I Am Woman
“I am WOMAN, hear me roar,” the mother proudly bellowed in a stem voice, smiling, while she looked down at her daughter’s big brown curious eyes.
The inquisitive little girl loved watching her strong-willed mother rush around the sun-filled room, counting each freckle that graced her beautiful face, while she quickly dressed in her business casual attire, gracefully fluffing her short, tight brown curls upon her head with a red, wide toothpick comb. For just a small moment, time stood still, allowing the girl to capture the warm, harmonious moment before it was abruptly interrupted by the screams of her sisters fighting over the early morning problems, like who got to use the bathroom next or who drank the last of the milk.
“Time to go!” the mother of four yelled as she quickly snatched her mug filled with lukewarm black coffee from the cluttered counter. The three older sisters, appearing identical in looks, with their deep brown curls brushed back from their faces and held tightly in a ponytail, rushed from the kitchen table grabbing their overstuffed backpacks from the floor, as they bumped into one another laughing.
The young girl, dressed in her clean, tidy school uniform, adjusting the length of the skirt to ensure it brushed slightly above her knees, walked slowly behind them, dragging her black Mary Jane shoes with every dreadful step. As she reached for the doorknob to leave, she turned her glance to the dirty mirror hanging near the door. Staring at herself, she noticed something she had never really noticed before. Little brown dots gathered around her nose and her cheeks. But where had she seen these familiar little dots before? A faint image of her mother flashed before her eyes and without hesitation she recalled the very moment.
It was a memory from two years prior when she was just ten years old. It was at her track meet, hosted on a warm, sunny day in mid-June. The air was bursting with the hum of bees and the melodious chirping of birds as the girls prepared themselves for the mile run. Filled with nerves and anticipation, the young girl caught a glimpse of her mother standing proudly in the stands waving her hands and cheering. The rays of the sun graced her face so gently, highlighting the clusters of freckles that kissed her nose and cheeks. A wave of comfort and reassurance swept over the young girl in that fleeting moment, just as the track coordinator began the countdown, “3 … 2… 1… Go!” Suddenly, her older sister’s piercing voice rang out, “Let’s Go!,” jolting the girl from her pleasant trance and pulling her back into the tight clasp of reality.
Many, many long years have passed since I have recounted memorable stories such as this one. Perhaps the melancholic echoes that haunt these recollections are what keep them contained in my brain like a sardine. The loss of my mother at the early age of twelve was such a crippling blow, leaving me feeling as though pieces of my identity had been viciously ripped from my core.
I remember my mother as a strong, spiritual Black woman who commemorated Kwanza and always threw it down in the kitchen. Her prominent dish was an eclectic soul food spread consisting of chitlins, gooey mac and cheese, and collard greens complemented by fluffy cornbread. Even after two decades, the pungent fumes of chitlins flooding the whole household still linger fresh in my memory.
My mother always kept a proverb for every situation. If we ever expressed insecurity or self doubt about our skin color, she would proudly reassure us with a smile, “The darker the berry, the sweeter the juice.” And when one of us protested or grumbled about a chore, she would bluntly say “I am WOMAN, hear me roar!” Applauding us for using our voices and expressing our opinions even if they may not be correct.
I am beyond grateful for the wisdom and cultural heritage my mother imparted to me and my sisters. These lessons will remain engraved in our hearts forever.
It took me some time and deep reflection to understand that the physical absence of a loved one does not equate to their spiritual departure. They continue to live on within us, steering us through life’s restless journey.