MOTHERS & DAUGHTERS
Happy Mother’s Day to Every Mother But One, and Also Thanks
Today, I honor my abusive mother for the few things she did right.
For most of my childhood, until I was fifteen years old, I kept my mother’s abuse a secret. Now, and for the past sixteen years, I have written freely about the abuse I endured and its lifelong effects. She’s the reason I hate Christmas, have crazy anxiety, always find myself in abusive relationships, and why, frankly, I almost hate her. As the eldest of three girls, and the child she seemed to loathe the most, I have a longer negative history with our mother than my siblings. Still, they have come to know my mother much in the way I know her — as a narcissistic abuser who cares only about herself and never acknowledges the hurt she causes. However, during a recent conversation with my youngest sister, we took a break from bashing our mother to acknowledge things she taught us, values we appreciate now that we’re adults. So, I thought it would be nice to, for the first time, publically acknowledge what my mother did right — sort of.
She taught me how to keep a home.
My mother always kept a clean, orderly home. “Everything has its place,” she used to say, “and you need to put it there.” We were raised to tidy up daily, clean thoroughly on weekends, and deep clean each season. She was a whiz at home decor and taught us how to style a home, even when she could only afford secondhand furnishings. Now, as an adult, my home is always clean, orderly, and well-appointed. I even went to school to become an interior designer and now run a non-profit organization that helps furnish and design homes for individuals and families transitioning from homelessness and hardship.
*Note: My mother's obsession with cleanliness was stressful when I was a kid. It was more about her need to control the environment to curb her anxiety and lack of emotional security. She could never get what she wanted outside the home, so she was a Brillo and Borax wielding battleax within her domain. I try not to be obsessive with my cleaning habits and to stay mindful while tidying up.
She taught me about quality.
Even though we didn’t have much, she taught us about quality goods and how to spot them. She would turn clothes inside out when shopping to show us the difference in the stitching, warning us not to buy anything that wasn’t finished with a Serger Stitch, or else it was sure to fall apart after a few washes. A garment received extra points if it was lined on the inside, especially if it was a pair of slacks. She taught us the importance of buying real leather accessories. She explained how unbreathable plastic shoes made feet sweat and that the moisture mixed with friction would cause unsightly painful blisters. When it came to home furnishings, she made sure we knew the difference between solid wood pieces and furniture made with particleboard. We were taught never to buy anything made out of fabricated wood and veneers because they weren't built to last. As an adult, I know that high quality and high prices are not synonymous. I buy quality items, some inexpensive, some grossly overpriced, and I don’t turn my nose up at either.
*Note: My mother’s obsession with quality was partly based on insecurities rooted in her inability to afford luxury brands or expensive things. She would hyper-focus on quality when she felt uncomfortable with the pricing. She’d browse luxury stores and loudly proclaim the items aren’t high quality or not worth the money. Once, Gucci in Beverly Hills banned her for doing this. Meanwhile, the purse I purchased that day is so well-made, I still wear it fourteen years later.
She taught me how to take care of myself.
Because we didn’t have much money, none of us frequented beauty salons. Instead, my mother taught us how to wash, color, straighten, and trim our own hair. As an adult, I’ve had many years of frequenting salons and splurging on professional services. But it’s always nice to know I don’t have to. She also taught us how to cook our meals and desserts from scratch. She'd take us out to strawberry farms to pick our own strawberries, which we would macerate and use for homemade ice cream, pies, and cakes. We had an ice cream churn and yogurt maker, cookie cutters, and cake pans in every size and shape available. We shopped and five-and-dimes. She always bought dented canned goods because they came with a discount. We never ate out because we couldn’t afford it. Now, my sisters and I trade recipes and have cook-off challenges.
She taught me about making giants shifts.
When I was ten, my sisters were just one and two years old. That year, my mother announced she was moving us from the Virgin Islands to Florida. Alone in the bedroom together, she pulled a large envelope from between the mattress and boxspring, opened it, and flashed thousands of dollars. I’d never seen that much money in my young life, and it was the most money my mother ever had at one time. She’d been saving for months, maybe a whole year, and now, we were getting off that island. Her older sister, a flight attendant, had already settled in Miami and helped my mother secure an apartment and a job in Tampa. There were no opportunities for growth, advancement, or adventure on my thirty-mile-isle. Had we stayed, I would have never done, seen, experienced, or acquired all I have since living on the mainland.
She taught me about hard work.
After we moved to Florida, my mother cried a lot. My most vivid memory of this is watching her bawl while on her knees, scrubbing the tub in our first apartment. She was just twenty-nine years old and had made some bad choices in life, leaving her with limited education and three kids by three married men. I can only imagine she was just trying to make a better life for herself and us. She worked as many as three jobs at a time, got help from government welfare programs when needed, and never stopped trying. When she bought her first car, a late-model, rust-colored Ford Fairmont, she was so proud of what she’d done. Naturally, I was embarrassed by the old clunker, but now, as an adult older than she was then, I understand that what she bought was freedom. We didn’t have to take busses or beg for a ride from our neighbors anymore. Her hard work and sacrifice made our family more self-sufficient.
She taught me how to hit a man where it hurts.
When I was about eight years old, a couple of years before we left the island, my mother worked for Marianne’s clothing store. It was owned and operated by a Middle Eastern family, and her boss was a man who saw women as subordinates who needed to stay in their places, preferably ten steps behind men with their opinions to themselves. The store was just a block away from my elementary school, so sometimes, I’d walk down to the shopping center after the final bell and hang out in the store and its breakroom until my mom finished her shift.
One afternoon, I heard my mother’s boss yelling at her and peeked out of the breakroom to see what was going on. They were standing nearly toe-to-toe. Their necks were bulging and hands flying. Then, suddenly, he slapped my mother. But, before I could even gasp, my mother slapped him the fuck back. He lost his balance and stumbled, not because she was so much stronger than him, but because he never expected a woman to fight back in the first place.
Now that I am an adult, some men are proverbially slapped back right away, while others have the luxury of being lulled into a false sense of security for years before I annihilate them for their trespasses. But either way, when a man fucks around with me, he’s destined to find out.
My mother did many things wrong and, with the help of the rest of my family, fucked me up for life. I don’t know where I’d be without the past twenty-plus years of therapy, but I know my treatment will have to be lifelong. Some of the good habits and virtues she taught us are wrapped in anxiety, fear, and insecurities, so I try my best to take what I need and leave the rest. I am more self-aware in my forties than I have ever been and am mindful when imparting what I have learned from my mother onto my family. I don’t freak out when the dishes aren’t perfectly clean or when someone breaks something. I eat in bed sometimes and brush the crumbs onto the floor like a wild person. My mother could never. Every once in a while, I buy something that isn’t made very well just because I think it’s cute, and after nearly two years of doing my hair all by myself, I can’t wait to spend an exorbitant amount of money to have someone else’s hands in it.
Balance.
Because she refuses to enter therapy and evolve, my mother and I will never be on good terms. Still, I have taken into adulthood the morsels of useful, positive information and practices she instilled into my sisters and me. This Mother’s Day, as with all Mother’s Days, birthdays, and holidays, I will not be calling my mother, and I will not feel any way about it. If you were raised by a wonderful mother, be grateful and let her know every day how much you love and appreciate her. Having a loving, kind, supportive mother isn’t a given. Never take her for granted.
Adversely, to the mothers who haven’t done a great job, don’t take your children for granted. Their love and loyalty are not promised — each must be earned, maintained, and can eventually be lost. At the end of the day, none of us are getting out of this life alive, and after all we have said, done, and seen, nothing matters more than the love of our children. I couldn’t imagine reaching the end of my life and not having mine around me, hopefully with their children and their children’s children. Don’t miss it. As far as any of us know, all we have is this one wild life.
Happy Mother’s Day.
