Transcript

I’m Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

Earlier this year, my wife lost her great aunt Tata. She lived in the mountains of North Carolina until several years ago, independently and alone. She was 96 years old and the matriarch in the family. Her passing had me think about formidable elders in my life who served as a vessel of kinship and connection. They thought purposely and broadly about family; several were not mothers, per se, but inherited a status of regard and influence that made a difference in the lives of multiple generations.

The tea-brown matriarchs in my family made caretaking a defining aspect of their roles. My grandmother Lucille possessed a spiritual magnetism. Her pleasant outlook on life convinced all in her sphere to this belief that no hardship could extinguish their light. Grandmom Ruby’s sharp sense of humor established laughter as the basis of all relationships. Grandmom Rose taught, by example, that charity and giving are the base principles to construct a meaningful life.

I treasure the elder women in my life for their conscious, yet easy-going transference of soul-nourishing values. Matriarchs mediated conflicts among family members. They put into play care and cohesion. They lovingly told stories, recalled important family members, and carried on cultural traditions, passed down like charms.

Yet, some people consider any kind of hierarchy problematic. The elder women in my family were easily disappointed. Several cousins could not abide by their strict moral codes that they felt were dated. Other family members were cowled by the expectations of our matriarchs.

Today’s fine poem stresses the importance of knowing our matrilineages, how the contributions of our mothers live in and through us, however complicated, as pillars of divine love.

We Never Stop Talking About Our Mothers
by Diannely Antigua

Renee and I, hers—in the urn by her desk,
and mine—alive in an apartment forty minutes
from here, probably watching a telenovela, frying
plantains, texting me good night. Renee’s mother isn’t
really in the urn. She’s in the blue wall, 
the beach landscape painting, the dog
barking at the unexpected, the jangle of silver bracelets.
We are all carrying our mothers, and we are all better
daughters with the dead. She tells me I am wise,
and all I can think about are the moments of my unwiseness: driving
and sipping margaritas from a water bottle, the bruise
on my arm and taking him back. Her husband 
is away at the family cabin, and she is glad
for the space. My husband doesn’t exist, and I am
sad for the space I make my home in. I buy sunflowers 
and goat cheese, throw a dinner party for the ghosts.
I don’t know Renee’s mother’s name to send a proper invitation.
I don’t know the names of the women in my family
past my great-grandmother. How will I call upon them
when it’s time? Will I call them Mary or Venus
or Yemaya? I’ve yet to burn the palo santo, the sage.
I want to leave behind a legacy of light.
I want to leave someone better.

“We Never Stop Talking About Our Mothers” by Diannely Antigua © 2024 GOOD MONSTER. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.