Sometimes Being Black in America is Enough Part II (early, very ugly sections of a partial rough draft)
Again, the disclaimer…
The paragraphs after the break may be particularly triggering for some. Please read the tags before clicking the read more.
There used to be three bedrooms in my childhood home. Now there are only two.
In my youth, each of those bedrooms were occupied: the master for Mommy, one for me, and one for my grandmother. Helen.
(I called her “Mama” because too many of her children didn’t call her at all.)
I was born two days after her 52nd birthday. She was a stern disciplinarian to her own children, very rarely showing the affection one expects a mother to show. She was too busy scrubbing the floors, making the meals, and loving the children of the descendants of slavers. And home was no refuge. Home meant more work, responsibility, and domestic abuse.
But when she retired, with my grandfather too old and drunk to continue his abusive habits, and her children grown and gone, she reclaim part of that humanity. On those days where she could see her soul through the valley of her fog, she loved her grandchildren, me in particular.
My mother raised her children when she could not, so she loved me for it.