I read this poem by Jericho Brown many times savoring every line and word in it. This is not experience I can relate to but it completely draws me in:
No one on earth knows how many abortions happened
Before a woman risked her freedom by giving that risk a name,
By taking it to breast. I don’t know why I am alive now
That I still cannot impress the woman who whipped me
Into being. I turned my mother into a grandmother. She thanks me
By kissing my sons. Gratitude is black—
Black as a hero returning from war to a country that banked on his death.
Thank God. It can’t get much darker than that.
This got me curious about the poet himself and I found this interview where he talks a bit more about his relationship with his mother. The fact that this poem can exist along with his love for her gave me much to think about. We are products of many parenting flaws and when we in turn become parents, we continue that cycle and add our unique defects into the mix. I have a few friends who worked relentlessly to make peace with their parents at their end of life - it was not easy but they labored on their cause for years until they achieved some sense of closure.
E's father died from dementia and her decade long quest for peace with a man who was alcoholic, physically and verbally abusive to his wife and kids came to an unsatisfactory end. In his pre-dementia years, he was impossible for E to deal with - there was no shred of remorse or regret in him for all the harm he had caused to his family. As he started to lose his mind and become vulnerable, E found him easier to access but there was nothing left to hope for. Her struggles came to and end five years ago and she is soaring free like a bird now - which is so gratifying to see.
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