Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

My mother once walked into my bedroom that I shared with my brother. Through gritted teeth, she slowly said, “You live like dogs in here,” and walked away, pure revulsion on her face. I was an adolescent boy. She was right. Our school clothes blanketed the floor in piles, dirty socks everywhere.

My brother’s Purple Rain and my Dr. Julius Erving posters flapped away from the wall. Matchbox cars and GI Joe figures littered the doorway. Scattered cassette tapes and empty plates sat atop old homework next to half-full cans of Coke. Flies walked their edges. She often chided us, but for some reason, that day, she pierced me. She used a voice that was all rebuke, that said you are infecting me at my deepest core with your lack of hygiene. My mother was a gentle soul, a woman with a smile that lit up any space. When she became angry, she transformed; her whole sweet demeanor became a haunting plague of disgusted looks.

That day, I cleaned my room. I stacked, washed clothes, and organized schoolbooks. The next morning and every morning since, after putting my feet on the floor, I make my bed.

Today’s poem shows how we impossibly carry our parents’ voices well into our adulthood, a measure by which to shape our lives independent of their nurturance and instructions.

Mother’s Rules
by Yalie Saweda Kamara

for my mother, Agatha Kamara

I.      If you see me praying in the living room, never sit in front of me. You are not God.

II.     When we go to a restaurant and I don’t know any foods on the menu, never order me a meal that 
         is spelled with silent letters. I came to eat, not to explore.

III.    You didn’t make food. No. God, did. You cooked food. Watch your English. Watch your faith.

IV.    Your Krio is offensive. When you speak, you sound like Shabba Ranks. Your accent is funny, 
          but keep practicing. It is the only way we will be able to gossip in peace while at the supermarket.

V.     Try to learn the language of your lover and his family. They could be smiling to your face and 
          getting ready to trade you for 6 goats and 3 mules during your first trip to their homeland.

VI.    If anyone stares at you for too long (more than 5 seconds), start speaking an imaginary language 
          while maintaining eye contact. They will be the first to look away.

VII.   Consider the consequence of purchasing human hair wigs, secondhand clothing, and used 
          furniture. Maybe you will feel beautiful, and also save money, but you never know whose bad luck 
          or misfortune will be sitting on your head, body, or in the home in which you sleep. Buy what you 
          can truly afford.

VIII.   Your father’s Muslim, so you are too (1989-1993).
            I am Christian, so you are too (1993-2012).
            I am Catholic now, but you keep praying (2012-present).

IX.     You laugh at me now. Like I laughed at my mother. Like she laughed at hers. Like your daughters 
           will laugh at you. And I will live long enough to forgive your folly.

X.      Just make sure to pray.

Amen.

“Mother's Rules” by Yalie Saweda Kamara from BESAYDOO © 2024 Yalie Saweda Kamara . Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Milkweed Editions.