To Be Black + A Mother

I was raised by a mother who was tough as a fistful of “no thank you’s”; yet resilient enough to beckon the sun to shine even when it was raining. She raised most of her siblings, missed half of the school year working to provide for her family + married the first person that resembled a deep breath. Convinced that she had escaped a life of monotony, she conceived me with a man who never achieved success, so he recycled ignorance. Nevertheless, my mother raised me with fortitude + grace bestowing on me all of her failed dreams + the effects of being neglected. It sounds cruel as if my life was being ruined; however, it was being created from the residue of a generation that carried the weight of being extraordinarily resilient.

As a mother who now has the privilege to see my children as individuals, I am extremely blessed. I am humbled by the vessels that brought me here hoping to be greeted with mercy; yet were met with opposition. I stand on the shoulders of mothers who yelled for lack of help + ignored their children due to financial hardship. I stand on the shoulders of mothers who apologized in church for what they couldn’t convey to their children. I stand on the shoulders of mothers who showed their love by yelling invectives in an effort to insight fear. Because God forbid if something ever happened to a mothers last hope when the seemingly most important anchor left behind another woman or a villainous addiction. It’s complicated! I stand on the shoulders of mothers that held tears because deep down they knew it was so much more to be thankful for.

When I glance at my children, I see the most important chapter of my life hinged to their every smile. The day I buried my trauma + it became the soil that would bloom into their dreams. Parenting my children from the scars of my mother allows me to resurrect hope courageous enough to heal the next generation. Loving my children has always been effortless, the hardest part was recognizing I that I had to love myself first.