“And maybe as you telling your story, you’re telling your mom’s story and her mom’s story and her mom’s story — setting all of the birds free on all of your ancestor’s timelines”, Alex, my dear friend, spitting truth, wisdom and utter spiritual healing.
I am free. I am the bird out of the cage, as received from my Osho tarot card, understanding. Because I thought I was the shaky one. Afraid and scared to be seen, out in the open, flying in blue air. And I have been, there’s no doubt. How many times has the cage always been open, yet we faced the bars, trying to make a door where there was always freedom? Countless, I’d say.
Setting the birds free of my mother, her mother, her mother and her mother’s mother is setting the birds free on my songs, my creations, my memories, my imaginations, my dreams. For their dreams swell in my belly, are released through my tears and remembered through the magic that comes out of my finger tips. I am known through what I remember.
My mom wrote her whole life. Poems, short stories, songs on receipts that I’d find. She was a singer, recorded a whole single, a model, featured in a whole magazine, an entrepreneur, an extra in the show Dallas, got hit on by one of the main actors and recalled a jealous look from Priscilla Presley while on set. My mom told me stories of her lovers, her outings with OG gang members out in Saginaw, Michigan. She rode with decked out Black men, the old, classy style of being a G while they were gun toting and money boasting at bars. She told me stories of being biracial, moving back and forth from Black schools and white schools, always being bullied somewhere, making friends with people of all ethnicities, her best friends being her Puerto Rican neighbors who she wished she grew up with instead of her mother — who was a white woman, an alcoholic and not the best role model in her life.
My mom recalled stories of one of her friends being chased by a group of bullies. She was an Indigenous girl and the group of girls chased her, stopping to tell my mom, “Don’t worry, we’re not here for you”, demonstrating a sort of territorial nature of growing up in the 60’s. She told me these stories at such a young age and there were times where it was too much, me thinking, why is she telling me this and I don’t wanna know this.
One of her best stories that I remember is the story of how she advocated for my sister in high school. There were some kids messing with her, I believe they threw something at her out of the window. My mom told her to get into the car, and my mom began to follow the bus. She described to me their laughing faces turned to solemn looks as she continued to follow them, down the streets. The bus stopped and she got out of the car, walked onto the bus, and stared them all down, asking, “who threw this at my daughter?” No one said a word. And I believe she said something to the effect, “It better never happen again.”
In second grade a teacher stopped me for wearing “baggy pants”. They were normal kid pants, but of course, white women know no limitations on policing Black children. I told my mom and she promptly called the principal until the middle of the night to tell him what happened. And then she went to the school, found my teacher and told her, “If you have a problem with what my child is wearing, you call me. You don’t do that to a little girl. Don’t do it again.” Yeah, my mom had many incidents of calling up my school, chasing down teachers and getting white fragile tear-filled apologies out of teachers. Damn, I love my momma.
I know now she told me her stories for a reason. She told me so I would tell them. So I would know where I come from. Because while as a child I thought they were her stories, they were mine. They were the stories I’d remember when I sensed danger or trouble. They were the stories that let me know if I ever experienced something similar, I was to tell her, and she would have my back. They were the stories I wanted to have, like making love to someone I was in love with and not just anybody. They were the stories of finding someone who could read their poetry to me and I could read my words to them and we would be in awe of one another. She told me stories of risking, going out into the world, never looking down at any position that got me newfound skills, talent or experience — because you never know who you might meet along the way.
At a temp job, my mom met this woman who looked rather familiar to her. They had many conversations and she described her as a kind and quiet woman. But she couldn’t get rid of thinking she was someone who everyone at the time knew. And she asked her one day, “Are you Jane Roe?” and she said, “Yes. Yes I am.” She met the woman famous for the case we all know, Roe v. Wade.
My mom was hit on by Joe Biden — she lived in Delaware at the time and I believe it was a few years before my birth. She remembered thinking he would be so much taller, but he was only a few feet taller than her. It was a constant joke between us that she thought they must be putting some heels on his shoes to make him taller. It makes me crack up how she would say that, like, y’all ain’t foolin’ nobody.
All of these stories, I could write a book of my mom’s experiences. I would tell them similar to how she did, cracking a few jokes, expressing sadness or tones of disturbance. I know how her voice sounds when she says them. They are her voice, a girl from Saginaw, remembering everything, living a life to have more things to remember.
My mom has multiple sclerosis and I was her caregiver for nearly four years. She is now being cared for by a nursing facility and there are some things that I see she does not remember as well. Things have certainly changed but some things have certainly not. I came across her single she recorded and brought it to her last time I visited. I played it for her and immediately…
She began to sing. Each word was on her lips, like a whisper, like a dream. It all came back. She was smiling and doing that look she does like, sing it girl.
I wanted to burst out in tears but really all I could be was happy. And in awe of God and Her grace. In awe of my mom and her life that she lived so well and so good, she has so much to remember, that just comes easily to her. The things that matter remain. That which fades away, is just what is was meant to be.
There was this silver case I saw my whole life. It had a padlock on it that could open with just the press of two buttons. It sat against the wall and we took it to every place we moved. I never knew what was in it until last year.
We were sitting on her bed, and I opened it up and found a manuscript. My mother’s manuscript of a story she told me about all through my life was surrounded by newspaper clippings, notes on lined paper. It details her life as a biracial child, witnessing the race riots of the sixties and all she carried with her. She told me the title so many times in her life and I only thought it was something she had begun to write. But no.
She did research. She sent letters to publishing companies. She wrote cover letters. My mom wrote a book. And I never knew until that moment. I told her at the time we found it again together that I was so happy I found it now, while we could sit and talk about it. She expressed the same. It was a bit overwhelming to her at the time, so we put it back but I was changed from that moment on.
My mother has carved out the blueprint of how to set myself free. And I, because of my desire’s as her daughter, have for quite a while only been able to see what is happening with one lens: grief. And while it still remains, there are other lenses to see this time and these stories and these moments as: grace, freedom, desire, creating, love.
My mom loved me so good. She loved me enough to tell me her truth and nothing but her truth. She loved me enough to tell me her flaws, what she would have done differently and who she wish she had stayed to love despite the life she had. She loved me into my own life. And I can only pray I can love myself that good. Good enough to live. Good enough to write. Good enough to try. And good enough to set the birds free — even if just for myself and even if I’m the only one to see.
I am the uncaged bird, free to be free, because my mom freed herself, for me to see, for me to be and to be and to be…
