her more than $4,000 in back support. You do the math, but at only $60 per month and eight years later, it’s clearly evident that my father had forgone his financial responsibilities more often than not. He did so especially when he was perturbed with my sister, who was always (and rightfully so) angry with him. He liked to take out his frustration with my sister’s rebellion by withholding my mother’s money. Even as a young kid, I knew how warped that thinking was. He somehow hoped it would persuade my sister to play his game. Little did he know how stubborn and full of hate my sister had become for him and that nothing could persuade her differently – not even the lure of much needed money. My mother, God bless her soul, did not attempt to convince my sister otherwise despite the dire circumstances.

One year following his abrupt departure, my father came back into town and wanted to resume living with us. My mother, as scared as she had been when he left, had come to realize that she’d been able to stand on her own two feet during the year my father had been away. She also realized that our small home was much happier without his disruptive behavior. There were no late night, drunken episodes or fights, and there were no times when he went missing for days because he was gambling and drinking – and heaven knows what else. After checking with my sister and I to confirm how we felt about his return and receiving an emphatic, resounding ‘no’, she asserted her newly earned independence and told my father he couldn’t come back. He was furious, but at that pivotal moment, I began to see my mother through completely different eyes. She was not as passive – or might I even use the word weak - as first I’d thought. Instead, she was suddenly strong and standing on her own two feet despite the gnawing fear and financial worry that ate away at her until her dying day. I was so proud of her at that time even though I was only ten years of age. I think that’s when she first became my hero, protecting us and our little home with all the defiance borne on the wings of what's right.

And so, eight years passed after my father left before my mother died, and during those years, she taught me many things – sometimes inadvertently so and well beyond the average lessons a teen learns in life.

First and foremost, my mother taught me about hate and forgiveness and the necessity of both, but especially the latter. As much as my father hurt her, she never hated him. She always chose the higher path. I watched as she repeatedly counseled my sister, begging her not to hate my father. It was a constant and seemingly futile battle, but still, she persisted. She told us that hate did not hurt the person who was hated, but instead only served to hurt the person who was doing the hating. Hatred, she said, ate away at one’s soul like a putrid abscess, until it destroyed that person. In all these years, I have remembered her wise teachings – and actions – in regard to hate and forgiveness. It particularly served me well during my own bitter divorce. Instead of remaining enemies, I was able to let go and am now friends with my ex-husband and the father of my two children, and I owe it all to the foundations my mother laid within me. Indeed, in all my years, I have found that hate goes against everything positive in this universe. Instead of holding onto such a consuming thing, we must learn to forgive and let things go for our own well-being and growth.

My mother also taught me about persistence and determination. There were many things I wanted to quit what I was involved in when I was young, but my mother insisted that if I’d made a commitment or if I gave up too easily, I would be the one who looked the lesser for giving up and quitting. Many times, I didn’t want to go back and confront a situation, but she insisted, albeit with quiet and persistent words, that I would regret it if I did not continue. And so, often in this life I’ve lead, I’ve been wont to just up and quit and not go back to confront a situation for a variety of reasons. However, the determination and persistence she taught me have lingered within my being and helped me to keep at things that I otherwise would have forsaken. Life is not always easy, but it is necessary to keep at it day in and day out. My mother’s teachings of persistence, needless to say, have served me well in both personal and professional situations throughout the many years.

My mother taught me kindness and giving. She taught me that although others might have less than me, they were in no way less than I. She taught me to look into a person’s heart and value that person for how they acted and not for what they owned or where they lived. She gave to others when she could even though she had so little, and it was a beautiful thing. I was able to deduce that though we had so little materialistically, we had an abundance of love, wisdom, and kindness in our hearts and lives and this was what defined us – not how much money we had or where we lived. I also learned that kindness and giving are traits that define others, and as a result, I learned these things are worth so much more than goods or money.

My mother taught me to see beauty in literature, art, and music, instilling in me a love that runs deeply within me for such things. Appreciation of the arts is something that seems to be inherent in my soul, but I know it is due to early readings of abridged Shakespeare, recordings of music by Tchaikovsky, and pictures of Michelangelo’s amazing sculptures about the house that such things exist for me. I am ever thankful she helped me to know and recognize such beauty.

My mother taught me to reach for the stars or those things that might seem unreachable and unattainable. As I mentioned, we were poor, but despite this fact, there was never any question about whether I’d be going to college – it was simply a given. The same was true with my sister, who did manage to make it through college and most of graduate school before my mother died, mostly on loans and help from my grandmother. I, on the other hand, was only a junior in high school when my mother died. In my best recollection, it nearly seems as though my she sacrificed herself so that I could go on to attend and achieve a college diploma that she wanted so much for me. When she died, I moved only a few blocks away to reside with my maternal grandmother, who had some money but was not wealthy. After my mother’s death, I began to draw social security and did so until twenty-one years of age as long as I remained in school. I was categorized, more or less an orphan, and as a result, I was able to pay for college almost completely with federal grants and a work study program that was part of a financial aid package. It is amazing that I finished four years of university with only one small loan of $500 – something that’s unheard of now and was also so back in that day and time. I could be mistaken, but I don’t think I would have ever graduated college if my mother had lived. Thus, even in her death, my mother was able to give more than she received in her short life.

These are just a few examples of the many things my mother taught me. For me, she was unique, special, and irreplaceable, but I think most would describe their mother in such a way. My mother, when confronted with adversary, was courageous and strove to hold her head high as she walked ahead, regardless of the obstacles. In fact, one of her favorite songs was “You’ll Never Walk Alone” by Rodgers & Hammerstein. I think, just as described in the song, she walked through storms with her head held high nearly each and every day of her adult life. And those days only served to make her stronger in ways unknown to both herself and others. As I write this excerpt about how much she molded and shaped the person that I am today, I think of her with much love, gratitude, and keen awareness. I feel she is never far from me, and always a presence, deep-seated within my being and soul. My mother exhibited a life of purpose and effect - better known as pivotal moments - despite having lived only forty-six short years on this planet. I am immensely thankful and cannot begin to thank her enough.