Some Memories of My Mother As Her Birthday Approaches
Today, while walking at the cemetery with Aimee, I got to thinking more about shame. Sadly, whenever I think of shame, I think of my mother. The burden of shame she carried pretty nearly debilitated her at various times throughout her life. It is remarkable how loving and generous and kind she was able to be with her children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews, neighbours and friends, while always struggling with the belief that she was basically flawed and less then others.
As I write this I remember how incredibly brave my mother was, to hold her shoulders back and her head high, to make eye contact and to smile, as she walked down the main street of our small lake side mid-American town when I was a child, by the side of the only black person, a MAN at that, thus far to enter our town. A visitor, living for a short while in our home. Ishwar Shavan, a student from India. I thought at the time he was from the upper class in India, a prince, my imagination had a hay-day:he certainly was exotic in my ten year old mind. Many decades later my mother told me he was actually of the untouchable caste in India. Although he came to the U.S. to get an education, and I have NO idea what he was doing in our tiny town, he would, my mother feared, return to poverty.
Ponder that for a moment, if you can! My mother, who viewed herself as essentially flawed, amazed when the neighbours will talk to her after learning of our shame (my feisty brother, as a teenager, was in an abandoned home with several friends, drinking beer when the police raided the place! (: The other boys ran away. He was caught because of his physical inability to run), inviting into her home to live/sleep/eat/socialize, walking down the street side by side, indicating to those same neighbours that in her eyes he was as important and precious as all humans beings should be.
I have so many stories of what I now know was courage, but at times past did not understand. I think of her walking down 250 steps into a damp moldy cavern , all the time knowing she would have to go UP 250 steps to get out, age at least 80+, softly chanting her mantra for the moment:"I will NOT have an asthma attack, I will NOT have an asthma attack!!" I gave my young man sons the heads up that they may well have to carry grandma out of the cave. She did NOT have an asthma attack and the guide said she was the oldest person they knew who had taken that tour. My mother would NOT be left out where her children and grandchildren were concerned. And they WOULD have an education, so they would never have to know poverty. She has been called stubborn. Right now all I can see is courage.
The shame my mother made her own, was the shame that belonged to others. She never understood that. I never knew how to help her understand that. She died several years ago in the arms of a woman she thought was me. Trish loved her as a daughter loves a mother. And my mother felt that love and felt safe with Trish. I was not able to be with her at that moment. Trish did a stellar job, holding her and praying, loving her and letting her think I was the one with her during this part of her journey. Thank you Trish!
Well, who knew?? I had no idea when I started writing this that I wanted to write a tribute to my mom. More later I am sure, as her birthday isn't until April 6. What I want to share with any moms who are reading this is: always be the holder of the hope. The love, gifts, teachings, heart that you have wanted to share with your child(ren) will show itself in all of it's glory at some point in your lifetime. Never give up knowing the day will come when your children will understand you. We moms get scared we have not done it right, or been enough, or missed something essential. But that is not true. We have all of us, done well. And someday the sun will shine through the clouds and we will feel the knowing of that!
Hugs, Nancy
As I write this I remember how incredibly brave my mother was, to hold her shoulders back and her head high, to make eye contact and to smile, as she walked down the main street of our small lake side mid-American town when I was a child, by the side of the only black person, a MAN at that, thus far to enter our town. A visitor, living for a short while in our home. Ishwar Shavan, a student from India. I thought at the time he was from the upper class in India, a prince, my imagination had a hay-day:he certainly was exotic in my ten year old mind. Many decades later my mother told me he was actually of the untouchable caste in India. Although he came to the U.S. to get an education, and I have NO idea what he was doing in our tiny town, he would, my mother feared, return to poverty.
Ponder that for a moment, if you can! My mother, who viewed herself as essentially flawed, amazed when the neighbours will talk to her after learning of our shame (my feisty brother, as a teenager, was in an abandoned home with several friends, drinking beer when the police raided the place! (: The other boys ran away. He was caught because of his physical inability to run), inviting into her home to live/sleep/eat/socialize, walking down the street side by side, indicating to those same neighbours that in her eyes he was as important and precious as all humans beings should be.
I have so many stories of what I now know was courage, but at times past did not understand. I think of her walking down 250 steps into a damp moldy cavern , all the time knowing she would have to go UP 250 steps to get out, age at least 80+, softly chanting her mantra for the moment:"I will NOT have an asthma attack, I will NOT have an asthma attack!!" I gave my young man sons the heads up that they may well have to carry grandma out of the cave. She did NOT have an asthma attack and the guide said she was the oldest person they knew who had taken that tour. My mother would NOT be left out where her children and grandchildren were concerned. And they WOULD have an education, so they would never have to know poverty. She has been called stubborn. Right now all I can see is courage.
The shame my mother made her own, was the shame that belonged to others. She never understood that. I never knew how to help her understand that. She died several years ago in the arms of a woman she thought was me. Trish loved her as a daughter loves a mother. And my mother felt that love and felt safe with Trish. I was not able to be with her at that moment. Trish did a stellar job, holding her and praying, loving her and letting her think I was the one with her during this part of her journey. Thank you Trish!
Well, who knew?? I had no idea when I started writing this that I wanted to write a tribute to my mom. More later I am sure, as her birthday isn't until April 6. What I want to share with any moms who are reading this is: always be the holder of the hope. The love, gifts, teachings, heart that you have wanted to share with your child(ren) will show itself in all of it's glory at some point in your lifetime. Never give up knowing the day will come when your children will understand you. We moms get scared we have not done it right, or been enough, or missed something essential. But that is not true. We have all of us, done well. And someday the sun will shine through the clouds and we will feel the knowing of that!
Hugs, Nancy
posted by Nancy Ross at
12:23 PM
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