Question 7

What parts of your mother live on in you?

Not sure I’m the right person to answer this one, but here goes.

A lot of me is her. My mum hasn’t even been here for most of my life, and yet every so often someone will tell me of how much I remind them of her. A woman I can barely even remember myself, and yet I keep her alive for so many people around me. The most obvious way being, how much I look like her. Everyone tells me this. I literally couldn’t escape this comment if I tried.

Like this day at church for example, on a random Sabbath mind you. The platform party was standing by the door as usual greeting everyone, so I was saying my ‘hellos’ as I was walking through the doors. Till one of them looked at me and said ‘Joy’. My mother’s name. I responded saying no and corrected him with my actual name. He then proceeded to tell me no, correcting me as if to say I don’t know my own government name, again calling me ‘Joy’. I just had to laugh and agree because clearly he knew my mother. Only for me to then find out that we’re family. Since then I’ve been sent pictures of my mum that I’ve never seen before, all of which have just casually been sitting in his home. And all because he looked at me and immediately saw my mother.

The resemblance is clearly a strong one and probably the biggest part of her that lives on in me. My dad is forever reminding me of this. According to him I walk like her, talk like her, look like her, have mannerisms like her. I am her. I am Joy’s child. Joy’s miracle baby. I guess it’s only fitting that I’m her only child. No one to compete with for my mini me status.

I must confess though, it’s been hard and took me a long while to see this resemblance for myself. I still even struggle to see it now and definitely not as clearly as others do. I literally had to put pictures of us side by side to help me start to see it, until one day when my uncle took a picture of me at church. He did this for no reason at all, just simply because he had his camera, the weather was nice and he wanted to take my picture. It was a digital camera so I was able to see the pictures immediately, but you see when he sent me the proper ones? I looked at them and didn’t even see myself. I saw that smile and immediately saw my mum, specifically a picture I’d seen of her smiling the exact same way. That’s probably the only time I’ve been able to clearly see the resemblance, and one of the only pictures too. Any other pictures and I’m back to being blind as a bat.

Another part that lives on in me is her love for books. My mother was the church librarian when I was little and let me tell you, no one managed that little library like she did. If there’s anything I remember, it’s that. I have vivid memories of being at the back of church with mum, helping her organise everything. I remember the boxes she used to keep to help her keep track of who took out what book, and when. I remember how the library used to look and sitting there watching her work. And when she was done, being able to lock up with that little key. But the specific love of books, I can never forget that. Our front room at home was practically full of them, and believe me she had read every single one. My mum’s friend was even telling me recently that every time she came to the front advertising new books for the church to read, you could always tell she’d read them herself.

Back to our home though, my room was full of books just like in the front room. I had mine all lined up on shelves on the longest wall in my room. My own personal collection. Chapter books were definitely my favourite, but the book that has and will always take the cake? ‘Eat up Gemma’, because hello? My name on a book? And about a black girl too?! Say less. I still have it till this day and whilst all my childhood books have now been passed down to The Rugrats, that one there will never ever grace their hands. I might be kind and read it to them, but that’s as close as they will ever get. I actually have to get back to reading like I used to, because I really used to enjoy! Every minute I could get I would have my head in a book, and it didn’t matter where I was. As long as I had one on me, I was good. My stepmom had to literally ban me from reading books in the bathroom.

‘Ban?’ I hear you say.

Yes ban.

I would go into that bathroom, book in hand to use the toilet. Except I wouldn’t leave once I’d finish like normal people would. I’d sit on that toilet way past the loss of feeling in my legs, happily reading away. Of course it was a chapter book that just could not be interrupted. And with one bathroom in the whole house, that obviously meant that no one else could get in for ages. Did I care? No. Was I gutted when I could no longer read on the toilet? Absolutely. What kind of injustice was that? Fortunately though, I survived that ordeal and lived to tell the tale.

Another part of my mother that lives on in me is photography, but do I need to repeat myself? I think not, except to say that she was probably way more in love with it than I am, simply because of the amount of pictures that have been left in my care. But knowing that this is another way in which we’re similar, is something I love to remember.

There’s probably way more parts of her that live one in me, but again, I’m not the best person to share this. Without people telling me about them, I don’t know because as you can imagine, I haven’t been the one to go around asking. I’m actually grateful that I’m now at a place where I’m able to receive those stories and cherish them, because there’s loads. And each one allows me to learn a little bit more of who my mother was and what she meant to those around her. It’s almost like I’m keeping her alive for everyone, whilst they’re helping me to know her even more. Building my secondhand memories and in some ways helping to fill that void.