My mommy
When I was in college, I wrote several papers about my mother and her amazing accomplishments. One of them was published in the university's literary journal. I was re-reading it a few days ago, and thought I would share. Comment freely because I'm a comment whore!:)
Degrees of Influence
As I sat there in my cap and gown, waiting to be officially pronounced an adult and listening to “Pomp and Circumstance” echo through the stadium, I was reminded of the first graduation I had ever attended. The sun shone brightly that day, making the reflection of the metal bleachers twinkle and glitter on the football field where the graduates sat waiting, anxious for the University President to finish his speech and set them free. It was only 10:30 in the morning and it was already hot. All around me people were sitting on their programs, trying not to get scalded by the metal bleachers, which had been baking in the sun all morning in anticipation of their arrival. The air was thick with the smell of wet lawn and sweating bodies. It had rained a little the night before and the humidity created by that little bit of water was stifling. Down on the field, a few beach balls were set afloat in the sea of black caps and gowns to pass the time and expend some of the nervous energy that was accumulating just beneath the surface. Just as quickly as they had been tossed out, the buoying balls were rescued by a wave of faculty, desperate to preserve the dignity of their ceremony.
From the bleachers, I could see, here and there, faces turned to the crowd, searching for family and friends, but I could not find my graduate, my reason for being there in the first place. The President’s speech went on and on through the University’s history, his personal history, and the history of the graduation ceremony before he finally got to the part we had all come for, the presentation of the diplomas. Row by row, the sea of black caps and gowns moved toward the stage. One by one, each cap and gown pulled away from the sea and became a single person with a name, a diploma, and a cheering section as they crossed the stage and were set free.
I grew more and more anxious with every name called that was not hers. I was sitting on the edge of the bleacher seat, craning my neck trying to find her and then, the President called her name “Loretta Carrico.” She walked toward him with confidence in each step and a wide smile on her face. It seemed as if this moment made up for all of the heartache she had endured in her life up to this point. She had told me the stories a hundred times and they had never seemed relevant before. She was born with a mild case of fetal alcohol syndrome, which affected the joints in her arms, hips and the upper portion of her spine and the formation of her bones. The condition made it painful for her to stand or sit or walk for any extended length of time and typing was almost impossible. When she was six, her teachers told her she was retarded because she could not remember the order of the letters in the alphabet. It never occurred to them that she might be reversing the letters because she had Dyslexia. They just handed her a box of crayons and told her not to disturb the children who could actually learn something. It wasn’t until she was twenty years old and trying to teach her children how to read that she learned how to read a complete sentence. When she was eight, she was playing leapfrog with her older brothers and as she jumped they moved, and she ran head first into a brick wall. The doctors said that she would never talk again and that she might never walk again, that the probability of her having anything close to a normal life was pretty small because the brain damage was so severe. For over a year she could not do anything but drool onto her pillow and grunt when she wanted something. By the time she was twelve, she had worked her way back to where she had been before the accident. At the age of nineteen, she married the father of her two children. He forbade her to leave the house unaccompanied. He refused to spend money on clothing for the children. She didn’t have a job, she could sew them what they needed. He even refused to help her get her driver’s license. By the time she left him, she had spent eleven years trying to find the strength to stand up to him and had five children to care for.
As the President shook her hand and turned her tassel he said, “Congratulations, you are now a college graduate.” She stood there looking taller than I had ever seen her. It was as if she was standing on the backs of all those who had ever told her no, you can’t, it will never be. As she left the stage, diploma in hand, she turned to the bleachers where I was sitting and waved directly at me. She was free.
I had spent the entire morning trying to pick her out of the crowd and at a glance she knew right where I was. It suddenly occurred to me that that had always been true. She had always known where to find me even when I struggled to find myself. In the fifteen seconds it took my mother to cross that stage and get her diploma, I realized that it had all been worth it. All of the peanut butter and jelly-stain sandwiches we had eaten because we had to wait two more weeks to go to the grocery store and because there was just enough jelly left in the jar to stain six pieces of bread pink or purple or whatever color the jelly happened to be, all of the hand-me-down clothes we received from friends and neighbors because there was no money left for new clothes after the rent was paid and the groceries bought, all of the parenting I had done for her because she had class late or homework that was due the next day, all of it made sense after she walked across that stage. I recognized that she had done it for us, her five children. I saw for the first time the selflessness in her desire for an education and her ultimate goal of making all of our lives better. It made my anger and resentment toward her seem ridiculous and petty.
At sixteen years old, sitting in the sun on the bleachers, having just watched my mother complete the greatest achievement of her adult life, I realized what an ass I had been. For six years, I had hated her. I blamed her for our poverty because she asked my father for the divorce. I blamed her for the fact that I didn’t have any friends because she had decided that we should move to Redding rather than stay in San Francisco when my father left. I blamed her for the weather. It didn’t really matter what it was. Everything was her fault and because I could not punish her, I punished myself.
I did everything I could think of to get a reaction out of my mother. I smoked. I drank. I snuck out of the house to meet the guys from the group home down the street. I ignored my homework. I threw away my report cards from school before she could see them. I mouthed off to every authority figure I could think of and I got kicked out of church on a regular basis. In short, I wasted a lot of time on a rebellion that got me nowhere. What I realized sitting in the bleachers, was that she didn’t know I was failing in school because I had destroyed the evidence. She couldn’t be angry with me for the smoking and drinking and the sneaking out because she didn’t even know I was doing it. And, when I mouthed off and got into trouble, she laughed at me and let me face the consequences on my own. She never once came to my defense because there was no defending my behavior. She knew that I was angry. She knew that I was hurt. She knew that I was acting out but there were four other children who demanded her attention more overtly than I knew how. The more I hid from her, the more she tried to bring me back to her and the farther I ran. It was a one sided rebellion, and I defeated myself.
Those fifteen seconds seemed to go on forever. I was drowning in embarrassment at the way I had treated my mother and overcome with the newfound pride I felt for all she had done in the face of my best efforts to prevent her success. I saw the relevance of her stories as I watched her walk away from her past and toward our future with a slight limp in her step. The smile on her face when she waved to me as I sat in the bleachers was so big it almost swallowed me up. And at that moment, I wished that it had, so that I would be spared the shame that was consuming me. What amazed me most was that there was not one hint of resentment or bitterness anywhere in her expression. And if anyone had the right to be angry and bitter about the way his or her life had progressed, it was she. Nothing but pride and happiness emanated from her that day. She left the stage and again became a part of the sea of black caps and gowns but this time, I knew exactly where she was and I never lost sight of her again.
I never expected to graduate from high school. I never even expected to care whether or not I graduated from high school. But I did. I wish I could say that from that day forward, I was a decent human being, that I made a complete turn around in twenty-four hours and never caused any trouble again. But I can’t. So two years after I watched my mother receive her diploma, as I sat quietly waiting for “Pomp and Circumstance” to slowly fade out as the last of my classmates took their seats, and as I listened to the principal of my high school give his version of the University President’s speech on history, anxious for him to finish and set us free, I realized that for the first time in a very long while, I had a reason to be proud of myself. I had followed the example set for me by my mother. I had learned how to see through my anger, how to use it to push myself forward instead of letting it stagnate me. My mother had found the strength to free herself from the weight of her past and I would too. I had become driven to succeed, if for no other reason than to make my mother as proud of me as I was of her.
So as I slipped the beach ball out from underneath my gown and blew it up, I looked around for my mother in the stands. And, as I let it loose onto the black and gold sea in which I was immersed, I waved to let her know that I knew she was there. Just as quickly as I let it fly, the buoying ball was rescued by a wave of faculty, desperate to preserve the dignity of this ceremony. Finally, our moment had arrived. Row by row, my sea of black and gold caps and gowns moved toward the stage. One by one, each cap and gown pulled away from the sea and became a single person, officially an adult, with a name, a diploma, and a cheering section as they crossed the stage and were set free. When the principle announced my name, all I could hear was my mother cheering. As I reached out to take my diploma, he shook my hand, turned my tassel and said, “Congratulations, you are now a high school graduate.” I left the stage, diploma in hand, turned to the bleachers where my mother was sitting and waved directly at her. Now we were both free.
Degrees of Influence
As I sat there in my cap and gown, waiting to be officially pronounced an adult and listening to “Pomp and Circumstance” echo through the stadium, I was reminded of the first graduation I had ever attended. The sun shone brightly that day, making the reflection of the metal bleachers twinkle and glitter on the football field where the graduates sat waiting, anxious for the University President to finish his speech and set them free. It was only 10:30 in the morning and it was already hot. All around me people were sitting on their programs, trying not to get scalded by the metal bleachers, which had been baking in the sun all morning in anticipation of their arrival. The air was thick with the smell of wet lawn and sweating bodies. It had rained a little the night before and the humidity created by that little bit of water was stifling. Down on the field, a few beach balls were set afloat in the sea of black caps and gowns to pass the time and expend some of the nervous energy that was accumulating just beneath the surface. Just as quickly as they had been tossed out, the buoying balls were rescued by a wave of faculty, desperate to preserve the dignity of their ceremony.
From the bleachers, I could see, here and there, faces turned to the crowd, searching for family and friends, but I could not find my graduate, my reason for being there in the first place. The President’s speech went on and on through the University’s history, his personal history, and the history of the graduation ceremony before he finally got to the part we had all come for, the presentation of the diplomas. Row by row, the sea of black caps and gowns moved toward the stage. One by one, each cap and gown pulled away from the sea and became a single person with a name, a diploma, and a cheering section as they crossed the stage and were set free.
I grew more and more anxious with every name called that was not hers. I was sitting on the edge of the bleacher seat, craning my neck trying to find her and then, the President called her name “Loretta Carrico.” She walked toward him with confidence in each step and a wide smile on her face. It seemed as if this moment made up for all of the heartache she had endured in her life up to this point. She had told me the stories a hundred times and they had never seemed relevant before. She was born with a mild case of fetal alcohol syndrome, which affected the joints in her arms, hips and the upper portion of her spine and the formation of her bones. The condition made it painful for her to stand or sit or walk for any extended length of time and typing was almost impossible. When she was six, her teachers told her she was retarded because she could not remember the order of the letters in the alphabet. It never occurred to them that she might be reversing the letters because she had Dyslexia. They just handed her a box of crayons and told her not to disturb the children who could actually learn something. It wasn’t until she was twenty years old and trying to teach her children how to read that she learned how to read a complete sentence. When she was eight, she was playing leapfrog with her older brothers and as she jumped they moved, and she ran head first into a brick wall. The doctors said that she would never talk again and that she might never walk again, that the probability of her having anything close to a normal life was pretty small because the brain damage was so severe. For over a year she could not do anything but drool onto her pillow and grunt when she wanted something. By the time she was twelve, she had worked her way back to where she had been before the accident. At the age of nineteen, she married the father of her two children. He forbade her to leave the house unaccompanied. He refused to spend money on clothing for the children. She didn’t have a job, she could sew them what they needed. He even refused to help her get her driver’s license. By the time she left him, she had spent eleven years trying to find the strength to stand up to him and had five children to care for.
As the President shook her hand and turned her tassel he said, “Congratulations, you are now a college graduate.” She stood there looking taller than I had ever seen her. It was as if she was standing on the backs of all those who had ever told her no, you can’t, it will never be. As she left the stage, diploma in hand, she turned to the bleachers where I was sitting and waved directly at me. She was free.
I had spent the entire morning trying to pick her out of the crowd and at a glance she knew right where I was. It suddenly occurred to me that that had always been true. She had always known where to find me even when I struggled to find myself. In the fifteen seconds it took my mother to cross that stage and get her diploma, I realized that it had all been worth it. All of the peanut butter and jelly-stain sandwiches we had eaten because we had to wait two more weeks to go to the grocery store and because there was just enough jelly left in the jar to stain six pieces of bread pink or purple or whatever color the jelly happened to be, all of the hand-me-down clothes we received from friends and neighbors because there was no money left for new clothes after the rent was paid and the groceries bought, all of the parenting I had done for her because she had class late or homework that was due the next day, all of it made sense after she walked across that stage. I recognized that she had done it for us, her five children. I saw for the first time the selflessness in her desire for an education and her ultimate goal of making all of our lives better. It made my anger and resentment toward her seem ridiculous and petty.
At sixteen years old, sitting in the sun on the bleachers, having just watched my mother complete the greatest achievement of her adult life, I realized what an ass I had been. For six years, I had hated her. I blamed her for our poverty because she asked my father for the divorce. I blamed her for the fact that I didn’t have any friends because she had decided that we should move to Redding rather than stay in San Francisco when my father left. I blamed her for the weather. It didn’t really matter what it was. Everything was her fault and because I could not punish her, I punished myself.
I did everything I could think of to get a reaction out of my mother. I smoked. I drank. I snuck out of the house to meet the guys from the group home down the street. I ignored my homework. I threw away my report cards from school before she could see them. I mouthed off to every authority figure I could think of and I got kicked out of church on a regular basis. In short, I wasted a lot of time on a rebellion that got me nowhere. What I realized sitting in the bleachers, was that she didn’t know I was failing in school because I had destroyed the evidence. She couldn’t be angry with me for the smoking and drinking and the sneaking out because she didn’t even know I was doing it. And, when I mouthed off and got into trouble, she laughed at me and let me face the consequences on my own. She never once came to my defense because there was no defending my behavior. She knew that I was angry. She knew that I was hurt. She knew that I was acting out but there were four other children who demanded her attention more overtly than I knew how. The more I hid from her, the more she tried to bring me back to her and the farther I ran. It was a one sided rebellion, and I defeated myself.
Those fifteen seconds seemed to go on forever. I was drowning in embarrassment at the way I had treated my mother and overcome with the newfound pride I felt for all she had done in the face of my best efforts to prevent her success. I saw the relevance of her stories as I watched her walk away from her past and toward our future with a slight limp in her step. The smile on her face when she waved to me as I sat in the bleachers was so big it almost swallowed me up. And at that moment, I wished that it had, so that I would be spared the shame that was consuming me. What amazed me most was that there was not one hint of resentment or bitterness anywhere in her expression. And if anyone had the right to be angry and bitter about the way his or her life had progressed, it was she. Nothing but pride and happiness emanated from her that day. She left the stage and again became a part of the sea of black caps and gowns but this time, I knew exactly where she was and I never lost sight of her again.
I never expected to graduate from high school. I never even expected to care whether or not I graduated from high school. But I did. I wish I could say that from that day forward, I was a decent human being, that I made a complete turn around in twenty-four hours and never caused any trouble again. But I can’t. So two years after I watched my mother receive her diploma, as I sat quietly waiting for “Pomp and Circumstance” to slowly fade out as the last of my classmates took their seats, and as I listened to the principal of my high school give his version of the University President’s speech on history, anxious for him to finish and set us free, I realized that for the first time in a very long while, I had a reason to be proud of myself. I had followed the example set for me by my mother. I had learned how to see through my anger, how to use it to push myself forward instead of letting it stagnate me. My mother had found the strength to free herself from the weight of her past and I would too. I had become driven to succeed, if for no other reason than to make my mother as proud of me as I was of her.
So as I slipped the beach ball out from underneath my gown and blew it up, I looked around for my mother in the stands. And, as I let it loose onto the black and gold sea in which I was immersed, I waved to let her know that I knew she was there. Just as quickly as I let it fly, the buoying ball was rescued by a wave of faculty, desperate to preserve the dignity of this ceremony. Finally, our moment had arrived. Row by row, my sea of black and gold caps and gowns moved toward the stage. One by one, each cap and gown pulled away from the sea and became a single person, officially an adult, with a name, a diploma, and a cheering section as they crossed the stage and were set free. When the principle announced my name, all I could hear was my mother cheering. As I reached out to take my diploma, he shook my hand, turned my tassel and said, “Congratulations, you are now a high school graduate.” I left the stage, diploma in hand, turned to the bleachers where my mother was sitting and waved directly at her. Now we were both free.