A mother’s life; arrived at from drugs, teen pregnancy, and jail, through faith and gang intervention.
June 24, 2009
The hidden me…
The secretary stood at the door signaling in slow motion. She pretended to speak, mouthing a phrase.
I guessed, silently mouthing back, "Other?"
"No," she nodded.
She purposely pointed at me.
"You," I guessed.
She shook her head, "Yes."
Second word, two syllables.
I guessed, "Brother, mother--" "My mother," I said out loud, disrupting the meeting.
She nodded her head, "Yes."
"Your mother is here," she said
I walked into the hallway. My mother apologized for coming to my office. Her hands were busily searching through a plastic bag.
"Leah," she said, "Do you have a few dollars? Geoff and I ran out of gas. The car stopped in the middle of the street."
I was skeptical because nothing she says is true.
"All I have," I said, "are two dollars."
She handed me the plastic bag. It held a pair of jeans. "This is for Porshai. I told her that I had a pair of jeans for her birthday."
Unconsciously, I rushed her. I didn’t want any of my co-workers to see her. My mother is a representation of the old me and our family dysfunctions.