Thursday, April 9, 2009

Letter to my Nephew's "mother"

First, thank you for giving him life, for chosing to let him grow inside of you. However, that in itself, does not make you his mother. Now, everyday, chose again to let him live. Find in yourself the mother's love you've yet to know. The love to put your child's needs ahead of your own desires.

He was ripped from you because you made him an addict before he took his first breath, nursed back to a soulful life by others, and now, now that he can feed, and dress, and wipe himself you want him back? He hasn't even slept at your house, not once, and you want to put him to bed? He barely knows the sound of your voice, because you haven't called, and now you want the privilage of soothing and scolding him?



You gave him life (thank you dearly), but you are not his mother. His mother got up every four hours for years to deliver medicine needed to heal the damage, you caused, to his lungs. His mother worked tirelessly with Occupational Therapists so that he would develop normally, inspite of what your drugs did to him. She loved him even though he, like all children, was a vacuum sucking in her energy, time, love, and giving nothing back. She loved him even though he wasn't hers. Now he is smart, now he can breathe, now he has the opportunity to be ANYTHING. If you want to be his mother leave him where he is. To take him back would be to suffocate him, to place him in a box, to hand him a warrant for his arrest. He's old enough now to know it. If you take him back you will prove that you were never really his mother. Just a woman that gave him a life you planned to use to your own benefit, exactly as your mother did to you. She wronged you.

You ARE beautiful, you ARE intelligent. She condemned you to be just another mom on wellfare, and your daughters will be the same. Your son has the chance to BE something. If you want to be his mother get out of his way, and work to overcome the injustice your mother did to you so that your daughters have a chance to live. You are your daughers only chance. Your son, he has had a village around him his entire life.

From this mother to you, leave him where he has the best chance at the best life and he will love you for it. Take him back, whatever your reason, and when he is grown he will know what you stole from him, and he will hate you for it. His life isn't a social security number, a paycheck, it doesn't belong to you. Just as my children's lives do not belong to me. Some day they will be men (if I succeed), other wives husbands. We are guardians of their futures, and nothing more. Some of us have the luxury to be best suited to be both guardian and teacher. Some of us are best suited as guardian to let some one else be the teacher. That has nothing to do with money, or class, or education. That has to do with LOVE. A mother knows which one she is, and puts her love of her child, her duty as the guardian of his future, ahead of her desire to be his teacher. What exactly do think he'll learn from you, what makes you best suited to teach him to be someone elses husband? The only men, only husbands you've ever encountered were actors on sitcoms. Your daughter's do not know their fathers. You do not know their fathers. Your son's father has been there with him his entire life. Tell me how you'd be better at teaching him to be a man/husband?

Thursday, April 2, 2009

WOMAN

I am wearing bear skin. My shoulders sag 
beneath the weight of it. The space inside 
filled with 
tight lips, and stern intolerance. I wonder if my 
mother gave me this.
An Heirloom? 

I see other mothers light, and knowing. As if they were made for this cloak. They carry it with straight up spines. Soft faces, and warm words. I am awkward among them. Quazimoto.

This is my mother's legacy.

I hated her. I hated her fishing. Making me stick hook through worm guts. I hated her roofing our house where everyone could see her dirty, and working like a man. Nawed dirty nails. I hated her, telling me not to care what anyone else thought. I hated her yelling at men in charge. Loud mouth didn't know her place. I hated her not wearing make up. I hated her being hard, not tolerating excuses. I hated her.

I am her.

I watched my mother, Quazi-femella. I know that it takes a stong back to carry such a cloak.

I am glad I am her.

My strong back, precious heirloom.