When it came to her children, there were two things I heard my mother say she was proud of. One, that she kept all of us. Meaning, that she didn’t give any of us up for adoption, nor were we taken by CPS (Child Protective Services). Two, that we could all read and write. These two achievements were less about her children and more about how she believed people would perceive her.
Because mother was so young, when people would see her with all seven of us, they would say, “Are all of those kids yours?” With pure attitude, she would say, “Yeah, all of’em mine. All seven head of chillen.” She was from Little Rock, Arkansas, so when she was angry, her old accent would appear with emphasis. She knew how they saw her; as another young black woman on welfare that couldn’t keep her legs closed. Her clap-backs would encourage them to mind their damn business.
When we moved, we had to attend new schools. My new school was Slater Elementary. Slater’s students were largely white, Mexican, Hmong, and black. This was vastly different from MLK, which was primarily black. During my first week at Slater, I didn’t speak. I was scared. In my world, trusting new people was dangerous. One day, my teacher asked my mother if I had a speaking and learning disability. She loudly said, “Hell nah. Why?” My teacher took a step back and told her that I had not spoken one word since I started school and that she would need to test my academic level. Mother was livid! She said, “This one right here? She’s my smartest child. Don’t worry, she’ll be speaking tomorrow.” That evening mother told me I was embarrassing her. She beat me and said she would beat me every day until I spoke in class. The next day, I spoke to my teacher and did all of my work in class. I finished the year with the highest marks.
Mother didn’t know how to encourage with love, only through fear; and she always made good on her threats.
S
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