Sometimes it's really difficult to make sense of where I came from and where I am. I find myself overthinking every little thing I do for fear that I will wake up one day and discover that whatever mania prompted my maternal grandmother to put my mother in group homes, or the psychosis that compelled my mother to do such unthinkable things will overtake me. How exactly do I square the belief that my mom's erratic behaviors are the result of her strained relationship with her mother and simultaneously believe that my childhood hasn't and won't come back to haunt me? That's a real question. One I have yet to answer to my satisfaction.
Meanwhile, back at the camp, I secretly (well, I guess it's not a secret anymore) contend with the possibility that some culminating event will usher me into the arms of my prescribed fate. Two generations of brilliant, powerful, and beautiful women precede me, and neither of them reached their true potential as intellectual beings or as parents.
The temptation is to point to the fact that I got out of the projects, and into a three bedroom, two bathroom house. But my geographical distance from that life collapses in the face of memory and experience. Am I to believe that I have broken the cycle merely because I took my God-given facility with academics and turned it into a B.A. and an M.A. unlike my foremothers? That just seems too easy, though it reads nicely on paper.
Everyday I question whether or not I have the strength to complete this final degree. This is not a new preoccupation of mine. When my mother emptied my bank account, which held my tuition money for undergrad, I wasn't sure I'd cross that threshold. When she called me incessantly, threatening to take her own life if I didn't come back to New York, I became so down-trodden that I literally couldn't leave my dorm room. I developed a fear of being seen -- really seen -- by others. I was afraid that people would notice that my apparent normalcy was a brave but tenuous act. Sophomore year my GPA slipped from a 3.8 to .667. It was a perfect representation of where I was emotionally. There are no words to describe the energy it required to pull myself out of that depression in order that I pull myself out of that academic canyon. But I did it. To be perfectly honest, I don't know that I have that amount of stamina left in me.
Then I begin to ponder if my son will be proud of his mother, not because I came from a valley and climbed a mountain, but because outside of the myriad of excuses I could make for resting on my laurels, I kept going and did something anyone could be proud of. Though I don't feel energetic about dusting my ass off and stumbling forward, the thought of his pride gives off enough fumes to keep me running -- on autopilot. What I don't want is for Caleb to tell some sob story about his mother's potential and the manner in which her past held her back. I don't want to hear about how noble my attempt was. And I definitely don't want to hear how amazing it is that I even survived the hand that God dealt me. If I buy into any of that what would I be teaching my child? Would he pat himself on the back for being a black man who takes care of his children, who doesn't end up in jail, or for getting an education in spite of his Autism diagnosis? Until I can shrug off the temptation to embrace the excuses that I am handed daily, I will never break this cycle. It's time to come out of that room, and be seen.
You should be PROUD of the person you have become. You have already broken that vicious cycle you were so doomed to follow.
ReplyDeleteI applaud you because unlike you I can not or will not let myself find out if I can break that cycle. I choose not to have children for fear of the damage I may pass on to them from my own troubled childhood.
Keep on praying and trust that the Lord has not put any more on you than you can carry.