Loving Helen Jean (Ode to Mama Turning 90)
Photo courtesy of Deva Williamson.
When I was seven years old, I wrote this poem entitled As I Watch You Go By. I was so excited that I forgot myself for a moment. I ran out of our bedroom and eagerly hurried into the living room where my parents were with their company. I remember boldly walking in and exclaiming what I had written. Now, I cannot recall the full details of what happened after that, but I can recall two distinct things: 1) my mom did not scold me for interrupting grown folks and 2) she said, ‘My baby gone be a writer.’
That was over 50 years ago and two days after this article goes live, Mama will turn 90 years old; therefore, I am excited and honored that I have been given the opportunity to pay tribute to her here. My mama has always believed in me, even when her hidden fears made it seem as if she didn’t. During my teen years, there were times when I felt imprisoned by her fears, so I fought against them by withdrawing within myself. My mama worked most days and there were a lot of us, so I did not get to spend much one-on-one time with her. At some point, I became an expert at pretending it did not matter.
During the summer of my 15th birthday, my parents separated, and I chose to stay with my daddy. Even though I chose not to go with Mama, I remember being filled with a bittersweet longing as I watched her drive away. She told me recently that she had faced some harsh criticism from our small-town folks for “leaving me” there. I had no idea that she had gone through that. I do know that after she left, I spent many years blaming her for all the wrongs in my life—every unwise decision, unfulfilled dream, and bad relationship. I blamed Mama for leaving my daddy and tearing our family apart.
Even though I sometimes judged her harshly, I still loved my mama with a love that was just as unyielding as the “I don’t care” façade that I wore daily. However, by the time I was in my thirties and had experienced adult relationships and disappointments in my life, I finally acknowledged that the one person I longed for was the one person with which I had never nurtured a relationship. Even though I did not know what to do about it, I knew that I wanted us to be closer. We had never been completely estranged, but my mind had often been plagued with doubts of her love for me. In my heart, I wanted to be a better daughter.
I searched my soul, and I sought God. He heard me, and He helped me to make peace with myself and with my past. His love taught me how to accept my mistakes and my mama’s mistakes. His grace taught me how to love unconditionally and His mercy helped me to understand the basic humanness of being a mama. During the process, I learned that there are some things that I would never understand and that was okay. Finally, God’s wisdom helped me to acknowledge that the relationship and the break-up between my mother and father were not my business; actually, they had nothing to do with me since my parents had been married 12 years before I was even born.
My healing and deliverance took some time—years, and during that time, God was also working on my mama as well. She shared things with me about her childhood and her past that she had never shared with anyone else. Her stories made me sad and angry, but they also explained so much about her actions toward me as a child and teenager. I was humbled by her willingness to share those delicate pieces of herself with me. It showed me just how much she trusted me with her vulnerabilities.
Eventually, the healing of my heart cleared out all the erroneous beliefs in my mind. The little girl that I had once been came to visit the woman that I had become. She reminded me that I needed to look back with eyes that were no longer veiled and a heart that was no longer resentful. She reminded me of the many times my mama had tried to make up for the hurt of my past. That honest unguarded reflection broke up the last fallow pieces of my heart and made it easier for the seeds of forgiveness, understanding, and unconditional love to sprout and grow.
When I look at my mama today, I wish my younger self would have known just how much I was loved. It was right there—I just couldn’t see it. Right now, my mind is flooded with warm memories of Mama singing those Negro Spirituals while kneading dough to make homemade biscuits as she and my daddy worked side by side preparing breakfast. I remember her drawing water from the well to wash clothes in those old tin tubs. She would boil the whites in the cast iron pot, and she used a scrub board for the hard-to-clean items.
My mama is one of the greatest influencers of my life. She is not perfect, and neither am I; however, I am a better person since getting another chance to know, respect, and honor the woman that she is. She is strong and resilient, a survivor who has overcome deep childhood trauma and unspeakable abuse. She is a woman who married at 14 and had birthed 11 children at home before the age of 34. She has survived the devastating grief of burying four children and then she has experienced the joy of adopting two more. Mama only has an elementary school education, yet she handles her business, and she still lives on her own. She is independent and still appreciates the little things in life. I love hearing my mama’s laughter, and I love making her laugh. I love how she still calls me Baby Girl. I love her tenderly and fiercely. I thank God for my mama, and I know that this 90th birthday celebration will be her best one yet.
