For Motherless Daughters, Here's Your Momma
September 30, 2008
Many years ago, when I was a young journalist, I was blessed with a ticket to see Maya Angelou speak. My seat was far back in the theatre, but as she spoke, I imagined myself vividly -- sitting cross-legged at her feet, while she told her stories as she gently rocked in an ancient oak chair. Fantasy, but not. Years before Oprah claimed Maya as her mother, I saw in Maya a mother.
I wanted a mother. A mother who protected me against evil, who shared her wisdom with me, who told me the truth about my strength and my beauty and my talents. Not a mother who allowed a rapist to have at me any time he wanted in our own home, not a mother who was inebriated most of her waking hours, not a mother who disowned me because years later as an adult, I spoke of these things to her. "Did you know this affected my life, him touching me, the drunkenness?" I had asked my mother. The next day she called me back and said "You f**king bitch. I never want to talk to you again." And she hasn't.
So when Maya Angelou's book LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER reached me today, I read the first half in a gulp, tears ripping down my face, and I had to come write. I will finish the book tomorrow, and will write again. She tells of events and lessons to teach her thousands of daughters. Me included. And you. Chapters called Home, Philanthropy, Violence.
She writes "You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them. Try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud."
Maya writes about how fiercely her mother loved her. Her mother said to her, "Baby, I've been thinking and now I am sure. You are the greatest woman I've ever met." And Maya decides to cut down on dangerous habits like drinking and smoking and cursing, "Imagine, I might really become somebody. Someday." And my tears come again.
Maya tells the story of birthing her son. Her mother was a registered nurse, crawled up on the delivery table, telling her dirty jokes, and timing the punchline to the next labor pain. As Maya laughed, her mother said, "Bear down." Her mother was a "fearless, doting and glorious grandmother."
I had two sons. But, I didn't give my mother the chance in either case to be anywhere near the delivery room. She and my stepfather flew three-thousand miles to come to my babies' births, but I stubbornly held my babies in -- ten days late in both cases, then 42-hours labor for my first son, 28-hours for my second. My mother and stepfather were headed to their home, airborne, over the country's midsection, when my second son was born. I was afraid. I didn't want my naked body exposed to them again. I didn't want my babies to soak in the fear my body would no doubt produce at the sight of them. Before I was disowned, and they would announce they were coming out to visit, I would fly into a panic that began the moment of the announcement, and accelerated until a few days after they left. I have no doubt my body prolonged labor and delivery to protect my babies and myself from the protracted misery of their visit. I would do it myself.
Maya talks of the pivotal change when she moved from the South with her pious grandmother, to San Francisco, with her Jazz-loving mother. Maya would not smile. Finally, her mother made a funny face, and Maya had to smile. Her mother kissed her and said, "That is the first time I have seen you smile. It is a beautiful smile. Mother's beautiful daughter can smile."
It was Maya's first philanthropic gift, a lesson that she can be charitable with the smile she has to give.
I called my mother's house earlier this year with happy birthday wishes for my stepfather on my tongue. She answered the phone.
I said, "Hi mom!"
She asked "Who's this?" And hung up.
I called back, and got the machine.
My friends asked me "Why did you call? Did you want to suffer more?"
I said, "No, I wanted to say happy birthday."
And tears fell.
So I read Maya's book LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER with great joy at the lessons, even the rough ones. There's a chapter called To Tell the Truth, and in it she urges us to tell the truth, even if we're just answering the question "how are you?" She says if people start avoiding you because you're telling the truth, "you will have more time to meditate and do fine research on a cure for whatever truly afflicts you."
Thank you, Maya, for being a true Momma.
Many years ago, when I was a young journalist, I was blessed with a ticket to see Maya Angelou speak. My seat was far back in the theatre, but as she spoke, I imagined myself vividly -- sitting cross-legged at her feet, while she told her stories as she gently rocked in an ancient oak chair. Fantasy, but not. Years before Oprah claimed Maya as her mother, I saw in Maya a mother.
I wanted a mother. A mother who protected me against evil, who shared her wisdom with me, who told me the truth about my strength and my beauty and my talents. Not a mother who allowed a rapist to have at me any time he wanted in our own home, not a mother who was inebriated most of her waking hours, not a mother who disowned me because years later as an adult, I spoke of these things to her. "Did you know this affected my life, him touching me, the drunkenness?" I had asked my mother. The next day she called me back and said "You f**king bitch. I never want to talk to you again." And she hasn't.
So when Maya Angelou's book LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER reached me today, I read the first half in a gulp, tears ripping down my face, and I had to come write. I will finish the book tomorrow, and will write again. She tells of events and lessons to teach her thousands of daughters. Me included. And you. Chapters called Home, Philanthropy, Violence.
She writes "You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them. Try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud."
Maya writes about how fiercely her mother loved her. Her mother said to her, "Baby, I've been thinking and now I am sure. You are the greatest woman I've ever met." And Maya decides to cut down on dangerous habits like drinking and smoking and cursing, "Imagine, I might really become somebody. Someday." And my tears come again.
Maya tells the story of birthing her son. Her mother was a registered nurse, crawled up on the delivery table, telling her dirty jokes, and timing the punchline to the next labor pain. As Maya laughed, her mother said, "Bear down." Her mother was a "fearless, doting and glorious grandmother."
I had two sons. But, I didn't give my mother the chance in either case to be anywhere near the delivery room. She and my stepfather flew three-thousand miles to come to my babies' births, but I stubbornly held my babies in -- ten days late in both cases, then 42-hours labor for my first son, 28-hours for my second. My mother and stepfather were headed to their home, airborne, over the country's midsection, when my second son was born. I was afraid. I didn't want my naked body exposed to them again. I didn't want my babies to soak in the fear my body would no doubt produce at the sight of them. Before I was disowned, and they would announce they were coming out to visit, I would fly into a panic that began the moment of the announcement, and accelerated until a few days after they left. I have no doubt my body prolonged labor and delivery to protect my babies and myself from the protracted misery of their visit. I would do it myself.
Maya talks of the pivotal change when she moved from the South with her pious grandmother, to San Francisco, with her Jazz-loving mother. Maya would not smile. Finally, her mother made a funny face, and Maya had to smile. Her mother kissed her and said, "That is the first time I have seen you smile. It is a beautiful smile. Mother's beautiful daughter can smile."
It was Maya's first philanthropic gift, a lesson that she can be charitable with the smile she has to give.
I called my mother's house earlier this year with happy birthday wishes for my stepfather on my tongue. She answered the phone.
I said, "Hi mom!"
She asked "Who's this?" And hung up.
I called back, and got the machine.
My friends asked me "Why did you call? Did you want to suffer more?"
I said, "No, I wanted to say happy birthday."
And tears fell.
So I read Maya's book LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER with great joy at the lessons, even the rough ones. There's a chapter called To Tell the Truth, and in it she urges us to tell the truth, even if we're just answering the question "how are you?" She says if people start avoiding you because you're telling the truth, "you will have more time to meditate and do fine research on a cure for whatever truly afflicts you."
Thank you, Maya, for being a true Momma.
Labels: book review, LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER, Maya Angelou, Oprah
posted by Diana Page Jordan @ 5:22 PM
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