January 1964
Mother steps around my bed.
Pushes away the curtain.
Plugs in the humidifier.
My lungs are plugged with phlegm
and groaning.
So is Mother.
I am sick. Again.
Another cold in my chest.
Mother leans over my head.
Her lips touch my forehead.
Quick. Cold. Hard.
Like the man at the post office
who pounds the envelope
with his inked stamp.
Are you MY Mother?
March 1964
Mother grips a pair of scissors.
Orders me to stand on the toilet.
Her long finger nails painted red
cut into my arm.
She snaps the scissors open and closed
across my brow.
I squeeze my eyelids together.
Hold my breath.
A nauseous sour smell
pushes against my face.
I scrunch my nose.
“Stand still!”
Her nails bite deeper into my arm.
The cold blade cuts a path
from ear to ear.
Shards of hair
prick my face.
I pray her hand stays steady
that her sour breath
is only unbrushed teeth.
Are you REALLY my Mother?
April 1964
I jump up.
Tug open the curtains.
The sun smiles inside my room.
Outside in Mother’s garden
Rows of flowers
wear yellow bonnets
and swing in the sunshine.
Little fairies wear pink skirts
and dance in the tree
like Ann’s tutu.
The wind blows.
One pink fairy lets go.
Jumps free.
Spins. Twirls round and round
to the ground.
********
It is Saturday.
Baton lessons
at the Dunbar Community Centre.
I hold a shiny medal stick
with hard rubber
like old chewing gum
stuck to each end.
Mother brushes my hair
into two pigtails.
Pulls my black leotard
with green fringe.
Hand sewn. Straight. Even.
Like grass strands around Mother’s garden.
Like my bangs.
Mother sees a lose hair. “Ouch!” I yelp.
Mother yanks
without warning.
Coats drop. Outside shoes scatter.
Stocking feet patter.
Mothers sit on benches.
My Mother stands.
Apart.
Girls wait
for music to begin.
I swing in circles
to make my fringe dance.
“March,” Mother says with her
meat grinder eyes.
Then turns and leaves
to buy groceries
across the street at Stongs.
I am smallest.
I am the caboose in a long line of girls
that march around the big room.
I pull my knees up high.
Swing my baton
forward and back.
I march two steps
then run to catch up.
Then march again.
I watch my feet
and the wooden floors
that are painted with squares
of sunshine.
Tiny specks dance in the air.
The music stops. Class is over.
Mother smiles like my Barbie doll
at the other ladies.
I jump into the back seat
of our Chevrolet Impala.
Mother turns around. “Bad girl.”
Mother wants to be a majorette.
I want to spin with the fairies.
May 1964
Without warning
a hurricane hits the house.
Thunders down the hallway.
I dive into my closet as
my bedroom door flies open.
“Wait till I get my hands on you.
You little bastard.”
I wriggle behind winter coats.
Tugs my knees against my chest.
Mother moves wildly.
Pulling open. Slamming shut drawers.
Throwing blankets aside.
Mother’s shoes stop.
My chest thumps.
This is not
like playing Hide n’ Seek
with Heidi.
Heidi’s mom whistles
Her words smile when she speaks
and makes us lunch.
I open my eyes.
Mother’s feet stare up at me.
“Wait till I get my hands on you.
You little bastard…”
Her arm reaches in and shoves
coats and dresses aside.
A well-worn leather strap
grazes my leg.
Swings by her side.
I press my spine against the back of the closet.
Hold my breath.
My bottom still burns fire
from Mother and Father yesterday.
The gap disappears. The clothes sag.
Shoes stomp away.
Door slams.
Bedroom walls groan. Shudder
under seismic stress.
My body shakes.
Shock waves ripple
long after danger
has passed.
The room grows dark.
Still I crouch behind coats.
Closet door still slightly ajar.
Afraid to move.
Legs jittering.
Breath held. Calming.
Eyes staring.
Thoughts melting.
Afraid to break
the silence.
To stir the air
with my step
or breath.
Uncertain if wild animals
still hunger
for flesh.
How could SHE
be
MY Mother?
June 1964
Mother spends his money
to dress me
like a porcelain doll.
Father sees. Yells at Mother.
Mother yells.
At me.
“Do NOT cross the street.
Do NOT get dirty,”
Mother warns.
I stand in the front yard
on Mother’s grass.
Looking.
I watch a robin splash in the small puddle
in front of Mrs. Gow’s house.
I squint. I step onto the road
to see better.
My dress flutters.
My shoes tap.
They have never seen
sunshine.
It rained yesterday.
Today the puddle is full
of fresh water.
Sunlight jumps. Plays on top
tossing pieces of happiness my way.
The robin flaps her wings.
Sunshine leaps into the air. Sparkles.
I step closer.
To see better.
To dip my shoes in.
So I can make sunshine dance.
I copy the robin.
Making big splashes with my foot.
I wonder how big the joy
when I jump in with both shoes.
Sunlight bounces up.
Drenches me.
I smile. From head to toe.
But Mother does not.
She marches over.
Hauls me away
from the robin
the puddle
and all my sunshine.
August 1966
Mother watches wrestling. With Father.
Every Saturday.
Inside the house
Mother is angry.
Bulldog Brown
is winning.
Outside. The air is cool.
The grass soft on bare toes.
Sister and I swing.
Bare legs pump the air.
Toes touch the sky.
Wind tickles rosy cheeks.
Shoes stomp down stairs.
Across concrete. Grass flattens.
My swing halts.
Mother clamps her fingers
around my arm.
Drags me behind her.
Across the lawn.
Up the back stairs.
Through the kitchen.
Into the bathroom.
Television on loud. Wrestling over.
Mother becomes
Bulldog Brown.
No. She is not my Mother.
September 1966
I step around the back corner
of the house.
Duck under
the overgrown laurel hedge
to see Mother standing
in the same spot
she occupies every summer night
at dusk. In her vegetable garden.
A narrow strip of soil
on the south side of the house
she reclaimed for herself.
I catch my request
in my throat.
Not wanting to interrupt
the stillness that surrounds her.
Mother is quiet. Peaceful.
Her thumb pressed over the hose nozzle
so water leaps out to her
“thirsty tomato and zucchini plants”.
I hear her talking. To her plants.
Her face is soft. Sad.
A mosquito buzzes.
Lands on my bare arm.
I swing. Slap it away.
Mother startles. Turns.
Her face washed with anger.
“What are doing back here?
Get inside right now!”
I wish
I was one
of her tomatoes.
October 1965
I am playing. In my room.
Snipping scraps of fabric.
When Mother grabs me.
From behind.
By the scruff of the neck.
Drags me
from my bedroom.
Down the hallway. To the bathroom.
Mother holds tight.
She grips. Twists my hair
in her fist.
Hairs snap.
Mother stops
at the toilet bowl.
Lifts the lid.
Shoves
my head
inside the hollow.
Something foul hits
my face.
Mother hauls my head out.
Twists my head
her fist locked around my ponytail.
Pushes my face into gooey fabric.
The accident
I hid in the laundry pile.
How could she?
be my Mother?
********
Mother wears
A beehive wig
that sits on the back of the toilet
on a styrofoam head.
False teeth sit on the counter
by the cold water tap.
Every night they appear.
Every morning
they are gone.
Her nails are long
painted red. Perfect.
Her touch
is not.
Her lips are wide
painted red. Perfect.
Her words
are not.
I want Mother to hold me.
Touch me.
Talk to me. Kindly.
Mother yells, “Not home.”
Mother locks herself away
in her bedroom.
********
I walk down
to the basement.
Stairs groan.
In the laundry room
I stretch up on tip toes.
Swing arms to catch a string
that stirs awake the light bulb
on the ceiling.
Light spreads like sunshine
in winter. Cool. Dim.
Paints shadows on the walls.
Cobwebs decorate the window.
I shiver.
Dirty clothes piled high
on the floor.
Clean clothes piled high
on the freezer.
I stretch up on tip toes
to touch a button.
Dryer jolts awake.
Begins to hum.
I crawl inside the laundry basket.
Wrap towels around me. Over me.
I rest my head on hard metal.
The steady hum
soothes me. Comforts.
I am baby bird.
Big warm wings around me
hold me close.
I am safe. I am home.
Her steady hum
lulls me to sleep every time.
You
are my Mother.
As long as I keep
my eyes
closed.
********
1975
Mother sees me. Snorts.
“You did it on purpose.
Didn’t you? To get attention.”
Face turns to stone.
“Mother!” My ankle throbs
and hangs limply. Swollen.
Like a grapefruit.
Mother turns and walks away.
To her bedroom.
“Mother!” I cry
crawling after her.
Mother shuts the door.
Snaps the lock.
“Mother,” I moan
crumbling to the floor.
Sobbing.
“Mother. Please. Help me”.
Silence answers.
Tears at my heart
like barbed wire catching on skin.
Mother’s closed door
like nails hammering
into pleading outstretched palms.
********
Doctor says, “Torn ligaments.”
“What? I was walking.”
My ankle twisting sideways
on a loose stone.
I hobble out of the doctor’s office.
Move around on crutches.
Each week my ankle grows stronger.
Pain grows weaker. Torn flesh heals.
Each week my heart grows sadder.
Pain grows stronger. A wound
that weeps and weeps.
That won’t heal.
because I don’t have a Mother.
********
QUOTE: Are You My Mother?, by P.D. Eastman
“He looked way, way up. He saw a big plane.
‘Here I am , Mother,’ he called out.
But the plane did not stop.
The plane went on” (pp. 42-43).
********
July 2011
I watch
no one stop.
No one turn to see
the dirty man kneeling.
In Prague with head bowed
to ancient cobblestones
paper cup stretched out
waiting.
********
QUOTES: Are You My Mother ? by P.D. Eastman
“Out came the baby bird!
‘Where is my mother?’ he said” (p. 9).
“‘I have to find my mother!’ he said. ‘But where?
Where is she? Where could she be?’” (p. 27).
“Just then, the baby bird saw a big thing.
This must be his mother!
‘There she is!’ he said.
‘There is my mother!’” (p. 44).
“He ran right up to it.
‘Mother, Mother! Here I am, Mother!’
he said to the big thing” (p. 46).
“But the big thing just said, ‘Snort.’
‘Oh, you are not my mother,’ said the baby bird.
‘You are a Snort. I have to get out of here!’” (p. 48).
“But the baby bird could not get away” (p. 50).
“‘Oh, oh, oh! What is this Snort going to do
to me? Get me out of here!’” (p. 52).
“‘Where am I?’ said the baby bird.
‘I want to go home! I want my mother!’” (p. 57).
“The baby bird was home!” (p. 59).
“Just then the mother bird came back to the tree.
‘Do you know who I am?’ she said to her baby” (p. 60).
“‘You are not a boat, or a plane, or a Snort!’
‘You are a bird, and you are my mother’” (p. 62).
********
Rationale
Are You My Mother? : A Young Girl’s Search for Identity
Baby bird’s search for his mother and his fright when he cannot find her is unforgettably etched in my memory. As a child, Eastman’s Are You My Mother? and her steel clawed Snort reminded me of my own mother’s long, sharp red nails that scratched and poked as they kept my hair in line or grabbed and hit in one of her volatile moments.
Unlike baby bird whose search culminates with a kind, safe, and enfolding mother figure, I was stuck with a mother who terrified me. I was baby bird screaming, “You are a Snort…Get me out of here!” (pp. 48, 52).
Baby bird’s search for a comforting and caring mother validated my own longing for a kind and nurturing maternal figure. Eastman’s picture book contrasts a loving and assessable mother bird with the machine, Snort, who is physically and emotionally unavailable. Visually and textually, baby bird’s response of fright to the cold machine reflected my pain; as a young child, I often felt terrified, alone, and abandoned by my mother.
Like baby bird, I searched, observing mothers everywhere I went. Throughout my childhood and early adulthood, until I became a mother to my own children and rewrote the old scripts, I shifted and widened my search to include women who possessed qualities that I could embody, who facilitated hope and healing, and whose kindness served as a healing salve for the raw deserted space in my heart that only a mother’s love can fill and heal. I found many ‘mother birds’ growing up including my girlfriend’s Danish mother whose sweet humming and words washed over me, hydrating like drops of warm water.
Using my imagination alongside Eastman’s text, helped me navigate times of loneliness and survive. A laundry wicker basket and a humming dryer represented the only source of nurturing maternal love, made real and tangible as I re-enacted the image of and my emotional connection to baby bird safely snuggled inside a cozy nest beside his comforting mother bird.
I wrapped warm sheets around my body pulling them tight around my chest as if they were wings. Closing my eyes and sinking into the laundry wicker basket while resting my head on the metal dryer as it hummed away steadily assured me that all was well, that I was not alone, and that someone loved me.
Over the years, I ached for the comforting embrace that baby bird receives when his mother returns to the nest. I attempted to penetrate my mother’s harsh exterior in hopes of extracting a similar warmth, love, and reassurance. I never succeeded. My mother remained a Snort till her dying breath.
********