The Power of 3 Words
Slowly, Steadily, Unexpectedly
My love for you began to change slowly, steadily, unexpectedly.
If you hadn't called me that December day, if you hadn't said that I was breaking my mother's heart, if you hadn't tried to convince me that my mother was edging toward taking her own life because of me, I would have continued to see you as I did when I was a naive 9-year old enjoying the delicious, sweet tiger-butter you had kept aside just for me, or as I did when admiring the green thumb you had with your garden of roses of every shade of pink because pink was your favorite color; I would have still loved the Christmas parties with the apple pie a la mode because you'd never forget to keep the ice cream ready, so the boys couldn’t get to it before me; I'd have dear memories of you patient behind the wheel as I inched your little red Nova back out of your garage as you helped me learn to drive at the age of 15, and in my 20s you had opened arms when you invited me to share your home when I could no longer remain in my apartment, but on that December day when you called me, you changed us; you showed me tiny glimpses of who you were in the eyes of my mother and my uncles; your actions throughout their lives slowly crept into our story.
The lies you told that day separated us for years as I was just beginning my life with my husband; you didn’t approve, and you took your disappointment out on my mother; you verbally abused her with words I began hearing after my son was born, my son who you refused to acknowledge for the first two years of his life, but only when you realized that he had light skin for a black boy; then you wanted to be a great-grandmother for the first time; you blamed my mother for my absence in your life, although she tried, despite your painful words, to build our relationship again; steadily, I drifted from you.
Over the last 10 years, I’d learn about the broom handles striking my uncle’s back, the pans being thrown across the kitchen in the hopes of hitting one of your children, the verbal assaults on my grandfather before he had had enough and left you; my loving, caring, generous mother, my friend, loved you despite your actions; she was by your side though every emergency room visit, every bout of pneumonia, every cardiac arrest, tears streaming down her face each time your last rites were read, yet with the strength of a lion, you pulled through only to complain and criticize her actions; she was there too much, not enough; your truths were lies in her eyes, everyone's ears; at 84, your change is with age, more wrinkles, more confusion, still denial that you caused any pain in the lives of those who loved you; you were again at death’s door, but again, death was not there for you; my mother was.
Unexpectedly, I find myself torn between those years of innocence and love and these years of innocence and love and these years of pain and anger; I see you confused, begging to leave this world, unable to remember; I’m at a loss in so many ways; do I remember the grandmother that you were during my youth, or do I forget and forgive the mother you were over the course of your lifetime?
EVWP Summer Institute, July 7, 2014