In the days that passed since my mother’s death, I was struggling to find my voice. The voice that my mother said never took a break… “you always have something to say…outta all my children, you always have to say something…”
I wanted to write/say something at her funeral. I was expected to or my expectations were telling me to, either way, I had to find my way. In the days before the funeral, I found myself writing about stuff we would share over the years of our M&S time (mother/son time). I knew there were things she wouldn’t want me to say in front of people, especially at her funeral. Some things kept sliding out of my mind, into my fingertips, and onto this document. This is an unedited, but edited account of what I said/felt/experienced.
For about the past five years or more, my mother and I have had the same conversation with no resolution. What to do or say in the event of her demise (to put it nicely). It was a conversation I always pushed with her. “Ma, what would you like to be said or written about you when that time comes?” She would lean back like she always did. “Don’t worry about me…what do you want to be said about you? worry about you. who’s to say you might go before me?”
My mother was a private person, the embodiment of the phrase “company is alright with me every once and awhile”...she can be fiercely independent and never thought of herself, rarely putting herself first, always depending on herself. She had the strictest work principle I’ve ever seen. She was on 24/7. She was either working, planning work, doing some other work, or thinking about work that needed to be done. I’m afraid I have the same affliction – not being able to rest, be still, and just be.
She was the caregiver, always looking out for everyone; she didn’t like the idea of depending on anyone but God. She loved her family through good and bad times and prayed for everyone.
What she wouldn’t want me to say is that as beautiful and loving as her childhood was, it was hard. Her parents did the best they could for their seven children. It wasn’t easy and as siblings, they had many ups and downs but always love. As the second oldest, she felt responsible for her siblings. She was always there for them in good and bad times. She would either cry or laugh at the memories of her siblings. In her recapturing those memories, I would hear her anger. In hindsight, it wasn’t her anger, she was hurt by their words and/or actions. Ma would laugh about it, make a joke about it, and move on.
She would want me to say that she did the best that she could with what she had. As I got older I realized the various sacrifices she made for her three children to have a life. She didn’t complain about anything, but she wouldn’t want me to say…that she did more than that. She excelled at what she had, in many ways going beyond what was deemed possible. She was a single mother of three, who worked, kept the house, cooked, and put herself through college. She seemed to take care of everyone (myself included) more than herself. She should have complained, maybe yell or cry, or not done anything. She didn’t, Ma bottled it up, which later turned into an ulcer that “she wasn’t claiming” existed.
She would want me to say she was a good mother that provided for her family. She wouldn’t want me to say she was an excellent mother of loving but sometimes defiant children. When things didn’t go the way we wanted them to go at times. Seneca (my oldest sister), would whine and complain; Lisa (my youngest sister), wouldn’t say anything but “whatever” and go to her room, but I would argue. As my mother would say, “ I was a dog with a bone…” My siblings would tell me, that I never know when to shut up. For all the “debating”, as my mother called it, she was always there for all of us…24/7.
She made sure we didn’t miss out or want anything. My mother attended every production, fashion show, and art show I was a part of. She was active in all parts of my life.
She wouldn’t want me to say how she got involved in the Boy Scouts. I thought it was something I wanted to do. She attended every meeting at Fairmount Elementary school in the evening. We would catch a yellow cab up to the school. There she would sit among all the white fathers who were smoking (she would have her Virginia Slims cigarettes). The only woman, the only black person in the early 70s in attendance. This was a father/son thing, she attended with her black son in a room full of white men and boys. As always, Ma could hold her own among anyone. She sat there with her head held high, talking and laughing.
She didn’t give it another thought. She just wanted to make sure that I didn’t feel left out because my father wasn’t around. She was a role model for what it meant to be a good parent. She showed me I was capable of doing things beyond my limited vision at the time. I didn’t miss a “male role model” (the idea of a man in my life )until years later. Ma was modeling greatness and how to show up in the world.
She would want me to say how much the loss of her sisters, brothers, and daughter brought all of us closer. She loved hearing from and talking to her niece, nephews, cousins, and friends. She loved to laugh at the memories of days gone by. She loved being a grandmother. She wouldn’t want me to say that her grandchildren helped her process the death of her daughter/their mother/my sister. How both of them embodied my beautiful sister in so many ways. She loved anything those two did. She did everything from cooking for them, watching a show or movie, or just talking with them. They brought Ma happiness beyond comprehension.
I am going to miss our coffee and chats, we would converse or “debate” depending on the topic. When something was difficult to say, I would write a letter to her. In one of the last letters I wrote her, while she was in physical rehab, I quoted Exodus 14:14. “The Lord will fight for you, you need only to be still.” She would say “not another letter”. She would comment on it later. “Todd…when you stated so-and-so, well we have to talk about that.” Ma always said, “I know two things…there is a God and I’m not him.” We use to remind each other of that all the time. We like being in control and reminding ourselves that in fact, we are not.
She wouldn’t want me to say…. she was in pain a lot. There were days in which she would tell me, “I feel like giving up”. I would give her/post all these affirmations around her room, I pray it helped her with the pain. She wouldn’t want me to say…that she was scared. It goes against the trope of the “strong black woman” (we, the Black family, need to stop saying that). She couldn’t be a God-fearing- sad- scared- questioning- pissed-off-struggling human being. That is what most of us are anyway.
She wouldn’t want me to say… she was lonely. Ma often said she doesn’t have a lot of adult conversations throughout the day. Long talks with her brother, a close cousin, and a sistah/friend over the phone but not in person. She wouldn’t want me to say that she didn’t want people to see her in this condition. She could barely stand, or walk, she couldn’t fix herself up like she use to. She would lament over the shoes she couldn’t wear or the outfits she didn’t wear anymore. “I go out of the house to dialysis and back home again.” She would get angry with me for rushing her upstairs after dialysis. “I spend enough time in that room – let me enjoy the rest of the house I’m paying for.”
She would want me to thank everyone for coming to the service. Those near and far and tell them I appreciate their support during this time. In truth, It wouldn’t hit me that my mother was gone for a while. I would pick up the phone to call her, stop and get coffee for her. Call her at night (she called it our “wellness check”). She would want me to make sure I address everyone. Ma could be a griot when it came to names, families, dates, and histories. If you are not in my current mental Rolodex, I will forget who you are.
She would want me to send thank you cards. Here I am seven months later still trying to remember whom I didn’t send a card or program. She would want me to apologize for the late delivery. Then she would tell me not to talk so much. “Those who care will know without you saying too much, those who don’t only want to gossip about what you said, and then there are those who don’t give a damn” I can hear her saying. “If you have more to say, write about it…and put it to rest.”
Well, Ma…I wrote about it…and I’m still sad, angry, and at times depressed. But like you would say when I called for our “wellness check” you would answer the phone and say “Todd… I’m still here.” Yes, you are. and I try to remind myself of that as I am writing this piece.
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