George Washington was a lucky guy.
Given by Bobby on that night in November:
When my father died in 1989, I was a novice at this business of losing a
parent. I was a bit shy and was hurting, so I chose to be silent about
my dad. He was a man with a rough exterior and a short temper. But he,
like all of us, was complex and deserved more than my silence and I
regret that is all I gave him. He provided for me, loved me, and was
capable of meaningful charity. I miss him and I wish I could tell him
that. I do not want to repeat that mistake today.
It has come to my attention that I was my mother's favorite. I don't
know about that, but I am fairly sure that for the last weeks of her
life, her favorites became my two nieces, Sylvia and Yvette, who
shouldered the brunt of the challenges these weeks have offered.
Especially Yvette, who had to abandon her employment, deserves a good
dose of our individual and collective gratitude. I also thank Gloria
and Willie and Tiny for all they've done.
My mother and I shared many experiences together - you know, the she and
I type of experiences - as I was growing up. And while I often failed,
she instilled in me a desire to be good, to make her happy. Today I
replay in my mind certain memories. These, I guess, are events that
represent those character traits that for me sum up the type of person
she was. Let me share some of them with you.
First, and definitely least, is the memory of the level of discretion
(or should I say her lack of it). If you wanted everyone in the family
to know something, all you had to do was tell it to my mother, but, and
here was the trick, preface your message with "please don't tell
anyone." By sunset, everyone would know. She could not keep a secret.
She had two rocky marriages. I had a front row seat for one of them. I
witnessed many a brouhaha between my parents. Some of them got right
down scary. I'll spare you the details. Let me just say, she gave as
good as she got. Let me describe an incident tht took place a few years
ago. My mother, at an advanced age, started keeping company with a
gentleman we all called the "old guy." When he died, two self-
proclaimed relatives showed up at my mother's door. They wanted money
so they could supposedly give the old guy a proper burial. My mother,
surmising they just wanted the money for themselves, launched into
handing them a tongue lashing. Cinda and I were back in her bedroom
hearing all this. I finally went out to save these guys from any more
abuse from this 90 plus year old woman. She was tough.
She was a hard worker. Into her seventies, I believe, she was still
doing piece work with her sewing machine, embroidering decorative
pattterns onto a seemingly endless supply of garment samples for a few
bucks, trying to make ends meet. She was strong.
And through her challenges, she loved her family. With her older
sisters, there seemed a to be a sense of comradeship, fellow survivors
of their first years in this country. With the younger siblings, there
seemed a sense of nurturing - of wanting to take care of them. She
loved her children and assisted them as she could. Her heart was broken
many times. Up to the end she profoundly worried about the fate of
those she loved. We, her children, caused her heartache from time to
time. She wasn't one to hide her children's/grandchildren's
shortcomings - for that she had a realistic eye. When I visited her
these last few years, I dreaded the expected reproach, "You're getting
too heavy," within 20 seconds of seeing her.
She was good - a genuinely good person. She never did anything to
antagonize anyone else's interests. She had a profound sense of justice
and she took great pride and joy with every family member's successes.
She prized those family photos nieces and nephews would send. She
displayed pictures of all her children, grandchildren, great
granchildren. Her only regret was she could not give them more.
My mother had a rough life, losing her father at age 4, going through
the struggling immigrant experience as a child, the depression and a
rough marriage in Honduras (where her children were taken away from
her)as a young adult, as a mature person a second rough marriage, and as
an old person - a near impoverished existence. And yet I remind you,
since many of you were there, she brought the house down at a supper
club while celebrating her 90th birthday - dancing the night away.
I'll end with a conversation I had with Lela, my grandmother, many years
ago. Perhaps she had similar conversations with some of her other
grandchildren. She began reviewing the strengths of her first four
girls. Blanche was the most this, Lucy the most that, and Connie, I
think, was the most intelligent. "But Bobby," she said, "Lydia has the
best heart."
I agree, Lela. But I would add - she was tough as nails! Thank you.
Happy Birthday.