Dear Friend,
While I'm not one to watch many Marvel movies, I once thought of my mom as a superhero. On the one hand, this thought seems admirable and like a compliment. On the other hand, it doesn't hold much room for empathy and her humanity.
I was raised in a single-parent home by a 17-year-old teenager. As the eldest child, we grew up together, and I was an only child for five years. Many of my childhood memories are fragmented, but I do remember those moments when my mom and I would catch public transportation to go to various places. I remember when she would use a whopper with cheese meal to bribe me to go to children's church when I didn't want to. Or that time we both fell in the street when she was pregnant with my younger brother.
As a child, I loved my mother, but somehow, things changed as we matured. Not the love, but the like.
My mother was the most consistent parent in my life since my father chose when he would show up. Yet, even in his absence, my child brain reasoned that he was the better parent. Skewed perceptions and small doses of interactions will do that to you.
I remember one time a truck ran over my foot, making a right-hand turn. I was leaving Jewel-Osco, a grocery store, on a summer day and headed back home because we generally walked a lot of places in those days. While I can't remember if my friends were with me or not, I do remember limping back home through the alley in minor pain. My mother took me to Saint Bernard Hospital that day, and it just so happened that that was the same hospital where my father worked.
When I finally entered the private room, I remember asking my mom if she had paged my dad. Never mind that she was the one who brought me to the ER and sat with me. All I knew was that if I just saw my father walk through the door, everything would be okay. While in the private room, I heard them call him over the intercom, and I knew they were paging him because I had his last name.
After some time had passed, he walked into the room, and my face lit up. My mom says that when I get excited, my eyes dance, and I show all my teeth. That day was one of them. Somehow, seeing my father made me forget about the pain.
Seeing him made things better.
Seeing him made me feel like he cared.
Yet, in some way, my mother's presence didn't register the same emotion because I expected her to do her duty, but I often let him off the hook when he didn't.
As the parent who stayed, I often found fault with my mother's parenting. I would criticize her methods, dismissing them as extreme. But with time, I came to understand that her actions were driven by love and fear. She loved me deeply, but she also feared that I might follow in her footsteps and become a teenage parent. This fear fueled her strict parenting, and it was this strictness that I responded to.
Our relationship, like any, had its ups and downs, particularly during my college years. But it wasn't until 2020 that we truly began to mend our bond. Our relationship had been strained, and I had distanced myself. However, we both came to a realization-if we didn't put in the hard work to change, we were in danger of losing each other.
I went to therapy, and she went to Jesus.
No matter our chosen strategy, we met on common ground: womanhood. For the first time, I wanted to know her experience, not as my mother but as a woman. And it was when she found the courage to stop protecting my childlike lens of her that things changed. For the first time, I understood that my mother was just a girl trying her best to figure it out. She didn't have many answers but had tons of experience to share. This mutual understanding gave us hope for a better relationship.
She, unlike me, had a mother that she didn't feel loved her. She, unlike me, had to figure out many things independently. She, unlike me, had three children by the time she was in her early 20s. And as I listened, I realized I couldn't imagine how she did it. Her resilience was truly inspiring; therefore, we had to break the generational cycle.
17-year-old Briana was crying over her then-boyfriend, who played in her face daily in high school.
17-year-old Briana was working two jobs to go shopping at Wet Seal and Charlotte Russe.
17-year-old Briana was thinking about college as a first-generation graduate.
17-year-old Briana was trying to fit in with the cool kids.
I do not wish to minimize my experiences, but my cares at that age weren't hers. I didn't have to think about keeping other humans alive, finding time for myself, or crying when no one was looking.
While the world wasn't necessarily kinder to me, I made it out of the hood and never looked back. I had different choices, different opportunities, and, therefore, a different life.
So, when I finally got off my high horse and heard her when she apologized, we got better. To be clear, I, too, had to apologize. Were we perfect to one another? No.
But we were two girls who realized that we needed each other, and we did the hard work of trying. We had to stop playing victim and victimizing each other. We had to stop holding each other at arm's length and snatch off our armor. We had to admit that while we were different women, God saw fit to link us. We had to admit that the journey was worth the work.
I had to forgive my mother for who she wasn't to me, and she had to forgive herself for who she couldn't be. This act of forgiveness was enlightening, as it allowed us to move forward in our relationship.
Once we reached that point, our fights became less frequent. Our conversations transversed many landscapes, and our enjoyment of one another was refreshing.
We were two women learning. One was learning how to live, and the other was learning how to support.
But at the end of the day, when the smoke settled and the tears dried, we forgave and moved on because we needed each other. The next generation would come through me, and I never want them to be tainted by the generational strife between mother and daughter.
We dropped our weapons.
We said our truths.
We moved on in love and respect.
I'm grateful that we mended our relationship because I needed her when I decided to transition out of my career. I remember during one call, I said, "I'm not okay." I had been crying for months and I was just so exhauted. She listened, apologized that this was my experience and said three words, "Briana, come home."
When I made it home, I slept the entire time. I had been fighting for so long that I forgot what rest felt like. I was toiling, searching, and heartbroken. But somehow, when I made it back to my mother's apartment, I was home and safe.
I. Was. Safe.
I'm so grateful that my mother is not a superhero to me anymore because that doesn't leave room for her humanity. Instead, she is my friend.
And when it is all said and done, it was forgiveness that made that happen.
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