Andrea and son

The Privilege of Mediocrity

By Andrea N. Winninghoff

I am either a villain or a hero, depending on your version of morality and the specific elements of my identity you are examining at the moment. As a single, gay, former teenage mother with a Deaf child, I am quite used to judgment from all directions.

What is often not recognized is the oppressive reality that comes from being romanticized.

We unconventional mothers know we are under society’s microscope. The upright citizens who favor traditional ideals use our missteps to validate their righteousness. Those who deify the fashion of difference in all its rebellious glory deliver anecdotes of our successes as evidence of their enlightenment.

I know this. I am the one who “made it.” I even have an all-American football-playing honor roll student to prove it. And yes, I admit that I allow myself to be pulled into the romance of my against-all-odds achievements.

Success is such sweet revenge against the statistic-touting nay-sayers of my youth. But in this moment of truth, let me confess the reality that lies between the extremes. Those who doubt us are on to something.

Being marginalized and under-resourced can be a dysfunction-making business. In the face of consistent adversity, the best of us crumble from time to time, and our kids are subjected to our breaking points. On the other hand, we are so often worthy examples-more resourceful because we are made to be, and deeply strengthened and enriched by the intensity of our lives.

My son did find a hero in me when he witnessed the sacrifices I made for my education. I know this because he told me so right before we walked together on my graduation day. And frankly, as I flail through our messy lives, he is the critic whose opinion I respect most.

The great majority of the time, I am simply a mom who does not wish to be reduced for the sake of politics or the warming of self-congratulatory liberal hearts. I want to be allowed my mediocrity. It is in that space that my son and I can grow freely and inhabit the entirety of our identities – the middle ground. I believe we deserve it.

Andrea N. Winninghoff lives, writes, and mothers her fifteen year old son, Jonah, in Seattle, Washington.

Fear Factor: Raising Black Sons

By Stephanie Joyce Whitaker

The pediatrician came into my hospital room about 7 a.m. to announce that we were cleared to leave with our newborn son, the newborn we had prayed for every day during a problematic pregnancy. A newborn the entire congregation of our church was praying for, every Sunday. A newborn with prepared parents who could not wait!

We read all of the books. A copy of What to Expect While You’re Expecting moved from my side table to my husband’s on any given night. We subscribed to Parent’s Magazine, New Baby, and a couple of other new parent’s instruction manuals. We had been given not one, but two baby showers, so we had all the latest baby gear. The nursery was all decorated and waiting.

We were armed and happily ready for the birth, and to be able to hold our baby boy. Somehow, all that preparation, praying and readying, didn’t relieve the knot that was forming in my stomach when the doctor announced that we could leave the hospital and take this new little person home with us.

Unfortunately, the book, What to Expect After You Take the Baby Home, Feed, Bathe, Clothe, Put to Bed, Soothe When Crying, Change Diapers, Teach to Talk, Walk, Read, and Show Right from Wrong, Select Daycare, Let Them Play Outside, Go On an Overnight, Let Them Out of Your Sight for More Than a Few Seconds, hadn’t been written yet. So that knot in my stomach came home with us and our new son.

I was, like many new moms, so head-over-heels in love with her new baby that I could hardly see straight! Within fourteen months we welcomed our second son. Since they were born so close together, we (or maybe it was me) decided we would only have the two boys.

We were indeed in love with parenting, but having two African-American sons in this America just made for a tough journey ahead. So many statistics stacked against them. Perhaps I should never turn on the evening, or morning, news.

Today, our sons are almost 18 and 19. They are blessed in so many ways. Good students, God-fearing, respectful citizens, healthy and protected. Still, not a day goes by that I don’t worry about their safety.  We moved to the suburbs early on and took them to and from school every day to try to reduce the likelihood of violence. The other day I was shopping for my son and decided not to purchase a certain color combination. Why? Because I “had heard” that those colors represented a certain affiliation.  Crazy?  No, careful!  Will I ever release my mind from the fear factor?  Is my worry unreasonable?

Well, on to a new level of worry as they drive, go to college, and move away.  Will they be the victims of racial profiling? Yes, that has happened. Will they experience institutional racism? Yes, that has happened too. Will these things interfere with their pursuit of happiness and success?  Hmmmmm… the jury is still out on that on

Mum with Khalil (left) and Kamani

More Powerful Than Love

By Karla D. Henderson

Some wise person, perhaps the pediatrician Benjamin Spock or the great philosopher of my generation, Stevie Wonder, wrote that our lives are shaped by those who love us and those who refuse to love us. However, I’ve concluded that when it comes to some relationships, liking someone is even more important than loving them.

We are, as a species, hardwired to love those we depend upon for basic survival needs. “Mum” may find it literally impossible to not love her child, the maternal instinct kicking in to ensure the survival of the species which can, must supersede that of the individual. But those qualities that make us likeable, make us like someone, may not exist, or at least not sufficiently enough so that others will like us, not even our mothers.

My mother didn’t like me-and that reality has definitely shaped my life more than anything else. I buried that painful realization until I became a mother. It was her treatment of my children that finally brought it home to me, where I could no longer doubt that my mother very simply didn’t like me.

I became a mum in an unorthodox manner, through an independent, single parent adoption. I didn’t go through an agency, but arranged it directly with the birth family. My son, Khalil, came to me as a newborn.  It happened rather quickly, terrifyingly so (OMG, what am I supposed to do with a baby??!!).

He was born on a Friday; I got a call Saturday; went to the hospital to see him/his birth mother on Sunday and they said I could take him on Wednesday! Instant motherhood.

My mother’s first response was, “I didn’t know you wanted children.” How could she not know something so basic about me?  I’d written poems about my future children. My response: “I guess that shows how little you know about me,” proving yet again how unreasonably touchy I was.

Her second response was, “My babysitting days are over.”  I said, “Then I guess it’s good that I didn’t ask, huh?”…proving again what a selfish bitch I was. My mum never fully accepted my son, never missed an opportunity to remind me and anyone else that he was not a ‘true’ Henderson, or that she fully expected me to put my nieces and nephews over Khalil since I was related to them by blood.

Foolish me, I actually thought when I gave birth, my mother’s reaction to my daughter would be fundamentally different. Kamani was/is beautiful, funny, talented, bright (I know, every mum thinks this about their kids, but in my case, it’s true). She’s a mutt child; her father is Chicano.

With her and Khalil, I was sublimely happy. I have loved everything about being their mum. But there were times, especially after my mum moved in with us for what would be the last years of her life, when she’d watch us with such a look of derision? envy? bitterness? that broke my heart. And while I could, eventually, forgive her not liking me (and taking every opportunity to make sure I knew it), I’ve never been able to find it in my heart to forgive her for extending this feeling to my kids.

She was initially indifferent to Kamani.  This changed the day my beautiful 13-month old was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis, the Elephant Man’s disease. Devastated, I turned to my Mum.   While I was unburdening myself, I saw a look pass between Mum and my sister. It stopped me cold.  It was smug, self-righteous, self-satisfied, as if their suspicions about my child had finally been confirmed. As if they’d known all along that I couldn’t possibly have such a perfect kid and that it was only a matter of time until this was proven.

I loved my mum, who passed away in 2000, although it wasn’t always easy. I tried very hard to make her proud of me. I wanted, needed her to not only love me but to like me, as she seemed to do my four brothers and two sisters.

Even though it was hard realizing she didn’t like me, it was softened by the fact that I always knew she loved me. Even when I was at my worst, she was there for me. She let me know that she thought I was talented; she would praise my writing. I couldn’t stand to touch liver but I loved to eat it, and any time I wanted it, she would fix it for me.

I think I’m a better friend for it, a better sister and most definitely, a better mother. I know I not only love my children, who are now grown and thriving, but I truly like them. And most of the time, they like me, too.

Karla D. Henderson is a retired college dean and published poet living in Palmdale, Ca.

Cynthia (front) holds Rafi while Julie (back) holds Ari

Our Gay/Jewish/African-American/Latino/Caucasian Family

By Cynthia Wallace

“Who is going to pick the Jewish Lesbians?”

That’s what we wondered. Then, just ten months after we were approved for adoption, an incredible African-American birthmom chose us to adopt her soon-to-be-born twin boys.  She wanted the babies to “Come out of my womb and into your arms.” And that’s exactly what happened. Two weeks after we arrived in Arizona, in what felt like the blink of an eye, we were new moms of beautiful African-American/Latino baby boys. We named them Ari Isaac and Rafael Te’om.

My partner, Julie, and I had spent those first two weeks before the babies were born, getting to know the birthmom, who was due at any moment, and collecting things we would need for the babies. The most important thing, in our minds, was our search for the perfect car seat. We ended up looking for the least ugly of the ugly choices available.  Our journey climaxed at Costco with Julie in tears saying, “Do we HAVE to be Costco members to be moms?” and me bursting into laughter at the absurdity of it all. Those car seats worked for maybe six months; they are relics now, collecting dust in our basement, and nobody cares what they look like, least of all us.

Whenever we were with the birthmom, we talked to the babies while touching her stomach, feeling them move, “Baby A” and “Baby “B”. There were palpable differences between them even then. Throughout her labor, we held her hands during contractions, rubbing her belly and forehead in between.  “Just don’t touch the eyebrows”, she said, when I asked if she liked having her forehead rubbed.  That became the one-liner we used when we needed a touch of humor. She really did have beautifully painted on eyebrows.

We have been with Ari and Rafi every moment since their amazing, perfect birth.The first night in the hospital we slept with them in our arms, and each time I could tell which baby I had with me by the way he moved against my body, recognizing him because of how I had felt him moving inside his birthmom’s belly. Julie and I feel that these boys were meant to be with us. Sometimes I think that their little souls have been with us all along, just waiting for the right moment to appear in corporeal form.

We left Arizona one month after we arrived, full of joy, with two incredible additions to our family and nothing but love, respect and gratitude between us and the birthmom.  As she put it in an email shortly after we returned home to Seattle “We are family now, just distance separates us.”

Ari and Rafi are ten months old this Mother’s Day. I am still wrapping my brain around the fact that I am one of their mothers. Despite how unreal motherhood feels, it is my greatest joy every day to make my sons laugh.

Cynthia Wallace lives in Seattle Washington with her beloved partner of almost 24 years, Julie Fein, and their twin sons, Ari and Rafael Fein-Wallace. In addition to her favorite occupation to date of stay-at-home mom, she is a freelance American Sign Langage Interpreter, an artist and a published poet.

Simone and Storm

Motherhood in Three Movements

By Simone Spence

First Movement: A Letter to Storm

As I reflect on Mother’s Day and your recent coming of adult womanhood, here are a few words of wisdom I have learned along the way. May you use them as you walk your own journey and someday perhaps choose to become a mother yourself….

Do not ever sell yourself out-
Sleep on the streets first
Or on a friends couch

Become homeless in an airport
Rejoice in being a welfare queen
Before you ever let anyone intimidate you
Scare you
Cause you to bend your sense of integrity
Challenge your self-worth
Be cruel to anyone
Including yourself

Always remember that there is something inside of you
which is far greater than your set of circumstances.

And that circumstances change.

Be true to yourself
And unapologetically uncompromising to your inner you.
It is your core.

Love, Mom

Second Movement: Swaddling (for Skylar)

My midwife taught me how to swaddle you
Wrapping you in a blanket
Like a burrito

Tucking in the ends and each side
To hold you firmly bound
Like a papoose
Bundled in my arms.

As you grew I carried you
In a sling
Next to my heart

Patting your puppy head
My other hand cradling
Your small round bottom.

You slept beside our bed
In a wicker basket
I would awake in the night
And turn to see you
Waiting … eyes open
Each of us attuned to an inner clock
Telling of our time of need.

From blankets to sling
Basket to crib
To room of your own
Your world enlarges
You need me less.

My midwife taught me
How to swaddle you.

No one has taught me how
To let you go.

Third Movement: Nobody Knew You
…for my unborn daughter, Margarita

Nobody knew you…
“sorry for the miscarriage dear, but you
Couldn’t have been very far along”.
…existed

Nobody Knew you…
“It’s not as though you lost an
Actual person”.
….were real

Nobody knew you…
“Well, it probably wasn’t a viable fetus.
It’s for the best”.
…were perfect

Nobody knew you…
“you already have a beautiful child.
Be happy!”
…were loved for yourself

Nobody knew you..
…but us.
And we will always remember
…you.

Simone Spence is an author/writer and owner of Child Support Solutions, LLC, a company which teaches parents how to enforce their rights under child support and other divorce-related issues. She lives in the Greater New York area with her3 children, her dog and her substantial poetry cllection which she has written over the years.

Moriah and Tamara

Bit by Bit: Learning to Let Go

By Tamara S. Nash

Letting go is a process. It requires strength, courage, wisdom, faith and trust. The process began for me and my only-child-daughter when I agreed to allow her to fly solo, as an unaccompanied minor, from Atlanta, Georgia to St. Paul, Minnesota to spend the summer with her father.

Miz  M was 10 years old. Her father wanted her to fly solo at age 8; I could not let go until she was 10. I sat at the gate waiting for the plane to depart, and the tears rolled down my cheeks as I prayed for a safe journey. I reassured myself that these solo trips, which separated us for several weeks at a time, were not only crucial for Miz M’s growth and development, but they were also an essential part of my preparation for her eventual enrollment in college, resulting in an empty nest.

Letting my precious babygirl fly solo to a different region of the country as a ‘tween is one stage of letting go. Another stage is participation in the teens hangin’ at the mall scene. It was my daughter’s 14th birthday and all she wanted to do was go to the mall with two close girlfriends from their dance troupe. No cake and ice cream party. I agreed, and while I chilled in a designated spot at the mall, the trio of girlfriends shopped for an hour, enjoyed burgers, fries and shakes at Johnny Rockets, and took photos of each other.

I knew that I had earned major cool points when on the ride home I overheard my daughter say that she was “really happy, because this was the best day she had all year!” Displays of trust encourage and enhance trustworthiness.

The mall was one thing. Overseas travel is another. As we gear up for Miz M to take part in an education tour of Ireland and Great Britain for two weeks in June, that will be the highest level of letting go we’ve experienced to date. Last fall, she convincingly made the case for the trip by describing it as a “life transforming-opportunity, great preparation for college and an important chance to experience life without parents.”

When I wish her safe travels across the ocean to another continent, I’ll likely be crying at the gate, shedding tears of joy, excitement and appreciation for strength, courage, wisdom, faith and trust: characteristics Miz M now possesses, which will guide and sustain her throughout her life.

Tamara S. Nash is Director, Center for Civic Engagement, at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta, Georgia.

Susan and Bryan Leigh

‘You Shouldn’t Have Any Children’ and Other Forms of Blindness

By Susan L. Gjolmesi

“Why aren’t I having any more contractions?”

There was no response from the busy nurses in the delivery room. The lights were creating a painful glare and I blurted out in a panic, “Why aren’t I having any more contractions?!”

Then he was brought close to my face so I could see him, all seven pounds of him, fair and blonde, sleeping.  He was 19.5 inches long. Thankfully, neither the severe toxemia with which I struggled nor my AB negative blood had caused any problems for this little man. I named him Bryan Leigh.

I was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa, RP for short, when I was 10 years old. It is the leading cause of genetic blindness. Back in the day, as I am now 60, it was not diagnosed much. My brother and I were diagnosed at the same time, after 3 days of tests at the Minot, North Dakota Eye, Ear and Throat Clinic. The good Dr. Ayash from Cairo, Egypt was able to diagnose us when all other doctors had failed.

At the time we were “legally blind,” a term that, as children, we found confusing. I remember listening to the doctor telling our parents while we were in the room “They are legally blind and will be totally blind by the time they are adults.” Our parents cried.

My brother and I looked at each other, perplexed. “What is he saying? I can see,” I thought. “Don’t other people see like I see?”

That was the beginning of the end of life as I had known it. Next came the first pair of “Coke bottle glasses.” That was when the wicked peer group stigma began and the pain of being picked on and being isolated kicked in. That’s when I became overprotected and was told “No” more than was necessary. Or, “No, you might get hurt.” Or, “No, you can’t do things like other kids can – you are different.” Those tapes played in my head for years…sometimes they still do.

All my parents did for me and my one brother who had RP they did out of love; this I know. They supported us, they shielded us from stigma, they helped us to be socially appropriate and even popular, they founded in us determined spirits and a huge work ethic, and I think they bestowed upon us courage.

I disliked doctors from an early age. First, it was the ophthalmologists who would peer into my eyes, exclaim about the rare things they saw, then tell me not to have any children. Every single one felt it was their ethical duty to prevent me from birthing a baby who might experience what I was going through. They might as well have said – “We don’t need any more blind people in the world!”

Then some of my general doctors asked if I planned to have children. At the time I wasn’t, but wasn’t it my business after all?

In the end, the decision was made for me. Bryan came in his own way. My then-husband and I were not paying attention to the calendar and surprise, surprise…

As I brought him home I marveled at the odds of it. I was curious as to whether he might have RP, but we wouldn’t know for quite some time. Meanwhile, there were other hurdles. My in-laws didn’t feel comfortable with me caring for a newborn. They underestimated me; after all, I didn’t have to turn on any lights to change his diapers.

Bryan was clean, loved, happy and I could take him anywhere. He loved to go and observe everything, smiling and interacting with people from as young as two months old.

My pregnancy had been very tough; during my labor my heart was acting up and I was on an EKG machine. They put me under during the delivery, as my blood pressure spiked and things got serious.  My specialist advised me not to become pregnant again, citing health concerns, saying it would be too risky, and not because of the RP. I had my tubes tied.

Raising Bryan has been the single most rewarding event of my life. There were heartbreaking realities for me. I felt oftentimes as if I was the one who did all the ordinary stuff…the home stuff: “Bryan, clean your room.” “Bryan, have you done your homework yet?”

It was his Dad who got to take him places and do the “fun” stuff, as I could not drive and take him shopping or to the movies. At times I resented that.

That did change when Bryan and I grew up, and we have “seen” remarkable things together. I never missed a theatre production in which he starred while in high school. When he was in radio, he sent me several of his audition tapes and tapes of his radio shows.

Today, Bryan resides in Orlando, Florida, where he is Chief of Staff for the Florida Advocacy Council. I was delighted to be a guest last December to see my “baby” at work as he conducted a meeting of one of the advocate councils in his office suite. He was brilliant and many of the advocates stopped to tell me how impressive my son is.

Not surprisingly, Bryan Leigh has been an advocate, in one way or another, for most of his life in one way or another.  When he was just a little guy and his friends would come to play with his Fisher/Price toys they would have a blast. When it was time for them to go home, I would hear his little voice say, “You got to help me pick up all the toys so my Mommy doesn’t trip and hurt herself.” And they would.

I remember the day he came out to me, on my birthday. I looked at him and said, “It’s okay. I’m blind, you’re gay. It’s really all the same.” We laughed and hugged each other really hard. He had told his father first, as he knew that his father would have issues with it, which he did. It was a surprise to Bryan that I already knew, but not that I would be supportive and love him for who he is, for his entire identity.

Today, Bryan is an activist for the LGBTQ community much the same as I am for the disability community. We also share a commitment to the humane treatment of animals. I am a dog guide user and my retired dog, Nellie, and my current dog, Inez, are part of our family. They love their “boy” Bryan. Without Inez it would be impossible to travel to Florida to see Bryan, his partner Greg and their rescued dog, Zander.

My life is full. My husband, Bjorn, the two dogs, and my beautiful son have blessed me. My job at Bellevue College is challenging and rewarding. The RP does not define who I am. In a way, it has blessed me and contributed to my life in ways that others will never understand.

And Bryan Leigh?  He does not have RP. The baby I “should not have had” is changing the world, perfecting his identity and helping children of all races, elders who have no voices, gays who just want to be in love and committed to their partners for life.  He is a change agent for social and governmental transformation ion. All of which I am sure he would still be doing even if he had RP.

Susan L. Gjolmesli a college administrator living in the Pacific Northwest.

Jay and Desiree

The Power of Mother Love and Intuition

By Desiree Cooper

A decade ago, my husband and I sat in a disheveled psychiatrist’s office at Children’s Hospital in Detroit. Outside the door, our 12-year-old son, Jay waited anxiously, too old to be interested in the worn-out Highlights magazines.

The doctor looked at us hesitantly and asked: “Did your son ever have a stroke?” It was as if she’d thrown an anvil in my lap. How could Jay have had something so serious without us realizing it?

The question led to a battery of tests. In the end, we discovered that Jay had epilepsy. He had gone through life as though someone was turning the lights off and on every three-to-four minutes. But without showing any outward symptoms-he never fainted or spaced out or trembled-we had no way of knowing.

Yet, I had suspected that something was wrong for years. Jay was an extremely good-natured, highly verbal kid with intelligent eyes and a warm smile. While he was great at basketball, his fine motor skills were lagging. In grade school, he held his pencil too tightly, pressing hard to make deliberate strokes. He couldn’t line up his numbers in order to add or subtract. He couldn’t remember instructions like, “Go upstairs, get a blue towel from the closet and put it in the bathroom.” He struggled to read.

His teachers assured us that Jay was just immature and would “even out.” They made me feel like I was overbearing. So instead, I sat with Jay after school everyday and reviewed his lessons, often working three or four hours a night.

I noticed that he would abruptly go from being engaged to suddenly now knowing what was going on, as if someone had just erased his memory. Middle school, where he was required to change classes and use a locker, was disorienting for him. I had to meet him every day after school, talk to each teacher and help him get the right books to bring home. There wasn’t a test that he took that I couldn’t pass. There wasn’t a book that he read that I didn’t read. We studied over family dinners. We took his books on all vacations. Even so, he was still a C-minus student.

The stress on our mother-son relationship was unbearable. I finally had him address me as “Ms. Cooper” whenever we were studying. It was funny (even I would call Ms. Cooper names behind her back!), but it was a way to separate the “stern tutor” from the “loving mother.” Somehow, Jay always kept a positive attitude.

I, on the other hand, often buckled under the stress of working full time and supporting our son. Once, a pep talk in the car went terribly wrong. I ended up driving to a run-down school noted for its gangs and shootings. I yelled at him to get out of the car, screaming “If you’re not willing to work, this is what you deserve!” My fears about black males dropping out of school consumed me. I didn’t want Jay to become a statistic. He wailed, promising to do better.

That night, the shame wouldn’t let me sleep.

People told me I was doing too much. Teachers said that I was making Jay lazy. Family said that I should let him fail. Friends suspected that I needed him to be an honor student for my own ego.

Finally, in middle school, a psychologist gave me the best advice: get him tested. Which is how we ended up in the doctor’s office learning that Jay had been having seizures, probably from birth. The diagnosis led to years of experimenting with medications, battling schools for accommodations and exploring alternative treatments.

Jay is now slowly making his way through college. In his freshman composition class, he

had to write an essay based upon Maya Angelou’s perennial question, “Who is your rainbow?”

I cried when Jay wrote about me. “There were many times when I felt I was unable to do homework assignments,” he said. “I would literally have so much trouble, that I would just shut down and my mother would find some way to put up with me, get me relaxed and back on track. She is the driving force in my life.”

His journey is far from over, but I often wonder what would have happened if I had let my son go, as so many advised me to do. What I’ve learned is that sometimes, motherhood isn’t about self-sacrifice. It’s about seeing the potential in everyone and nurturing it. That, more than anything, is our gift to our children and through them, to the world.

Desiree Cooper is an award-winning columnist, radio personality and a contributor to the anthology, Other People’s Skin: Four Novellas. She lives in Detroit with her family.

Beyond Face Value

By DeDe Grogan

My son, Seth, was born in 1992. I was not exactly prepared to be a parent…but, I know few parents who truly are prepared for the many challenges that come along with having kids. I mean, it’s not like they come with an owner’s manual.

Seth was born on time, but ended up having to stay in the hospital a few extra days because he was breathing a bit too fast. We were told that this was not an uncommon occurrence and that in most cases it would correct itself. And it did.

Our first year was amazing. Despite the challenges common to all new parents, it was a magical time, and we enjoyed watching Seth grow from infant to toddler. At a year old, I expected Seth to start walking, but he didn’t. It seemed so odd, because his legs seemed so strong.

I shared my worries with friends who were more experienced parents. They reassured me by telling me that boys tend to be a little bit delayed in their development. So I gave it more time before bringing it up with our family doctor.

When Seth still wasn’t walking at one-and-a-half, I was certain that something was wrong. I went to doctors, who said he had cerebral palsy. Shocked, I asked how he had reached that conclusion. The doctor said that Seth “seemed to fit the bill.”

While I am the most educated person, I know enough not to take things at face value, especially when no testing has been done. So, I asked that the doctor to run tests to confirm his diagnosis.  Without proper testing, I worried that my son would be saddled with a label, rather than an honest confirmed diagnosis.

The confirmed diagnosis wasn’t cerebral palsy. Instead, we learned that Seth had a rare condition called Mitochondrial Encephalopathy, caused by genetic mutations that cause seizures, headaches, muscle disease, stroke-like episodes and dementia.

The news was hard to accept. We were frightened, for sure. But, I am so glad that I challenged that first doctor and refused to accept his cerebral palsy diagnosis without confirmation. With the proper diagnosis, we were able to get the resources that Seth needed to meet the many challenges that he has faced.

As a result, my wonderful son’s quality of life has been increased time and again. Our family has educated others about his disorder and worked with our community response teams and schools to ensure that he has been treated like any other child. I believe this has helped Seth grow into the strong, confident and compassionate young man that he is today.

Along this challenging and rewarding journey, I have learned to question and challenge “facts” that are presented based on surface value. As parents, we know our children better than anyone else in the world, sometimes even better than doctors. We are their best advocates, and it is our responsibility to seek the best care for them, and to be willing to seek a second opinion when our gut instincts don’t feel comfortable with the first.

DeDe Grogan is an education administrator, writer and mother living in Arizona.

Dionne and Desiree

From the Mouths of Babes

By Dionne Ford

It’s a blustery January morning when my daughter, Desiree, informs me that she is white.

“I don’t want to be black.  It’s too hard,” she says from the breakfast table.

I whip the eggs I’m scrambling with too much gusto, splattering yolk and whites onto our Corian countertop.

“You’re white and black,” I say, resisting the urge to shake this truth into her before the world does. With her butterscotch skin and copper-colored curls, it’s easy to see that white is only half her story-her father’s half. He is a redhead with freckled skin like his Irish grandmother. I am black, cocoa-colored and dark-eyed like my grandmothers from Oklahoma and Mississippi.

I want Desiree, as a biracial child, to self-identify, to not let others box her into some container too small to hold all of her. I just never considered that she might not identify with me at all.

“What do you mean it’s too hard to be black?”

She replies with elementary school wisdom. “You can’t sit where you want.  People treat you bad. I’d rather be white. They’re treated better,” she says, her bright brown eyes averted, avoiding my gaze.

“Black people can sit where they want on buses now. Things have changed.” Pouring what’s left of the eggs into the pan, I glimpse the bare trees outside, remembering it’s January, MLK’s birthday, and I silently curse their school assembly and its thorough depiction of all the inequities blacks suffered.

“I know things are different now,” Desiree says, “but still, it just seems easier to be white.”

From the mouths of babes.

For a second, I am disappointed that she already knows this. But then, wiping up the gooey mess I’ve made, I remember my friend in junior high telling me I “wasn’t really black” because I was smart and didn’t live in the projects. I recall another friend in middle school who cautioned me to stay away from their dog because her father had trained it to attack black people.

My daughter already understands something that most people who of color never comprehend: that it’s harder to be black than it is to be white in this country. Her understanding gives me a glimmer of hope.

I call my big sister, hoping that as the mother of two grown sons, she’ll have some wisdom to impart, or at least a joke to tide me over.

“I cheered when Tiger Woods came up with the word Cablanasian to encompass all of his parts,” I said. “I supported changes to the 2000 census that would better serve my interracial family. So why can’t I accept my daughter’s choice. Why can’t she accept that she’s half black, half me?”

My sister reminds me that when I was about six, a year younger than Desiree, I declared that I wanted to be white. “You were tired of the girls in the neighborhood”-one Asian, the other biracial-”making fun of your skin and hair,” she reminded me.

My declaration slowly resurfaces along with a rush of memories like a wave: wishing my hair would stay straight in Monica’s pool so the other girls wouldn’t laugh at what they called my nigger naps. Angie’s mother throwing only me out of her house for jumping on the bed, but letting the other girls-all white-stay.

I remember trying to picture myself white, with blonde hair and blue eyes, but I couldn’t do it.  It didn’t feel right. Instead, I would picture myself as myself, and people like the neighborhood girls and Angie’s mom opening their arms to me. That’s what I wanted, to be accepted, but it came out as “I want to be white.”

Hmm. I guess my daughter does identify with me after all.

Dionne Ford is an author and writer living with her family in Montclair, NJ.

From Left: Zariyah in daddy Miku’s arm, Robin, Sofia, Raya

The ‘Right’ Color

By Robin Happonen

I am a white mother raising 3 daughters, two of whom are black. I had the privilege of adopting my foster children. There have been issues within our family, but none have been about race – at least not yet. My younger daughters are four and five years old and are not bothered by the differences of our skin color.  Unfortunately, not everyone outside of our family is as color-blind.

There have been comments, most of them innocent enough as they usually come from children. I have been asked numerous times if I am the babysitter. I once had a discussion with a five-year-old boy who refused to believe that my youngest child was my daughter.  ”You can’t be her mother!” he exclaimed. “You are not the right color!”

Even after I explained about adoption, he wasn’t buying it.  It was rather amusing but also poignant. I know that there are going to be racial issues to deal with, I only hope that my girls will be strong enough to overcome them.

Both of my daughters have been asked where their “black mother” or “real mother” is. So far, they seemed unfazed by the questions. They know who they are and who I am. They know that they have a birth mother who could not take care of them. They also know that this is their forever family and for now, they feel secure in that.

My five-year-old once explained it to her friend when she asked why I was white, “I was born from a different mommy’s tummy but she couldn’t take care of me so my Mommy helped her.”

There are things I’ve had to discover about raising African-American children. I was so nervous about their hair. I literally tried every product on the market to try and keep their hair looking soft and shiny (I’ve finally settled on Carol’s Daughter products.).

I have friends who told me to take the easy way out and give them dreadlocks.  Although I personally like the way dreads look, I didn’t want to make that decision for my children. I was determined that my girls would look like their peers-I didn’t want them to look like a white woman was trying to do their hair and failing miserably. Luckily I found a wonderful woman in my neighborhood to braid their hair for me.

I know my girls and I will face adversity as they grow and mature into young women.  They will have to struggle with their identities, not only because they are adopted, but because they are black children being raised by a white mother.  I am thankful that the world is changing, and the way people look at race is changing.  But it is still not a perfect world. There will be insensitive comments that may hurt them. But as my wise five-year-old recently said to me, “Our skin may be different colors but we are just the
same on the inside.”

Robin Happonen is a teacher, foster parent, and the proud mother of three daughters.

Stephanie, daughter Sasha (in back) and son Jack.

Reclaiming Motherhood

By Stephanie McGhee

My youngest child has just posed a question I wasn’t expecting.

“Mom, what’s an alcoholic?”

I tend to be open about my alcoholism and recovery.  However, because he is only seven, I don’t discuss it with him beyond saying, “Mommy can never drink.” Has he overheard me talking to others? Or maybe others talking about me?

I tell him, “an alcoholic is someone who can’t stop dinking.” After a pause, I add, “And they hurt people. And their spirit is very sick…” I stop there. All of this is true, but many adults can’t understand it, much less a 7-year-old boy.

“Well,” he asks, “did you drink when I was in your belly?”

Where did that one come from?

“No, sweetie, I didn’t.” My answer isn’t honest. I didn’t drink much when I was pregnant, but I did, because I couldn’t stop. That’s addiction.

I think back to when I had my first child-my now 13-year-old daughter-before my alcoholism set in. At the time I worked at being a loving, disciplined, present mom. Then I started drinking heavily and I became less disciplined…more heavily and I became resentful… more heavily still and I pretty much checked out.  In the end I was neglectful, verbally abusive, dangerous.

When I sobered up three years ago, I felt as if I were World’s Worst Mom. Yet once the alcohol was removed from the equation, the old me began to reemerge. Of course, I didn’t rocket to “World’s Best Mom.”  I have had to work toward it. A 12-step program, therapy, counseling for the kids, relearning parenting skills, regaining confidence.

Out of the work has come a recognition of mothering that has little to do with the social ideal poured over our brains, and which applies to all of us, recovering or otherwise. I now tend to scoff at mother-guilt. I caused wounds in my children for which I have to answer, but I am not the source of all their woes. I am neither that horrible nor that important. That award I once wanted-”World’s Best Mom”-I now consider a myth, much like Big Foot. I work at being kind, disciplined, present. Sometimes I end up being mean, undisciplined, not mentally there. There’s no perfect, it’s all a journey.

And balance… something I wave to as I swing between extremes. Slowing down the swing can translate into putting myself first-perhaps leaving my children at night to attend AA meetings, writing, caring for myself physically and emotionally. It’s the old adage: put my own oxygen mask on first.  If I’m suffocating, it’s impossible to do a decent job of parenting.

The result has been a reclaiming of my motherhood, the breaking of a chain of alcoholism and dysfunction. A new course has been set and we are arriving at a better place.

Stephanie McGhee is a fiction and creative nonfiction writer and mother of two living in Montclair, NJ.

Above: Eisa and baby.  Below: Great Mom and Eisa’s mother

Remembering ‘Great Mom’ on My First Mother’s Day

By Eisa Ulen

One day when I was a girl, I discovered a bag of old family pictures in my grandmother’s closet. Years later, as a young adult, I arranged those photos in a large leather album.

Whenever I visited Grandmom in Philadelphia, I would pull out that leather album, and she would laugh. “Aw, shucks,” she’d say, “Eisa and those pictures!”

Though she teased me, she’d always lean forward, ask for her glasses, gaze at each old photograph, the images that documented her life, and tell me a story about each one. Sometimes, it would be a new story, one I’d never heard before, about the people in the photo, or the place where it was taken, or what else happened that day. Sometimes the story would be one I’d heard many times before. Either way, I never tired of looking at those old photos with Grandmom. Neither, I think, did she.

Last Spring, my grandmother passed. About a month later, my husband and I found out we were pregnant. This February, our son was born. So, this will be my first Mother’s Day, the first I celebrate since I had my son.The first without my grandmother.

And I miss her so much, I ache. Inside, I’m screaming. I want her back. I don’t want to hear she’s in A Better Place. I don’t to want to hear she is With Me in Spirit. I want her soft embrace, her quiet love.

I want to see her gently hold our son, her first great-grandchild. I want the picture of her holding him, to place in the big leather album. Because he’s already so much like her. My Love. What I would give for just one moment with them together, and to have it captured on film, an image to see whenever I wanted.

I do have two photographs sitting on my dresser. They are propped up against my vanity, among old perfume bottles, a long ribbon, and a brass box too tiny to hold anything inside. In one picture, a black and white, Grandmom holds my mother, a newborn infant yawning in her lap. My grandmother is turned to the side. Seated in front of her own vanity and dresser, she is well-dressed, and her post-pregnancy body looks amazing in her sharp, 1940s-style blouse and skirt. She is young and healthy and, oh, so beautiful, even in profile. Her thick dark hair hangs in heavy curls to her shoulders and is tucked behind her ear. She is loving motherhood. She is loving my mother, her firstborn child.

The other picture is one my husband took of me holding our newborn son, so handsome, even at just a couple of days old. Though I am turned to the side, it is clear I am unable to take my eyes off of this beautiful Life that has come through me to the world. My hair is thick and dark and hangs long, tucked behind my ear.

I did not think of my grandmother holding my mother when the picture of me was taken, but she and I look so much alike. To have had a picture of all of us, my grandmother, husband, son, and me in one picture would have been the greatest Mother’s Day gift.

As a gift to my son, I will whisper a story in his ear about Grandmom, who once told me she wanted to be called Great Mom when I had a baby. As a gift to her, I will lay flowers on her grave this Mother’s Day, and I will always carry her, inside me, where she will live on, an echo of Love with a rhythm that beats like the sound of my own heart.

I have not pulled out that old leather album to gaze at images of my family very much this past year. But on Mother’s Day, I will place a photo in it of all of us, my husband, son,  and me, her descendants, together. It will be an image of the future, and in my husband’s love, in my face and my son’s-so much like hers-an image of Great Mom, continuing on. That will be my Mother’s Day gift to myself.

Eisa Ulen Richardson is the author of Crystelle Mourning.
www.EisaUlen.com

Cynthia and Isis

Big Ups to My Brooklyn Mom

By Isis Arias

My mother is from Brooklyn
201 clinton
myrtle and Willoughby
and I am the second-generation
first-born daughter
half-blood child
but I am 100 percent pinay
my mother is no Filipino nurse
and she didn’t exactly
focus on the piano
she doesn’t speak Tagalog
and hasn’t yet been ‘home’

she was an activist
and was loud proud and stand-up
you could say I get it from my momma
we had asian lit in the crib
and I knew more about mail order brides
than barbies at one point

my mother is from Brooklyn
not far from where I rest my head at
didn’t keep me in catholic school
past the year they detained me
and she’d rewrite prayers
because they said we were sinners
in the FIRST GRADE.

When I went off to live in the Philippines
And try and learn Tagalog
People would ask (“sabi niya”)
Where are you from (“tagasaan ka…?”)
Well…
Ang lolo at lola ko (my grandparents)
Are from Samar, Philippines
“Sa Samar, po”
Moms was born in Paris
“Ipininganak ang nay ko sa Paris
(ang navy brat siya)
pero
ANG NAY KO SA BROOKLYN”

She’s not the type that would give time outs
But could talk her way out of muggings
And was quick with a belt -

And when my FiRE girls loved the fly digs
And ask where from -
My Momma’s closet….

Momma’s not the submissive type
She’s… Soft ‘n sweet spoken
And so easy on the eyes
She’s beautiful but from Brooklyn
100 percent PINAY*!

(*From Wikipedia: Pinay (pronounced /pi-na?/) is a colloquial term for Filipina, the feminine form of Pinoy)

Isis Arias is a self-described and publicly-confirmed muse. She specializes in exclusive event planning, marketing and public relations. Gratefully, she credits her mother, Cynthia Arias, for being her largest inspiration.