Ma

So a few months ago my creative writing professor asked us to write about ourselves. “Who are you? What makes you you? How are you different from everyone else?” And I had more of a problem with that than I thought I would. How do you define yourself – your worth, your being, your psychological composition – in two pages? That’s a lot to ask of anyone, let alone an exhausted college student.

I set it from the angle of “where have I come from.” I talked mostly about myself: coming from someone who passively let life happen to her to someone who stands up for what she deserves; coming from very small-minded and intolerantexpectations of how people should be to a broader point-of-view that allows other people to be themselves; coming from the scared freshman living with a stranger to the senior standing before you, ready to take on the world and see what happens.

I am a strong woman. I am a tough woman. I think this because I have a legacy of tough women to live up to.

My great-grandmother, Mary Isabelle, the feisty little woman who was dancing the Charleston at ninety-five years old, her arm cut off at the elbow from a work injury many years before I was thought of. In her, her grandchildren found an escape as she whisked them away for outings to the store, for ice cream, anything to get their minds off the house where they must return and endure. She has taught me that hardship should not be muddled through with a grimace.

My grandmother, Pearl , the quiet lady on the couch in her pantyhose and trousers who had survived a tyrant, a drunk, the judgment of a much less tolerant time, two sons who never realized – one from physical incapacity, the other from blatantrefusal – how much her heart beat for them. She crept on with quiet dignity, hidden talent as her hands with the mutilated finger danced across the piano, not from lessons but from instinct, limited though she was to only two keys. It is through her that I learned love is not something to be discarded even if it’s not idyllic.

My other grandmother, Nancy, whose past was riddled with dark secrets but we as children never saw them in her cooking, her playing duck-duck-goose on the back porch, her laugh that I can still hear in my head that continued even when her body was riddled with cancer and her own mortality was thrown starkly up in her face. Her death six years ago taught me that sometimes our childish, innocent memories are more important than what actually happened.

My mother, Tina, who has given me the best childhood I could have imagined. Through her I have learned the importance of hard work – the work itself is sometimes more important than the desired outcome. I have learned how to be self-sufficient, when your options are exhausted and it comes down to you and your ability to think on your feet (lying underneath a toilet with a Home Depot how-to book when Dad’s not home and we don’t want to call a plumber). I have learned to recognize your past but not let it define you or hold you back. I have learned to be tough, selfless, not to fall apart until everybody else is taken care of, but also to realize that sometimes you just need to have a break-down. I have learned to reach for the stars, but also topack enough fuel for the rocket ship to get you there.

I am from beaten wives. I am from dark secrets. I am from hours and hours of work at a piano that blossomed into a passionwithout which I cannot breathe. I am from stories in my head that churn constantly, especially when I sit quietly and try to push them away. I am from “Monty Python’s Flying Circus and amaretto brownies, “Hogan’s Heroes” and chocolate milkshakes. I am from dancing in my pajamas to 80s rock-and-roll while we got ready for church. I am from treadmill ranting with my Irish twin and duck-hunting stories with the man that I cannot believe is my baby brother. I am from keeping my heart to myself so intensely that I feel like I’m standing naked in a ballroom when I let somebody catch a glimpse of what’s behind the curtain. I am from secret writings, oddball traditions, questions of sanity, and moving to the realization that I am not nuts, simply myself.

And I have these women to thank for that. Mom Belle, Maw-Maw, Grandma, and my ma. You have taught me to proudly wear your names that have christened me, and your lessons have taught me to be a woman of laughter and a woman of bravery.

Happy Mother’s Day, and thank you.