obligation

“My mother doesn’t know who I am, and I think I am okay with that.”

That quote is from the start of one of the many poems I have written, and this poem had much to do with my mother not fully understanding my queerness, or its necessity in my life.

I do not know if it is fortunate or unfortunate that, upon reflection, I realized this opening line applied to more than just my queerness. It applied to almost all of what makes me me—who I am in the world.

There is a little fear that quakes in the lower part of my belly—it is concerned that without dutiful cautiousness, my mother will somehow find this piece or that poem and be hurt or become angry. But, then, I remember the cloak of ambiguity that I’ve cast over my mother’s perception of my life, and realize that she will most likely not know of either of these works, and that she is already hurting due to the cloak.

“I don’t always know what you are up to these days, but I am proud of you.”

A direct quote from one of me and my mother’s FaceTime calls.

Adulthood, as we’ve come to learn, is where healing can take place.

And healing, we also learn, might mean realizing that the bitterness that formed in the back of your gritted teeth during the angst of your teenage years may have been completely justified, and that your parents indeed had some answering to do.

Acceptance is coming to the conclusion that you may never get those answers, because you may never feel strong enough to ask for accountability— that it is, in fact, not your job to do so, and that any choice you make from this point on will be a valid one.

My mother is old. I am the youngest of three, and have been privy to her and I’s mortalities for a couple decades now. My choice has been to keep a fraction of me present and loyal to my mother, and that I cannot trust her with more than that. My marker of sharing too much of myself is the squinting of her eye, as she calculates if she approves of my actions and motions through life. Upon approval, she would take credit for my triumphs, phasing out all my own efforts and errors, journeys and trials, and sum them to have happened simply because I was born and raised by her. I can no longer take small, repeated jabs to my ego very lightly. I often sit in slight appall as I listen to an -ism flow effortlessly out of her mouth. The gripping of my corrective words at the back of my throat makes my skin bristle.

My mother is lonely. It would be an understatement that her emotional dependence on me and my siblings was and is entirely inappropriate, and this has created such a pendulum of negotiation in my spirit. I swing one way, and I am there for my mother, my mama, and I am in awe of her, just as I was as a youth. Swing too far this way, and I am soon reminded that she is no longer the woman I shined for, and I am no longer that yearning child. I swing the other way, and I am a separate lone wolf, free in the wind, and more than comfortable with consequence. Swing too far this way, and I find myself irritated by the simple attempts at contact from my mother, and something tugs at me and reminds me there will be a day where I won’t ever hear from this woman again. Guilt-stricken, tear-filled, I swing yet again to the other side.

My mother loves me. Her love resides in songs from the 70s, my cautiousness when I am out alone at night, and every time I gain a mole on my shoulder or cheek. Her love appears when I wake from a terrible dream and remember to calm myself, when I see another mother preparing her young child to cross the street, and when my loved ones come to me and ask for my advice and I speak in the tone of her voice.

She has shown love to me in boundless ways, and although I am dealing with the same inner conflict regarding her for several years now, I cannot say I am unhappy that I bring her pride, or joy, or hope.

“Little One.”

A name my mother has called me since I arrived.

I am not planning on having children in my lifetime. But what I can promise is that I will be diligently learning and unpacking being my mother’s child. Although at times it pains me to the point that I find myself wincing—I am still grateful to be able to be her kid day after day.

I think this is one of those relationships, one of those bonds that may never be settled within our lifetime. I know I will spend some more moments and contemplation on how I am tied to this woman, if I even like this woman, and why my love for this woman is so tremendously deep.

Acceptance is coming to the conclusion that I may never get those answers.

But, at least for now, I still have my mama.