Imagine this: a poor lonely black child wandering Butler’s campus. She just failed a test, and got back from an advising meeting that was arguably one of her least favorite experiences of all time. She is a’hurting. Morale is low. She looks up into the sky and calls the first person she thinks of, the only person she trusts to help.
“Mom?”
Spoiler alert: I am the poor lonely black child, and that was a real story. In fact, that was today’s story. I am in the unique position of being able to trust my parents with my secrets, and even more importantly, my feelings. And despite what the story may suggest, I find solace in both of my parents, not just my mom.
I wasn’t always aware of how privelaged of a position I am in. When I was a child,it seemed natural to be able to go to your parents with anything one needed. In fact, it wasn’t until college, when I asked my friend what her parents thought about one of her problems and she responded “Why would I have told them?” in a voice that suggested I was ludicrous to even think such a thing, that I truly realized how bad it could be for other people. I, to this day, still can’t imagine how it would feel to get done with a bad day and not feel welcome to call my parents about it, or how it would feel to have a dilemna that I couldn’t ask my mom or dad about. However, when I do start to imagine it, I get so sad, so disheartened. That’s not how it is supposed to be, of that, I am sure.
My father, oh my father, he is the first person I call after a bad day. The conversations usually go like this:
Me: “Dad, I’m sad.”
Dad: “I’m on my way.”
Me: “Thanks.”
My dad has always made it clear that I come first in his life. If I call he leaves work, he leaves the house, he leaves whatever he needs to leave to get to me. This dynamic leaves me with an unfathomable blanket of security. I can’t think of a more comforting thought than the knowledge that my home is a ring away and it answers:
“IT this is Luther…”
My mother. My God what could I possibly say that sums up the love I have for her. My mother is a martyr for her family. She would give anything for me. She has already given so much. My mother is an unwavering pillar of support in my life. There have been countless times when my mother has been slandered for believing in me, and yet she persisted. She always chooses me. Always chooses my hapiness, my well-being. I could search my entire life for something as soft as my mother, and never find another being so gentle to those around her, so loving. Sometimes I call my mom just to remind myself that there is still somebody in this world that can talk to me with so much unadlterated love in their voice. That there is still somebody in this world that could look at me, riddled with flaws, and honestly say:
“Look at my girl. I am so proud of her.”
To be honest, I pray every night that the saying ‘history repeats itself’ is true, because if it is, I will have some lucky ass kids.