The first woman to ever curve me was my mother. The radio was on and Stevie Wonder was playing. I asked her “Is there really a ribbon in the sky for our love?” To which she replied “that’s what they say.” Now I’m sure if she read this the first words out of her mouth would be “that’s a fucking lie.” But if I continue to censor my narrative based on her response, I’d be mute. So yes – this did happen. And it is one of the reasons why rejection from a woman hits less. I respect her decision and I move on. Yes, it hurts but not as much as your own mother’s rejection. Black people are some the greatest comedians mostly because our first bully gave birth to us. And how do you respond to a bully with power? You don’t. You just compartmentalize it and air niggas out at the lunch table instead.
At the end of one of Amy Winehouse’s live versions of ‘To Know Him Is To Love Him’ she asks, after a pregnant pause, “Is that alright?” As if she’s asking the powers that be if her rendition of the song is adequate. In the moments when I feel my lowest I want to ask the powers that be, the silence, “Is that alright?” Too embarrassed to ask “Am I enough?” Because I’m afraid the answer will be no. And maybe that stems from my childhood. In the midst of my adolescent years I wondered if I was enough for my parents. If I was doing the right things to make my mother want to be my mother. As if I could do that. So when Amy utters “Is that alright?”, my heart drops. In our own ways we ask the world to validate our presence, to confirm our right to exist, and to reprimand if deemed otherwise.
I’ve spent the better part of my life wrestling with the chaos that is my mother’s and I’s relationship. Like most eldest daughters there’s a partition in my heart centered in the quadrant I’ve placed my love for her in. Unfinished renovations from the last hurricane that ripped through with trauma forced winds. Boundaries I’d learn I would have to build in order for us to have a “healthy relationship”. At first I was angry at her in my earliest memories. Angry at her frazzled, frantic decisions that upended our lives. Then for being bad at picking men. And for not being a woman of her word. For being fragile enough to believe the bullshit men fed her but never malleable enough to soften to motherhood. But as of late my anger lies in myself. It’s been thirty five fucking years and I’m still nursing the wounds she caused and neglected. Surely I was sold the narrative of growing older and growing out of your childhood woes like a black child grows out of asthma. But I have not. I still carry around outdated weapons and an albuterol inhaler begging to be put out of its misery.
Struggling with the sheer audacity of another Monday, I choose quiet time with headphones as my refuge. Rather than fumble through a playlist I decided to feed my subconscious and make the first pick a nostalgic one. Before the opening notes could breath – I cupped a scream in my throat. Down in the depths of nostalgia lie a song I’d bury deep for self -preservation. Some songs surrender us to a time and place. I’d forgotten why the song was banned for a split second. In the fall of third grade my mother left. In the midst of her disappearance I had to pick up the pieces of my little life. One of the few possessions I had was a Walkman and Britney Spears’ sophomore album, both, kept me company as I bounced from couch to couch. Track 9. Very dramatic. Very cringe. But the glue to this 9 year old’s bleeding heart with such an affirming title. Where. Are. You. Now. Yes girl – because where indeed the fuck were you with a whole ass child at home.
The question “Where are you now?” follows “you gotta let me know… so I can let you go” in its crescendo chorus. I cared less about my mother’s physical location and more about her plans. If she did not plan on returning – fine. But let me know so I could get on with my life as a third grader. So I could stop listening to the adults whispering about where I would end up next. So I didn’t have to lie to the case workers at school. So I could let her go.
Despite the history I think I’ve done pretty well. We’ve never squared up, threw hands, cussed each other out or any forms of violence. No name calling because that would require picking up the phone.
I’m not sure when I’ll “heal” but I can say the song is now in heavy rotation.
I still call her “Momma” in conversation though rarely with the possessive noun.
In the words of Warren Mathis, “I said my momma, it seems as if I love her, don’t it?”
The kicker: She shares her location with me now. [stares right into the camera]
Dedication: To daughters.
The Junk Drawer 