She is marked across her body as a laborer. Several scars on her right hand, gleaned from picking cotton carelessly on her grandfather’s share. A raised black circular blemish over her left breast, the remainder of hot ash droppings from a cigarette in bed. Discolored calluses on her hands and feet, autographing her work as a laundress who walked everywhere she went and washed clothes by hand. And moles stamped around her extremities and face, a common signature for Black women her age. She is seventy. She is my mother. And she still works.
A strong work ethic is not uncommon in my family. (Although, when doled out, it seems to have skipped me.) My grandmother and great-grandparents were sharecroppers, where only Thanksgiving and Christmas were sacred. But even then, the women worked all day in the kitchen cooking and all night, the night before, cleaning the rest of the house. So, it really isn’t that surprising that my mother still works at seventy. Yet it isn’t my mother’s work history or markings that intrigue me. Rather, it is her pride—a marking in and of itself. Resplendent in its ability to motivate her friends. Voracious in its capacity to devour her enemies. As her only daughter, I often found myself in the latter category, floundering helplessly to become my mother’s friend.
It’s difficult to come to terms with the fact that I never bonded with my mother. My earliest memories of us together are steeped in battles. The dress that I liked that she didn’t want me to wear. The friends I loved that didn’t meet her expectations. The decisions I made that disappointed her. The fact that I was a constant physical reminder to her of my father. As far back as I can remember we were at war. Years and years of war.
I, too, am marked. Invisible but ever-present emotional scars are the property of my mother’s anger. I’ll never forget the first Christmas I bought my mother a gift. I was nine years old. One particularly cold winter afternoon, I stopped by the Shrine of the Black Madonna, a local African-inspired book, clothing and gift store in our hometown of Detroit, to look for the perfect gift. Besides being a hard worker, my mother was also an avid reader and a political activist, so I thought that a gift from the Shrine would be suitable. I scoured the bookshelves looking for something we didn’t have and she hadn’t read. Nothing struck my eye. I stopped by the jewelry case and the clothing rack, but everything was too expensive. Finally, my eyes settled on an exquisite wood sculpture of a Masai warrior. Surely she would be pleased, I thought. I think at the time it was less than ten dollars—just my price. I bought it, wrapped it in very pretty paper, attached a nametag, and put it under the tree.
That Christmas, I was more excited about my mother and brother opening their gifts that I had bought them than I was about opening my own. I was especially excited about mamma opening her gift because I wanted so much to please her, something that rarely happened. She opened mine first. She smiled and gave me a big hug and thanked me. I felt like a big girl, responsible. I had shopped on my own. I bought my mother a gift. I was close to becoming a woman. Buying gifts was something women did.
That night, after all the presents were opened and the dinner dishes were being put away, our next-door neighbor Mrs. Warren came to visit. I was never used to interfering in grown folks’ conversations, but I couldn’t help overhearing my mother tell Mrs. Warren that she didn’t get anything for Christmas. I think that was the first day the scar of insignificance wore wide across my own body. I felt like nothing I did mattered.
Later, there were other scars, too. Like the time she threatened to commit suicide, and I felt helpless in trying to help her. Like the time she embarrassed me in front of her friends by telling them I was a difficult child. Like time after time when she made me lie to someone on the telephone because she didn’t feel like talking. And I don’t want to sound like I was always the innocent party. I often did things I knew would rub momma the wrong way. Like sneak and wear her good clothes to school, have boys over when she wasn’t home, and drink all the black pekoe tea she loved so much. Like I said, we were at war.
Be that as it may, Christmas stands as a marker in our relationship. However, this past one was a very positive one. My mother, who now lives in Detroit, Michigan, after several years of living in both Wisconsin and New Jersey, came to visit me for Christmas. Putting all my reservations aside, I decided to try and shower her with unconditional love. This time, it wasn’t about pleasing her; it was about ending the war. I had decided not to fight.
Two days into our visit, her wrath resurfaced. We were spending a leisurely time at breakfast with two of my friends when my mother announced to them that I had always been “hard to please.” One of my friends, Janie, shot back: “That just isn’t true. Quinita is easy to get along with and easy to please.” My mother’s face stiffened and I had gained position without even taking one. I knew that my mother knew that her statement wasn’t true. I just think that she was so used to fighting with me that her comment was more of a reflex emotion. The war between us had become second nature.
The conversation then moved back to my mother. Her education. Her work. Her political views. As always, she was happy to talk about herself. But something new happened—I was willing to listen.
I learned that my mother, who was not raised by her own mother, was bitter about not having that mother/daughter closeness so many women share. I learned that her work made her feel “useful and progressive.” She felt that it would add years to her life if she continued to work. I learned that she felt more useful when she was helping others. And I learned that she wished she had become a doctor. My mother had divulged information to my friends that I’m sure I had heard before. The difference this time was that I listened.
After really hearing my mother speak, I began to understand her a little more. I had never really appreciated the fact that she hadn’t had her mother with her while she was growing up. Somehow, I’m not sure how this has impacted our relationship. I still haven’t figured it all out, but I have developed more compassion for her. I even admire her.
During our visit, I made it a point to constantly remind myself of what a wonderful person she was, albeit flawed like the rest of us. I now see her as a trailblazer. After all, as a Black woman from a sharecropper’s family, she graduated from Bradley University in Peoria, Illinois, with a master’s degree in organic chemistry. She raised my brother and I with no husband. She has worked hard throughout her life and is deeply respected by many for it. And she is beautiful to look at. Her smooth dark chocolate skin is without wrinkle. He almond-shaped eyes are telling of the many obstacles she has overcome. And her markings, once I understood them, tell me that I come from a woman who is leaving a legacy.
Markings. We all have them. They are tied to our experiences and responses like DNA, informing what we are really made of. And the fact that we survive despite them, points to our indomitable spirits and strong resilience. Will my mother and I ever end the war between us and implement peace? I don’t know. But I do know that none of us is whole without our markings. And none of us are exempt from them either. This is the essence of resilience, the essence of spirit.
And what is war? It has various meanings, depending on to whom you speak. A warrior will most likely speak of hand-to-hand battles—yet he will tell his story from the point of view of “we.” A general may not see battle at all, but will give commands and be captivated by his own logic wherever it may lead. Through the many battles that my mother and I participated in, we sought to change one another into something we felt we could live with. But the mystery that every soldier sees, but seldom realizes, is that as we expend energy in battle, we are releasing the need to control. At first we think that someone must win. It is not a single person who wins, but it is the “we” that wins. We remain mother and daughter, women connected in ways that no one can destroy. Not even us.
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Quinita Edmonia Good is the mother of one son. The recipient of two 2005 New Jersey Press Association awards, she is employed in the public relations industry and also offers writing and editorial services to businesses and individuals. She can be reached at quinita_good@hotmail.com.
