I loved to slip away to my mothers’ room. Whenever I sensed the opportunity, I’d slide the heavy wooden doors open to enter her world. There I’d hear the soundtrack of my soul , an endless rotation of my favorite music flowing through my mind. And every song reminded me of her – my favorite lady.
My mother had a bedroom set. Three matching pieces. Bed, armoire and dresser/vanity. I loved the vanity. The large three paneled mirror, a soul reflection and glimpse into my future. Me. A woman. I spent hours in my mother’s room tinkering with objects on her vanity. Things only a woman would have.
Cold cream, lipstick, small pictures of faraway but familiar faces framing the mirrors. They were cousins and friends from her long ago life in Demopolis, Alabama. On rare occasions she’d leave her wedding band in a swan-topped crystal bowl. The rose gold band, huge in my little girl hands, felt holy but unreal. Alternating stars and moons encircled the gently worn band. Foreshadowing the mismatched union of a Christian girl who fell in love in the big city.
She married a man who embraced the idea of many wives and not much else of the Muslim faith. She was too young to fully understand the complications that choice would bring. Back then, I’d already decided their arrangement was complicated. There were too many people involved. Nothing in my parents relationship resembled anything like the love I saw on TV or knew in my heart a marriage was supposed to be.
My mother wore little jewelry but the pieces she owned were classic and stylish if not authentic. Pearls. Delicate studs, a nice watch. The pearls weren’t real. Neither were the stones that, to me, looked like diamonds. And the watch …maybe a great sale in the mid-range category at Macys. Nothing special really. But she was. She loved us so well it covered a lot of the painful parts. We were happy.
It seems I’m there now. Becoming the woman I spent so much time dreaming about. I was going for a combination of my mother, Nancy Wilson and Marilynn McCoo. A little too rough for pearls, I blended in a bit of Nina Simone…maybe a little Rita Marley. I’ve always connected to an image of a tough sort of warrior princess. A queen with spunk and heart.
“I’ve been hurt in love 3 times. Once as a baby, then as a lady. Now I’m a woman.” – Nancy Wilson
“One less bell to answer, one less egg to fry….” – Marilyn McCoo
“Birds flyin’ high, you know how I feel
Sun in the sky, you know how I feel
Breeze driftin’ on by, you know how I feel
It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me….and I’m feeling good” – Nina Simone
raw beauty and style
I sang the words to songs like these while rummaging through my mothers drawer. The nylon slips and bra she wore when it was hot fascinated me. My mother was elegance I could touch. In my world she was a celebrity…clearly slumming it with the likes of us. Obviously dodging her many fans by camouflaging herself as an ordinary woman. I imagined she had a life that didn’t include chasing kids in department stores, cold cups of instant coffee or a husband that didn’t choose her or us….first.
At her vanity I sighed and sang….giving voice to feelings I didn’t have the emotional vocabulary to express. At her vanity, I felt the dreams for my life mingle with her longing for another. Becoming one.
an exercise in memoir writing shared with the community at #TellHisStory. Thanks Jennifer for the space to share this and the friends who’ll read it
