The Things She Taught Me
Momma never taught me how to scramble eggs or chop an onion. She never showed me the most efficient way to dice tomatoes or where the tenderest part of the pig is. She never taught me how to make bacon crispy and curly, how to clean the silver or handwash delicates. I never learned the old dances from my mama. She never taught me how to put on red lipstick so it doesn’t smear, or how to accent the arch of my eyebrows. Mama never told me that I should suck my cheeks in when applying rouge or to puff them out when powdering on foundation. She didn’t pull me aside and whisper in my ear the best way to bargain with jewelry salesmen, airline representatives, or grocers. She never taught me any of her languages, not the one her grandparents spoke in the North, nor the one my cousins speak in the city, nor the pockets of words she had collected from the other regions of her country. My momma never taught me how to catch a man nor how to keep one, because in her opinion, I had better things to think about. She couldn’t braid my hair and I don’t think she ever painted my nails. I didn’t learn how to write from my mother. She never wore a wedding dress, never taught me how to lay my burdens down at the feet of the Father, to bless a meal, or sing in the key of saviors.
But she sings. And she never seems to mind if you care for her singing or not. I love that about her, because I never learned it.
When we first moved to the States, she cleaned after my brother and I even when she didn’t know how, because she never was taught how to do that. She was never taught how best to reach the corners of a ceiling or iron the pleats in a skirt just so. She did it anyway. She read to me and cooked for me almost every night. But my momma has her own life. My momma ties scarves around her purses and wears big jewelry and cuts her hair short and always knows the best places to eat. She takes photos of the first big snow every winter. She advocates for the people in her community, the people who, like her, immigrated to this country with the old songs ringing in their ears.
Momma sings off key and teases children and tips generously. She loves Roberta Flack, drinks too much wine, laughs real loud and always sends our guests home with leftovers. She loves for people to leave the house full, a little drunk, their voices echoing through the halls. Momma loves no one more than my father. She showed me how to wait for him, the months he was away. She wouldn’t knead her hands with worry when he was wearing oxygen masks in the Gulf and photographing trucks full of the charred limbs of soldiers. At least, she didn’t let me see it. And she told me one day, when my father was away and in danger, ‘its’ hard, but I knew this is his life.’ And she never tried to change it, his life. This is what you do when you love someone.
I learned that much.
