Moms Don't Do This...

A mother’s voice can penetrate like no other. I made the regretted decision of calling my mother first thing this morning. Obviously distracted by a blaring YouTube music video in the background, I offered to call her back. Unnoticed, she went on to rant about what I thought would be her real estate predicament. “Oh, so I may have found someone to rent out your grandma’s condo to…ya-da-ya-da-ya-da- Damn! This pianist is amazing!” Following her tangent, I replied, “Yeah, I love listening to piano, I wish I knew how to play. I always wanted to take lessons.” Then without any hesitation, nor filtration from cognitive thought to voice, she replied, “Sandy, you would never make it.” And there it was, so matter-of-fact. Absolute. Six hellish words that have pitch forked my life for the past 29 years; six words that have paved my non-directional path.

“You would never make it.” “It’s different, because you’re a girl.” “You would not be good at that.” “You wouldn’t like it anyway.” “We’ll see if you will actually graduate.” Her venomous inclinations always administered directly into my veins. Slowly. Over time, poisoning my self-esteem. Her unspoken words, mannerisms, and glances of doubt, all sting and scar more severely than any instrument or substance on earth.

What’s wrong with me? What have I done to give her this impression? Why do others who are close, see me through such different eyes? I must have done something wrong. Maybe I didn’t walk soon enough, speak as well as others, or live up to her expectations. I don’t know. But I do know that on my own, I skipped a year in high school, was awarded a full scholarship in college, always graduated at the top of my class, and have been placed in charge of many nursing staff, most older than my mother. Alone. I accomplished them all without her support. No mom cheering in my section. I suppose those things have no merit. No tangible worth. Well at least, not to her.

As I write this, I’m sitting at a playground with my daughter. My eyes wring out familiar tears, as I hope to cultivate finer ways within her. I also can’t help but look around and wonder. How many of these uncontaminated children will be filled with poison? Their emotional growth stunted before even given a chance to laugh or cry? How many will suffer the uncensored disappointments of their mothers, consciously and unconsciously, echoing in their minds forever.