Sometimes we feel tears coming, but we are not quite sure why. This feeling has become all too natural for me. That kid I don’t know in my high school scores 1,000 points in basketball, my sister facetimes me between class, I watch a video of a puppy giving himself a bath- all result the same. There I am, “Vic’s crying again”. The girl who prefers to not acknowledge her feelings seriously, is seriously moved by the smallest and simplest of inspirational commodities.
But this was something all too different. Sitting legs crossed on the cold floor on my last retreat of high school. Next to me my cross-legged boyfriend. A friend of mine was telling a story of hers to the room- one I had never heard. Everyone knew she had family issues, but no one ever knew the specifics. Her mother was an addict-disowned her as her daughter. As the song that followed her talk began to play I felt tears begin to wet my face. I felt his harmless stare wavering between my face and the front of the room. The tears gained speed and strength as his warm arms embraced me.
“Tired of living life on a merry-go-round”
It was a voice I had never heard, beautiful and raspy. But as the song went along, I recognized it piece by piece. It was my mother singing to me. She was singing to me my whole life. Little stories she thought I wasn’t listening to. They all came flooding back at once. And there they were written all over my face. He wasn’t sure why I was crying, and neither was I quite frankly, but crying was normal at these things. Not for me though.
All I know are the stories of you. Sparse and sparingly they come. One’s, quite frankly, I am glad I was not a part of. It was always complicated. Something I didn’t really speak of. Never really bothered me either. Until that song began playing.
“All we need is hope
And for that we have each other”
It finally clicked. It was time to acknowledge my mother’s journey. How her journey has indirectly affected me. How she has made me, me. And how unfortunately, so have you. And with that, all of the ways you have failed at doing so. My mom’s past finally started making sense. You were more than just some horrible stories I was told when I was younger.
My mother taught me of Christmas one year. How even though I may have gotten a lot of gifts I should be very thankful for each and every one. I shook my head as I tore open the next gift. Those free samples of makeups and creams. Those were what you got her for Christmas. She helped you decorate the house-you told her she didn’t need her house to look like a Winter Wonderland. According to you, she wasn’t good enough for that.
“And I rise up
And I’d do it a thousand times again” ” the song swam straight to my ears seemingly skipping everyone else in the room.
I listened to my mother when she told the stories because I thought she just wanted someone to talk to about it. But now I realize this was not the case at all. She was teaching us about our family. About you. How things were for her and they would not be for us. She made it is as simple as it could be. I’m not sure if you loved her, but even if you did it was not enough. You didn’t use your hands to hurt her, you did not need to. She bought you groceries- you accused her of stealing your money. She sent you to a nursing home- you accused her of being a bad daughter who wouldn’t even take care of her mother. You in fact were the monster all along. But when people came around the mommy-daughter act was put on attempting to fool everyone around you.
When my mother had each of her three children, you were not there. When my mother lost a baby, you were not there. Some people just do not deserve the title of mother I presume.
“And I rise up
And I’d do it a thousand times again” the song came to a close, but each and every time I hear it the same thoughts come back to my emotionally disconnected head.
I’ve never referred to you as my grandma. I’ve never made an apple pie with you. I’ve never been able to relate to having to split holidays between my sets of grandparents. I had one grandma and one grandpa. Both of which have passed away. Neither of which is you. Sometimes I wonder why you got to outlive those who actually cared. The ones who actually knew my birthday. The ones who loved me. I guess I will never know about you. Nor do I really want to.
So, this is to you. My not-so-grandma-ie “grandma”. The woman who made my mother. The woman who never sent a birthday card. Never made it to one of my soccer games. Never even bothered to call. But I must thank you. Thank you for teaching me who I am. Who my amazing mother is, and where she came from.
Everyday my mother strives to not be like you.
And everyday she succeeds more and more.
Song- Rise Up by, Andra Day
