akoko nan: the hen treads on her chicks, but she does not kill them.

            I spent a great deal of my adolescence finding reasons to resent my mom. She didn’t talk to me the way I wanted her to. She didn’t take the time to listen and hear me. She questioned me like I was on a witness stand, and not laying with my head in her lap. She made me do things I didn’t want to do. She (insert anything anyone could possibly do) too much. She checked my facebook messages and text messages and call log. She checked my twitter, (and still does, if we’re here to be honest). She stopped putting me to bed when my brother was born. She blah, blah, blah.

            And I’d love to say today as a 24-year-old woman, that I get it. I want to be able to understand and process these things, but I don’t believe I will until I’m a mother. I’m okay with that, because what I do understand is that my mother did her absolute best. She never gave up on me, and even sacrificed some of herself, for me.

            My mom became a mother at an age I was barely passing classes. She was 19 years old, in college, and poor. She wasn’t married. She wasn’t self-sufficient. But she was committed to being my mom. At the time, it was against student policy to be visibly pregnant on campus, so she sat out the fall semester of her junior year. I was born on December third, and she went back to school the next month. She had a village of mothers surrounding and uplifting her, taking on her responsibility so that she might be the woman they prayed she would become. My mom worked her ass of to graduate on time, and finish law school. She and my dad lived two hours away from me, and missed one of one hundred and fifty six weekends visiting me.

            She’s told me stories of struggles I—until recently—could only imagine. Even now, when I have pennies to my name, I don’t have the added weight of a child depending on me to make it. I don’t know how she made it. I don’t know that I would’ve made it.

            Around nineteen or twenty, I came to the earth-shattering realization that parents are regular ass people. They were raised, and thrust into the world like everyone else. They have feelings and shortcomings and insecurities like everyone else. Instead of taking this as a reason to admire her struggles and triumphs even more, I was sure it meant that she was no more qualified to tell me how to live my life than I was. I vividly remember thinking, “She’s still figuring this shit out, just like I am.”

Forgive my hubris, Momma. I don’t know what prayers you’ve prayed and tears you’ve shed to become the woman you are today. I don’t know how you make it. Forgive my self-centeredness. Even though I understand that I can’t have a happy life without making myself happy, all I want is to be a woman you can be proud of. I try everyday to be as concerned about your feelings as I am my own. I listen to you more than you probably think I do. And I’m so thankful for what you’ve taught me about living and loving and succeeding. I’m so grateful that you didn’t give up on me, and that you haven’t given up on yourself. I’m grateful for the family you’ve given me. There were days that I felt crushed by your reputation and accolades, but I’m happy for them, too.

I want you to know that I see you as a woman. I see you as a scared 20-year-old with a task I’m still afraid to undertake. I see you as a whole person—not just a wife, mother, niece, or professional. I see you as a Christian. I see you determined everyday, and compassionate. I see you loving. I see you as a winner and a conqueror.  And I thank you for being the best example you know how to be. Thank you for committing yourself to me.