Open Wounds

Mom(1963) - My favorite picture.

I was on the phone with my mom.  I had some open wounds.  I wanted her to fix them.  Heal them.  Something. She filled them with stories.

My mom is a great story teller.  The detail, the build...everything about her story telling is awesome and dynamic.  I on the other hand can't tell a story to save my life.  I have the detail down, I can even give a build but my stories are always, always anti-climatic... Why didn't mother pass down the trait that would allow me to deliver a great climax?  Sucks that I can't be like her in every way.  I think I may have her height and maybe her thighs and part of my right eye looks like part of her left eye...

Anyway,  Mother told me two stories this weekend.  Two I've never heard.

Story #1- The Short Version:
I found out that my mom was afraid to tell my grandmother that she had named me after her.  Krahn people(some) believe in reincarnation.  Because of that belief you aren't supposed to name a child after a relative if they are still alive.  For at least a month my mom only called me by my Igbo name.  She didn't want to upset my grandmother.  When she finally told my grandmother, grandma said, "Well isn't that what westernized people do, name their kids after the people they love?  It doesn't bother me.  I know you did it because you love me."

My mom told me she did it because of that but really because of the meaning.  My middle name means- finished and complete.  After I was born my mom said she knew she was done having kids.  I was it.  Her giving me my grandmother's name was her declaration.  NO MORE BABIES.

Funny thing is I always knew the last part but I never knew the first part.  I asked my mom about that years ago.  I asked why I was able to have my grandmother's name when she was still alive and kicking.  My mother's answer then, "I asked permission."

She did ask permission- only after the fact.

Story #2- The Really Short Version:
When the president of Liberia came to visit her area she was selected to present him with the gift from her county. My mom was the only one who delivered a portion of her words in her native tongue and not English.  The crowd went wild.  ENDOFSTORY.

I'm going to record my mom telling some of her stories.  I never want to be without them or her beautiful voice. The full version of that second story is a rich one.

My wounds were nonexistent after speaking with my mom and my mind has been occupied with questions since the conversation ended.  Why don't I really speak Krahn or Igbo?  When will I seriously learn one or both languages?  So much of culture is in language... I'm thankful for my names...they are a start...there is so much of me that I don't know...I'm my parents, I'm not my parents, I'm African, I'm American, I'm African American, I'm...

Anyway- pulling out the digital recorder.  Getting mom's stories locked down.  Those stories fill wounds and everybody (maybe not everybody) might benefit from hearing them...