Mom
Right after my father died, they brought Mom home, helped her to bed and tried to console her. I don’t remember who all was there at that time. I do know, like I previously said, my dad’s sister was there, but I can’t remember who else at that very moment. Once they got mom settled in bed, everyone left out, just leaving mom and I. We were both crying. I walked closer to her side and she reached out to grab my hand and she cried “oh Alvin, what are we going to do?” I remember this for specific reasons. One, it was such a lonely feeling in that moment. My Dad was gone. Two, mom holding my hand, or showing any type of physical touch or affection was highly unusual during that time of my life.
But dad was gone. The stark reality that life has drastically changed in this instant is gradually setting in. It would now only be mom and I. How was I supposed to deal with this loss? What was I supposed to do? Just remember, this is the late ’70s. We were Black. There were no counselors or therapists made accessible to help this nine year old kid understand what had happened to his father.
Mom’s Story
Mom was a special woman. She had been through a lot in her lifetime. I knew a little from what she told me. I didn’t hear of too many childhood stories. She told me she stayed with her maternal grandmother mostly when she was young. They didn’t live far away from my mom’s parents. It was “just across the field.” My mom said her maternal grandmother was “indian” and she had long white hair. My mom also told me that when she was young, she was a bed wetter and everytime she did, she got disciplined and was made to wash her own sheets. She always thought that was cruel and wrong. That’s why whenever I did that, she never punished me. In case you didn’t know, bed wetting has been found to have some genetic links. That’s about all of the stories I can remember Mom telling me about her childhood. I never knew how her and dad met. Or what her relationship was like with her father. Or her maternal grandfather, Or Paternal grandparents.
After Dad died, Mom decided to move back to East Texas to be near her family. As a matter of fact, my dad had actually bought a piece of land across the street from my maternal grandparents house in Jasper, in the event that after he died, my mom would want to move back home. And that’s just what she did. For me, I was ecstatic about this because this brought me in continuous contact with my cousins and neighborhood kids that I already knew from frequent previous visits. The neighborhood we lived in originally in Hempstead didn’t have that many kids that I could hangout and play with. However, in Jasper, Texas that neighborhood had tons of kids and we all had bikes.
Having a bike as a kid was priority number one in my childhood. Much like kids love their phones today, we had to have bikes! This was how we connected with our friends in the neighborhood. This was our mode of transportation. So when Mom would announce earlier in the week, that we would be going to Jasper on the upcoming weekend, my first order of business when I got home from school on that Friday evening, was to figure out how to get my bike in the back seat of the car. Forget clothes, toothbrushes, combs and everything else, it was all about getting the bike in the car. Once that was done, then I could get the other nonessentials, like church clothes and combs packed up. But more about that later.
Mom and Grief
I really didn’t understand how Mom grieved. At this point in her life she had experienced a lot of death, but especially the death of a child and then her spouse. However, I was not aware of her grief. Not until later on near the end of her life did I realize how much she still grieved her losses.
Mom was a teacher. She taught elementary school for thirty years. She even taught middle school special education for a time when we first moved back to Jasper. Mom built a nice big four bedroom brick home on that land dad had bought her. I really liked this at first because it had central air and we didn’t have to worry about window units and window fans. However, the newness quickly wore off because there was a ton of things to do in settling in a new house and new land. A lot of times I resented this because I had chores and yard projects to do, and I couldn’t spend time down the street with my friends.
My mom taught me how to do a lot of household things though. I could clean, had already known how to cook (thanks again, Dad). I was nearly self sufficient. But this was the 80’s and we were Gen X kids. That’s how Gen X kids were raised. We were the latch key generation. We were feral. We ran free. As long as we were home by the time the street lights came on. We could sneak off and tour the town and nobody would say much as long as we were back home before that light at the corner of Hersey and Dorsey Streets had come on.
So Mom converted to the modern times in order to raise her 80’s era child. Previously she had raised 60’s kids. That was during the time of segregation and Jim Crow and the Civil rights movement. I was raised in the burgeoning integration of the 80’s. It was still a small town in the south, though. Racism was still a thing. My mom was old school, but not that old school as to not recognize the changing trends and attempt to be relevant. Mom was an “it” girl.
Mom and Faith
Mom had a strong Christian faith. We were not going to miss service. Whether it was Sunday morning, Sunday night or Wednesday night. She (We) were going to be there. I guess she converted to the church of Christ in the late sixties. My siblings said she was the last one in the family to convert. Her faith was strong though. She really loved good singing and we would travel to different churches when there was a singing happening.
Mom was also very generous. Almost generous to a fault. After dad died, it didn’t take long for mom to either loan or give away the bulk of the life insurance money that she was awarded. She gave to family and friends alike. Mom loved Christmas time and bought gifts for everyone. Of course, me being raised almost like an only child since all of my other siblings were grown and gone, received the lions share of these presents. Yes I’ll say it again, I’m spoiled. Mom believed in credit cards and when she died, she was in a lot of credit card debt. Thankfully the credit card companies forgave her debt and didn’t try to come after her estate.
I really don’t know what all to say about my Mom. It’s not that there isn’t a lot to say. The fact is, there’s so much to say. I feel like all the things I could say, still won’t describe the woman she was. She was so many things to so many people. To me, she was “Mom” or “Mama”. To other family members, whether my grandmother, aunts and uncles, my older siblings and cousins she was “Mother Dear”. Of course she wore the Poole name proudly. At school she was “Mrs. Poole”. At church she was “Sister Poole”. She commanded so much respect just in how she carried herself even with having to go through so much struggle in her life.
Mom and Discipline
My father probably gave me the worst whipping of my life. Whereas my mom probably gave me the most creative whipping. My mom was not a “wait until your father gets home” type mom. She took care of business herself.
So there was the one time I ran from my mom. It was in an instance where I became very defiant over a very simple matter. Back then it was called being “hard headed”. Well, Mom said come here as she was preparing to administer some corporal punishment on me for my insolence and disrespect. I chose to remain defiant and run. Another thing about my mother, she would never chase. “You have to come home sometime” was her saying. I ran out the front door of the house and then around the house to the back. There stood my mother on the back porch waiting on me. Even though I had no plan, she thwarted whatever I intended to do. My father was there “doodling” around in the bed of his pickup as if he was looking for a tool. In my panicked desperation I asked him “dad isn’t there some place we need to go?” He said “no I don’t have anywhere to go right now son”, as he giggled trying not to laugh out loud at my impending doom.
As my mother stood on that back porch, she beckoned for me to come closer to her. I begged and pleaded with all of my little heart for her not to whip me. She said “don’t worry about that. ” I kept asking her was she going to whip me and she kept saying “don’t worry about that. Just come here.” As I drew closer, I begged more and more. Until finally I reached the porch/utility room where she stood. As I stepped up and opened the screen door, I saw my mother’s right hand reach for the top of the dryer where she had placed her belt. What I didn’t see was her left hand reach down and grab the bottom of my pants legs and she flipped me upside-down and then she proceeded to administer unto me one of the most creative whippings I had ever received. I mean it’s hard to use your hands to protect your bottom from getting hit while you’re using your hands to keep your head from hitting the floor. Needless to say Mom made a lasting impression.
Mom and Race
When it came to racial issues I learned some things from my mom. I remember one morning, I was probably first or second grade. It was before school. I was walking around on the playground with one of my school friends. SHE just happened to be white. I came by my mom’s classroom window. It was open. The windows at that school were easy to open and teachers did this to allow fresh air and ventilation to blow through. There was no thought or worry of any type of danger in the mid seventies. School shootings were almost non existent. Anyway, when I came to the window with my “friend” I introduced her to my mom as my girlfriend. I don’t remember at that moment my mom showing any type of reaction. However, later on, she got such a kick out of telling my older siblings about my “white girlfriend”. I honestly didn’t understand what the big deal was at that time.
On another occasion my mom taught me the meaning of the word “NIGGER”. As a young Black kid growing up in small town Texas in the 70’s, it was inevitable that I would run into blatant racism. I was very young, probably around seven years old.
While still living in Hempstead, I was playing across the street from my house by myself one evening in an open field. A car pulled up and there was driving what appeared to be a teenage White guy. He stops and yells out to me, “NIGGER!” For some reason, I hadn’t heard that term before. Or, if I had, I never really understood it. Anyway, the guy drove off leaving me alone and perplexed. I went back home and found my mom watching TV. I told her what happened and what the guy said. I can still remember the look on my mom’s face to this day. It was as if she had just seen a ghost. It was a look of extreme seriousness, fear and terror all rolled together. I can’t remember exactly what my mom said, but I do know in that moment she explained to me what that word truly meant. From then on, I knew the significance of that word. From her perspective, upbringing and history, growing up in the Jim Crow south, that moment could have been the end of my life. How many young Black boys had that be the last word they heard before being lynched? For Black people to hear that word (hard R) coming out of the mouth of a White person historically meant death. That’s why some White people don’t understand why it’s more than just a word to us. The historical significance of it carried the curse of death for many individuals. My mom understood this and that’s why she took the time to thoroughly explain not only the meaning, but also the significance of that word.
To be continued . . .