Being a mother is as hard as it is beautiful. As the mother of an 8-year-old girl, I can personally attest that kids are hard work without even trying to be. Mothers often talk loudly about how rewarding motherhood is while mumbling about the challenging parts, out of fear of not being seen as good parents. As both a mom and the daughter of a lesbian mom (Stenovia Jordan, pictured with me in the photo to the right), I’ve learned that motherhood is not for the weak.
My mother had to drill it into me that I needed to watch my sassy mouth, be more respectful and speak proper English. When I was a preteen, and she would try to get me to understand the value of taking a bath every day, I argued that I’d just get funky again after playing double Dutch, so why try to stay clean? She had to use bribery to get me into that tub.
During my teen years, I spent all of the hard-earned money she had put into my new savings account on a father who hadn’t done anything for me in years, trying to gain his love while neglecting hers. She forgave me for my stupidity, made me get a job and then slowly began adding to my college fund once again. But no matter how good a parent my mother tried to be, she was judged harshly for being who she was.
People told her that she was a detriment to her child and unfit for motherhood. I remember falling out of our third-story window in the projects at age 6, and my mother nursing me back to health while those around her blamed her negligence for my fall. A few years ago, I realized just how easily accidents happen when my own daughter jumped off the couch and onto our glass table, splitting her eyebrow open.
Over that long-ago incident and the biases they held against her, my family tore me away from my mother for years, but she kept trying to get me back. When it didn’t work, she took two buses and two trains to see me faithfully every weekend, even when I didn’t want to be bothered. I didn’t appreciate all the sacrifices she made. I turned against her because everyone told me that her being gay and poor was wrong, which meant that my mother was somehow undeserving of my love.
She fought for me still, despite what I did. At times I was not a good daughter, and it took the beautiful person inside her to embrace the ugliness inside me — and to love me anyway. Life was brutal to my mother, and she worked daily not to repeat the mistakes her own mother had made.
She grew up poor on the West Side of Chicago with an abusive parent. On the outside, my grandmother was a well-respected churchwoman, but she scarred my mother by repeatedly telling her that she was stupid and beating her mercilessly.