Thursday, June 10, 2004

Perhaps nobody yet has been truthful enough about what "truthfulness" is.
-Nietzsche.

My mother did not know about me until it was too late.
Too late to understand my common complexity.

The same woman who would later make her wish she had paid more attention to her own heart.

My mother--used to being a backseat driver became startled when I began to quicken.

My kicking making her wish that she could still fabricate wishes in her beadwork. I made her believe in a life more simple-like a rock rolling as it trickles through a soft stream. She wanted this possibility, but could not deny me.

She was already changing—whether she wanted to or not. I had already begun gleaming with my own blood. My cells multiplying with every breathe she took. I would not leave her-my heart knew no other intention to beat-but for her.

I did not know inside of her what she was; only what she wanted to be. I saw all her dreams playing inside of her womb.
Then one day it all stopped.

A chill spread through me.

The final warmth swept through me as I felt her Indianess seeping coercively through my pores as I flushed out of my water world and into the coldness of this one. I clung to her as best I could, but this choice was not mine to make.

They say the baby initiates birth.
Not this one.

The brightness surprised me as I searched for the darkness she had begun to groom me in.
I looked for the dreams I danced in while she was my host.
I searched for the familiar faces I saw projected in her.
I searched for the home, the man who I had come to believe would love us both.

She never asked and I never told. It didn’t seem to be a choice either of us could make.

Something larger than us had control.

I found this would not be the last time.

My first impression was anger drifting from her heart to my mind.
A condition formulated from our common fears.

Where was the man I had seen so many times?
Why were we hear alone?
I could no longer smell him. His soft cologne brushing against the tips of her ears as she laughed and sent a jiggle to me.
A warm jiggle like fresh bread.

The anger--created a sheen over her long jet hair. The tips of it touching her thighs. The taste of commodity cheese seeping from her nipple to my belly. The tears welling in my heart as I saw in the pool they made-the coffee, flour and dead sheep.

Her version of our truth.
Pain.

She liked long boots and leather belts. This Indian woman wore chokers. She told me, "only turquoise—my dad, your pappa, makes them for me--I have a big neck". The stone hung loosely on her strenuous neck as she rocked me.

My chasm. She called me love. But taught me anger. She listened to my stories only to fabricate better ones.

Something told me to listen and to beware.

I lived with this woman until I felt that I could be a woman on my own. Her hands used again, arduously-angry as they tied my bun as I prepared to leave-for the first time. Her tugging as she combed each tangle free. A dream released with each rough knot she slowly undid. My wisdom bonded by her hands, its thickness increased with each turn. The yard gliding over each strand-time shortening with each twist, turn and gather of hair. Her breathe on my neck as she finally managed to get it all tied up.

This mother of mine teaching me-her words lining the walls of my soul—dripping into the thing that has become me.

Do not give up.
Commodity cheese is my comfort. It’s free and it’s good for you.
Learn what to take and what to walk away from.
Do not dip too deeply into the pot my love.
Do not spend all your money at the theatre.
Do not marry young.
Live there.
Do not live there.
Of course I know what I’m talking about.
Listen to your grandpa.
Yes, he is crazy, but listen still.
No, you can not be who you are.
You are my daughter.
Listen to the life that flows in you.
I made you.
I knew you would be-what you will be-before you knew what you were.
I am the mother.
You are the woman.
Be alive.
Eat the blue corn mush.
Why is your frybread so hard my love?
You know every woman needs to know this-otherwise how will you get a husband?
Stop being angry.
There is no pain here Irma-have that baby and teach her like I taught you.
There is purpose Irma--that’s the truth.
Do not forget to get her a Census number Irma-she can not get her cheese without it.

Again, I walked away from her. She did not stop me this time. I no longer had a bun to worry about.

The world is a big place I told baby June—as I ran my fingers through her soft feathery jet hair.

As I kissed her hands as they clung to me.
As I rolled her tight and packed up.
We can make it together-our way.

Special thank you to Sherry for all her help on this one.
Danna Saunders at 5:12 PM

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