A love letter to mi madre

            There really is a holiday for everything, National Coming out Day, Secretary appreciation day, Christmas, Martin Luther King Day… and then there’s Mother’s Day. A holiday where most of us scramble to get a card, send some flowers, and make a long distance phone call to tell our mums we love and appreciate them.

            Well, I’ve decided recently to tell the people who are important to me how much I appreciate them, and not just on the holidays assigned to them. So here it is- a love letter about mi madre.

            My mum is a unique individual. She runs on a frequency higher than most, constantly in motion. When I try to describe her to people, I know I’m not doing her justice. You have to meet her to believe all the words and experiences I’m describing are wrapped up within her 5’3” frame. 

            She’s an activist, poet, gardener, dreamer, metal head, stay at home mom, wife, teacher, and the love of my father’s life. She used to take my brother and I to AIDS walks in Palm Springs, marched in Gay Pride Parades, we were members of NOW, (National Organization for Women), and she used to escort women into clinics when it was a thing for people to verbally attack and abuse women who were seeking medical help. She supported a women’s right to choose and gay rights before it was popular, and lost friends in the first waves of the AIDS epidemic.  When one of her best friends found out she had cancer, to show solidarity she shaved her head so her friend wasn’t alone when all of her hair started to fall out.

            She took my brother and I to see Malcolm X when it came out in the theater, (I was in the second grade) and explained his significance in the Civil Rights movement. She used to order Ebony Magazine and others that were predominantly black so I could see people who looked like me when I flipped the pages, and not just white models with straight hair that I could never have. She hung African art all over our house, and hung a little black angel on the Christmas tree.  And when Disney finally made a movie with a black Disney princess, I called and told her I wanted to see it with her, both of us getting a bit teary at the end because my kids wouldn’t feel left out the way I had when I was younger. She didn’t neglect her heritage either, telling us about her French and Irish roots, and how long her family had been in the United States. It takes a pretty amazing woman to not only be half of an interracial marriage, especially when she and my father were married in the first place, and to be the mother of mixed children- constantly dealing with questions about our ethnicity and whether we were adopted. 

            She used to go to Metal concerts and to the movies by herself, unafraid of venturing into the world unescorted. Later she fell in love with country, and would “Trace chase” Trace Atkins to different parts of the country. She got a tattoo before it was popular, and I would tell people about the “painting” my mother had on her ankle. She was and still is stylish without trying to be, dying her hair all kinds of colors and cutting it all different ways, back in the day wearing oversize glasses and one dangly earing, acid-wash jeans and pump up reeboks. When I was in high school and dying my hair, she would put a streak of the color I dyed mine in hers. She’d rather wear crazy prints and tye-dye over anything else.

            My father and I get a bit ticked at her on a regular basis, because when she looks in the mirror she doesn’t see what we see- a brilliant woman who could conquer the world if she wanted to. She’s walked through fire, (literally and figuratively) and come out a better and more positive person. She is a fascinating mix of fragility and ferocity, something I’ve tried and failed to understand how she balances. She champions the underdog, loves everyone, and believes people are truly good. The thing is, that’s what makes her so special. She’s so humble, she’s a constant reminder of the kind of person I should be.

            When I came out to her, telling her I was bi, she didn’t ask god why or tell me something was wrong with me. Her only concern was if I ended up with a girl, she knew I would opt out of getting pregnant. “(Sigh) You would have such beautiful children…” She loves me even though I can be a prize idiot, and stubborn ass. She’s always trying to be the best mum she can be to a broad like me, which is no easy feat.

            She chose to be a stay at home mum, at a time when feminists were telling all women they were letting down our sex by being traditional. This of course is complete BS. I know my brother and I are better people because she was there when we woke up and got home, and when my foster sisters came into our lives she helped show them what unconditional love truly was.

            She can’t sing worth a damn, can be a bit overbearing, very opinionated, knows how to cuss better than most sailors, and can be flat out bossy. All of that being said, these are her layers, adding to her own kind of perfection.

            Whenever she leaves this earth, (no time soon I hope) the world will be less bright, less loving, just less. She’s the glue that holds or little family together, my confidant, my friend. She’s my mother.