To the Women Who Raised Me
Devotions: Mother's Day edition
Thank you all for being so patient with me these past few weeks — dissertation is submitted! Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I grew up around strong women. They were all like second mothers to me. My late grandma, the eldest of her seven siblings, was the sun, and my aunts and my mom all orbited around her like planets. My sisters and I were the little moons — always watching in vicarious orbit. My grandma’s house was the center of our universe: with the kitchen crowded, full of laughter, and the door always open.
Everyone in my life has told me that I’m from my dad’s side. Of course, this is high praise: though I spent the latter half of my life seeing my paternal grandmother through blurry Skype calls to Iran on Saturday mornings, she was a deeply elegant and graceful woman whose love transcended any borders between us. I see her reflected in my dad’s sister, who visits us twice a year and brightens up my hometown with loving conversation and many cups of tea. And as I grow older, I become more in tune with the steadfast wisdom of my dad, who understands me more than I ever thought he could. Whenever I complained about my little platonic heartbreaks, he reassured me that my sensitivity was genetic, and would prove to be a virtue. I understand that now, but I spent lots of time as a teenager wishing I was more like my mom and my sisters, who could indulge in playful banter, seemingly, without overthinking every word as I did. I admired my maternal family for their ability to love loudly. Sometimes I felt like I was too quiet.
“The Raincoat” by Ada Limón:
When the doctor suggested surgery and a brace for all my youngest years, my parents scrambled to take me to massage therapy, deep tissue work, osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine unspooled a bit, I could breathe again, and move more in a body unclouded by pain. My mom would tell me to sing songs to her the whole forty-five minute drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty- five minutes back from physical therapy. She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang, because I thought she liked it. I never asked her what she gave up to drive me, or how her day was before this chore. Today, at her age, I was driving myself home from yet another spine appointment, singing along to some maudlin but solid song on the radio, and I saw a mom take her raincoat off and give it to her young daughter when a storm took over the afternoon. My god, I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel that I never got wet.
Immigrant families love in a way different to what my American friends experienced. It’s rooted in sacrifice and acts of service — hours in the kitchen, long days at work, offering a cup of tea, and a second, and a third. I’ve always craved words of affirmation from my elders; as a frequent journaler and avid bookworm, I over-assumed their value. It took a lot of growing up to move away from the Americanized standards I grew up expecting and to find the signposts for the deep, multi-layered generational love that existed beyond words. Communication doesn’t have to be verbal, and love doesn’t either. Once I realised that, I felt everything amplify.
There’s a really special way my mom’s side of the family hugs. It’s like they’re squeezing the life out of you — or in you, rather, like they’re making sure you’re tightly wound enough that none of the world’s emotional pollutants will make their way in. I still remember my grandma’s kisses, the way they indented into my cheekbones. Even when she was sick, she let me lie on her shoulder as she pet my hair. At family gatherings, she was often the loudest voice in a chant that my aunts teased me with when I walked in the room. I always got embarrassed and covered my face, intimidated by their brazen acts of adoration. Maybe that’s why I rejected so many offers to go shopping or help in the kitchen — my teenage self just wanted to isolate myself and navigate life on my own. I look back in regret, sometimes, wishing I sat on the floor with my aunts in my grandma’s kitchen making khosk-e-noon, or went on more shopping trips with my mom on her days off. My memories are often blurry, as I’ve mentioned, but I am consoled by the fact that my current realisations have ingrained something in me far more valuable: a new willingness to to hug a little tighter, to love a little bolder, to hold the world with nurturing hands. They have taught me so much about femininity and familial love. I can’t wait to go home.
Further Reading
“Thanking My Mother for Piano Lessons” by Diane Wakoski
“What I Learned from My Mother” by Julia Kasdorf
“My Mother, My Mother” by Luther Hughes
What I Enjoyed This Week
Recent Reads
The Mismatch by Sara Jafari. This was my dissertation read, a book I picked up when I needed a break. I expected it to be lighthearted and filled with romance but it was primarily an intense exploration of family, culture, religion, and self discovery. The main characer is a daughter of Iranian immigrants (and ironically, a literature graduate living in London), and it was so refreshing and affirming to see my culture represented in a book of fiction. It felt close to home in that sense, though some of the heavy themes it discussed distanced me.
“Under the Day” by Victoria Chang. A short poem that packs a punch.
Other Wonderful Things
I finally got to see the Yayoi Kusama exhibit at the Tate Modern. I remember being 16 and wanting nothing more than to take a mirror selfie in one of the infinity rooms. I’m glad I waited until I could appreciate it enough (though I still took a few mirror selfies).
Try Again, the new EP by The Walters. I loved their music in high school and was devastated when they split up, so it feels like a full-circle moment that they’ve returned as soon as I’m graduating university.
My Astro Poets horoscope: Week of 5/8 in Aries: Despite feeling how you do, you are ready for the next step. Do not doubt yourself any longer. You are a visionary. Trust that which you see. I appreciated reading this the day before my dissertation submission.
Thanks for reading!
<3
Tara
loved this one sooooo much
Very touching . I can understand the immigrant thoughts.