NEVER HAS THIS MOMMA EVER. . . bought a million cute crop tops not remembering I have a post-baby belly. NEVER HAS THIS MOMMA EVER. . . been shamed for working too much to provide for my family. NEVER HAS THIS MOMMA EVER. . . just ignored the mess in front of me because I was too tired to give a shit.
I thought when my first baby left my body and I looked him in the eyes, I’d feel this overwhelming oneness with him—this baby made out of ingredients of me, his muscles loose and fragile, dependent on me to stay alive. I felt so weak and so powerful at the same time. I held him; he didn’t know how to hold on. I looked at him; he didn’t even know what it was to see. I did not feel oneness. I felt separate. By the time he was a few months old, it’s like I could see his future Person behind those clear dark eyes, waiting to be fully realized, like he already knew who he was but couldn’t tell me yet. When I met my second son, he had more ease with being a baby in our family equation. His attachment suited me just fine. He was small enough to not have much of an opinion, and anyway, he was happy to go wherever, as long as I would be there too. And I …
RESOURCE: Are Native Children Being Pushed Into Prison? An infographic produced by the National Congress of American Indians http://www.ncai.org/policy-research-center/research-data/prc-publications/School-to-Prison_Pipeline_Infographic.pdf All poetry & collage by Se’mana Thompson Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider making a one-time or recurring contribution to help us remain ad-free. If even a fraction of subscribers signed up to contribute $1 per month, Raising Mothers could be self-sustaining!
Wonder Woman She told me her name was Wonder Woman. No you’re not! She’s skinny and you’re fat! I was ruthless as a child. It’s hard not to be when your parents are separated and you don’t know why. Plus, she had a heavy Spanish accent. I was no fool. She had large brown tortoise glasses and bushy bangs that looked like wild squirrels were scurrying across her forehead. But she insisted she was Wonder Woman so much so, we called her “Wonder” for years. My grandmother who didn’t speak a lick of English even called her Wanda. Of course in a heavy Chinese accent that mi madre could never understand. It was better that way. Powerplant Tryst When my father and Wonder first started going out, they would meet in his red Dodge 75 on the corner of 14th and 1st right beside the electrical power plant. The red car felt like a traveling no tell motel. It was large. Dirty. And yet, it always smelled like pine cones from the pine …
Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider making a one-time or recurring contribution to help us remain ad-free. If even a fraction of subscribers signed up to contribute $1 per month, Raising Mothers could be self-sustaining! This comic originally appeared in Mutha Magazine.
