A Mother's Love; A 25 Year Reflection...

As I awake on the 25th anniversary of the death of my own Mother, who I adored and continue to admire, I am saddened by the continuing barrage of news about the death on yesterday of singer Whitney Houston, Bobbi Kristina’s Mother and I am still grasping with the death and preparing for the funeral of a very dear Friend, mentor and my most favorite and inspiring college professor ever, Dr. Flora Dorsey-Young, Bunny & Billy’s Mother…

While death is a part of living, it still hits us like a ton of bricks. Never are we prepared to lose those who are so special in our lives, particularly those who gave us life or those to whom we have given life. They say the two hardest deaths to deal with are that of a parent or a child. Sadly, I can attest to the former…

Incredulously, it has been 25 years since the loss of my Mother. Where does the time go? Seems like another life. So much has changed... Still, I miss her terribly and often wonder what she would look like, what hairstyle she would be rockin’, would she have aged gracefully, remarried, would I recognize her voice, what would have become of her life is she’d had another 25 years and in the words of Eric Clapton, would she know my name if she saw me in heaven? Of course she would… Her presence is still ever so strong in my life that I cannot believe that I have already lived nearly half my life without her. I feel her in my heart and her love is ever present in my mind. She was my rock, my cheerleader, my confidante and my VERY Best Friend! Her unconditional and undying love was enviable. Others should be so fortunate! The maternal love and guidance I received in the first 26 years of my life is more than some will ever know. My words of comfort to those who also awake this morning without a Mother is that she never leaves you…

A few months ago following funeral services for a community matriarch and family friend the procession traveled to the old “Negro” cemetery where my Mother, her Mother and half the Black folks who ever lived in Glassboro, NJ are buried. It was one of those “hotter than July” summer days and my natural hair was fighting recession and my cute little white dress was drenched with sweat as I stood in that cemetery surrounded by dear Friends who are mostly like Family.

Ironically, my place in the funeral procession resulted in my parking very near to my Mother’s grave. Of course before heading to join the others I braved the torch of the sun and my heels getting stuck in the dirt with my every step to pay respect at my Mother’s grave. While I visit often to place flowers, lay a grave blanket or just to be reminded, I have never been one who has found comfort talking to a tombstone. Admittedly, I do take comfort in seeing that huge smile I am so grateful to have inherited beaming back at me from her picture on her tombstone, an investment I strongly recommend to the living of the dearly departed, you will come to appreciate it, I promise you will… So other than a few words of affection and admiration, giving thanks for life, a finger kiss to her photo, a mental embrace and an exchange of smiles, I don’t usually have prolonged conversations with my Mother at her gravesite. I pull some weeds, lay a new adornment, tell her I love her and keep it moving. I suppose because I talk to her so frequently in my daily life, I don’t feel an overwhelming need to have those infamous gravesite chats.

My Mother’s presence is with me at all times. Words of advice I often share with Friends of the recently departed is that you should never lose sight of that. Do not allow that others define or dictate to you how you should grieve or deal with the loss of your loved one. With good intentions, others will often discourage that we talk about, and certainly that we talk to, our dearly departed. They will armchair counsel that we are prolonging our grief, clinging to the past and not moving on with our own lives. Don’t listen to them…

To know me when my Mother lived, was to know that she was my world and that I loved her dearly. I was always telling “Mommy” stories so why would I stop? She is still an intricate part of who I am. Why would I deny or suppress that? To know me post my Mother’s death, is to know that she is still my world and that still I love her dearly. I still tell “Mommy” stories. I am sure that I have new Friends who never met her but who feel like they know her… That’s my testament to her. She continues to be a source of pride and inspiration so quite naturally, I keep her alive… True Friends understand that. So let no one tell you how to grieve. Manage your loss as you see fit…

Now let's be clear, I don’t talk to or about my Mother everyday but she is always on my mind. Ev’ry now and then, I look to the heavens and I laugh because I know she is looking down and shaking her head and saying “Po’ Thing!” like when I burn the boiled eggs, when I touch the iron too long to see if it is hot, when I ruin yet another shirt in the laundry, when I lose another button that will never get sewn back on or whenever else I foul up something that she always did for me that by now I should have mastered. I too shake my head and I say “Mommy, stop laughing at me” as I laugh at myself! I know. I’m ridiculous OR perhaps just not domestic. And I’m OK with that, Really, I am. In these matters, I graciously accept defeat!

Alternatively however, ev’ry now and then, I look to the heavens and I feel her smile as I graduate from law school at the age of 46, as I travel and enjoy the world, as I honor her life and her memory by living in a manner that would make her proud, as I advocate and have compassion for others, fight for what is fair and just and treat others with the dignity and respect I demand for myself. On those occasions I hear her cheering me on! And ev’ry now and then, she finds a unique way to speak to me directly…

When we were children I recall that one of my Mother’s favorite songs was “Only the Strong Survive” by Jerry Butler. OK, young folks, I don’t think that that song has been remixed yet so that you all know the words and think it’s a 1990 original, so I will wait while you go to YouTube to get a quick listen… (smile) So now that you are back, I will continue that while I did not understand it as a child, I realize now that for quite some time, the words on that warped 45’ must have been like an anthem, or a mantra for my Mother. Like women today find strength in Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman”, Jerry’s words empowered my Mother, pushed her to another day and reaffirmed that she was strong and that she would survive…

After less than 10 years of marriage, my father decided that he no longer wanted to be “Daddy”. So without missing a beat and without ever looking back or paying the $25 weekly child support (yeah, $5 per kid), he walked out of our lives and left my Mother at the tender age of 25, to fend for herself and for the five children she now had to raise on her own! Thanks to her strength, her love and her countless personal sacrifices I don’t know what it means to be hungry, to wear tattered clothing, to live without heat or electricity or any of the other realities of poverty, because financially, we were undoubtedly poor! Rich in pride, spirit and countless other virtues, but money did not come easy!  
Twenty five and five babies? Hell! That scares me and I am educated and able to earn a decent living and probably could take care of five children if I had to. But as any good Mother does, she shielded her flock from knowing her fears or the realities of our existence. Appropriately we were allowed to be children so I did not understand then, but I do understand now. I understand the significance of Jerry…

So here I am in that cemetery on that hot July day. The services are over, I share some love, get and give a few kisses and hop in my car to start on my or 2.5 trek back home. Having grown up with such young parents, I grew up with music. So I am an oldies fanatic! I am so in tuned to old music that I am barely aware of the new. I have no regard for rap and lament that our youth who think it music or talent, are culturally deprived. My Mother likely shares my sentiment and is looking down at them too, scratching her head and saying “Po’ Things!, they think that is music”… Sorry Guys. I’m trying… I concede that Tupac was a genius! (smile)

So anyway, I hop in my car and of course the radio is set to WDAS, the station I listened to while growing up in the NJ suburbs of Philly. What’s on the radio? Yeah, you guessed it, Patty Jackson, the DJ, is pumping “Only the Strong Survive”. I kid you not! I could not make this up. Did I mention that I am a frustrated singer and that I wish that I could really sing? Well I do. Without missing a beat or giving any thought to what is happening, I start belting out the song, “Only the Strong Survive, only the strong survive, hey, you gotta’ be strong, ya’ gotta hold on…”

I am in full concert when it hits me! I am in the cemetery, only feet away from my Mother’s grave and I am singing HER song! Call it what you like. Some may call it coincidence, some may call it wishful or foolish thought, and others just may not believe me. I call it the unstoppable, undeniable power of maternal love. This occurred during a time when I was beating up on myself about personal matters in my life, as we all do from time to time. I am sure that I was being more critical of myself than necessary. And usually when we feel like this, it is our Mothers who step in to reassure and make us feel better. It is at that moment that I realize that my Mother still knows my heart and that she is hearing me and speaking to me directly… I stop in my tracks, look to her tombstone and I am reminded of the stock from which I hail. I am comforted by her confirmation that she is still with me, that she still listens and cares, that sometimes she really does laugh at and find me ridiculous! But mostly I am reminded to ease up on myself and to remember that like her, I am strong and that I will survive no matter the situation…

I hate that I am alone and not able to immediately share this experience with someone. But it does not take me long to call my armchair counselor girlfriends to share with them my joy and to solicit their help in my assessment of what just happened. We dissect what my Mother was trying to say. We agree that all we need to know is that she is still present in my life and that on that day, through my car radio, my Mother chose to communicate with me. I did not have to get in my car at that second. The DJ did not have to play Jerry Butler at that moment. I did not have to be in a place of conscious awareness at that time. I will not believe that any of that was coincidence.

Instantly I am now happy that I was alone, quiet in the moment and able to hear my Mother’s voice in the unique manner in which she chose to speak to me. As it turns out, I am feeling pretty happy so I don’t immediately drive home as planned but instead I stop and visit a few Friends and Family. It is dark when I do get on the road for my 2.5 hour journey. I am driving along deep in thought enjoying the silence when I feel myself welling up. I am overwhelmed by my experience and I want to hear my Mother’s voice, I want to know for certain what she is trying to tell me and while I am grateful for my encounter of a unique kind, after 25 years, I still want my Mommy…

Farewell Dr. Young, my good Friend and my mentor. You will be sorely missed. Thank you for the memories and the wisdom that will surely sustain me… And to Bunny, Billy, Bobbi Kristina and all else who will join in our ranks of physically Motherless children, not to worry, your Mother lives inside of you and she will speak to you too. Be Still, Be Patient and Listen…