When I was a little girl, my mother was in law school. Once, she took me on a short road trip out of town to see a client of the firm she was working for. I remember it was a small town with a hospital and she had to deliver a subpoena. When we drove up to the entrance of the building, she explained to me what the building directory was, how to read it, and then proceeded to hand me an envelope and told me to enter the building, ask for Mr. Smith, find where he is, hand him the envelope and tell him "You have been served". I did this, not knowing the purpose of what I was doing, or why. I trusted my mother and trusted that she would never ask me to do something that wasn't in my best interest or anything that could cause me harm. I look back at memories like this one, and I have very mixed feelings. The legality of her actions aside, (in California you must be 18 to serve a subpoena) as an adult, I question the judgement of my mother in sending me, a child of 8 or 9, into a strange building to deliver paperwork that could have been met with hostility, anger, and violence. But, as a mother of a brillant eight-year-old daughter, I don't flinch at the idea. I think "she could totally do that." in fact, I am fairly certain, if given the opportunity, my daughter could be President and the world would be a better place. I think my mother believed that too.
As I got older I became more aware of the goings-on of the adults in my life. I began to catalog the lies and betrayals of my parents. Time has proven the aptitude of my observant nature, and as a keenly perceptive child, little went unnoticed. Their malnourished relationship began to devour the safety net of my childhood. I developed a stoic relationship with my father - keeping him at a distance - believing that in his mind and hearing out of his mouth - I was a moody, selfish, drama queen. But, I gathered my disappointments towards my mother and placed them in a gilded box and kept them there with all the missed birthdays, ill-fitting shoes, un-washed clothes, and empty dinner plates from a busy life where children are not always given priority consideration. This box, like Pandora's, was kept locked for many years. I felt her love and loyalty was inextinguishable, and the box kept record of her humanity and flaws as part of the gift of all she had to give to me. Until, a twisted character in our narrative interceded and helped my mother to fashion a key out of my broken trust.
Most know that every box of demons also harbors the spirit of hope, it is part of the universal narrative of transgressions and redemption. But, I know something about the contents of my box that is specific to my tale. Years before transgressions were made against me, my mother developed and fortified an armor that protected me from falling under the attack of those bent on the demise of my happiness or the destruction of my prosperity. If my mother missed a birthday, she found another way to celebrate. Teaching me to be flexible and that love and celebration doesn't live on a calendar. I have learned to celebrate my life when deep in the muck of it - short on answers and long on problems. As my parents focused on getting a better education so that they could have better jobs and when my shoes did not fit correctly because I grew faster than the money came in - this provided me with an example of the sacrifices it sometimes takes to make your life better. And when my clothes were not being cleaned and dinner wasn't on the table at six like at the homes of my friends and I had to step up and take care of myself - I learned to be self-reliant, responsible, and hard-working. I never saw my mother's mistakes as malicious. She was attentive and nurturing when I was young, and her absences came after she had given me the tools to travel un-aided though my life. She pulled off the veil of perfection through which so many children see their parents by allowing me to witness her flaws through her own words long before I witnessed her imperfections first-hand. She told me that no-one is perfect, change is inevitable, and you will be hurt most by the ones you love. She also taught me that I am beautiful, creative, and intelligent. I am worthy of love, and deserve to be treated with respect. She taught me to distance people who choose to make me feel ugly, stupid, or worthless. She taught me to value myself without believing I am better than anyone else. She taught me to live my life as an example of how I want to be treated. And to live and demonstrate justice by forgiving myself and others. And before all this - my mother taught me to love. These are the lessons I am passing on the my children.
And that is why I rise today. Happy October.
