My mother is Joyce and she is many things. Among them she is an educator, a sister, a caretaker and a friend. Growing up with Joyce as my mother meant that I was to be self sufficient. Not because she wasn't diligent in her mothering. In fact, it was quite the opposite. In me she saw the opportunity to carefully construct a woman of substance and strength. She studied and respected the person I was and built upon that. She nurtured my nature with encouragement and promoted my fierce independence. Joyce was often quiet in her celebration of my deeds, in an attempt to ready me for a world which would sometimes mirror that. She would extend her love through the invaluable lesson that good deeds need not be recognized in order to be praise worthy. The two sentiments being mutually exclusive and extraneous. My mother is not a big hugger. However, her affection reveals itself in the unwavering confidence that there is simply nothing that I cannot do. She armed me with the primal knowledge that "not everyone is going to like you,” which was and is unfortunately true. Unfortunate for them to be clear:) The bigger point in that lesson was the notion that I should be more than okay with that truth. I should be okay in the honesty of knowing that my worth doesn't lie in the opinions of others. Joyce hasn't always allowed me to be curious about her as a woman, never presenting herself without her armor. I was enamored with her still. Gold dusted armor and all.
My mother’s way was daringly unconventional at times. Under her watchful eye, she’d allow me to make my own decisions and stand in my own consequences. She empowered my will by holding a megaphone to my voice for all to hear. She unwittingly grew a feminist, while never allowing me to lose awareness of the power in my femininity. The conventions of never leaving the house without earrings, good posture and crossing my legs at the ankles, rang just as loudly as never diverting your gaze from the eyes of the person to whom you are speaking. My accomplishments were rarely viewed as exceptionalities, but with expectancy from a girl for whom failure was not a consideration. This expressed belief gave me a wide wingspan and the permission to live valiantly with the expectation of excellence .
I left home at the tender age of seventeen armed with the jewels that Joyce had gifted me. Decades would pass before we'd share the same space again, this time as neighbors and with me as a mother. This time, with my own jewels to gift. It is in this space that my mother has presented herself in an alternative way. She has the added armor of grandmother in her arsenal. In that she is softer in her approach, more audible in her praise and more feverish in her physical affection for my children. My mother has also gifted me a new role in caretaker. I am blessed to be able to shuttle her to the ever increasing appointments. She readily defers decision making to me while in the presence of others. Most notably, she asks for help. My mother’s dependance on me is a displayed continuation of her faith and confidence in the young girl, now seasoned woman she raised. The change in tide has sometimes been a difficult one to bare. But as I reflect on Mother’s Day it is not lost that my mother is still here to love me, to teach me and to cherish. She is still many things. Most importantly, the prototype of what a mother should dare to be. Unconventional and unwavering. I aspire to be deserving of her.
To all of the beautiful and varied "prototypes," Happy Mother's Day!
