Do you remember how you used to slap me if I cried? I’ve come to understand that perhaps you were imitating your mother’s brash touch, and that it wasn’t your fault. It’s taken me a long time to forgive you, but I have. I even empathize with your impulse to hurt a weeping child, especially one who resembles you. I guess you only knew how to swing your arm in an attempt to silence my cries. What else could you do?
I used to hide in the bathroom from you, and you’d tell me that I had a style with words, that I could bend phrases to change scenarios. You accused me of manipulating our stories and amplifying the sting of your palm on my cheek.
But I now realize that it’s natural for children to do so, isn’t it?
You used to warn me that life would break me the way it broke you that I would come to despise the very essence of this earth. At one point, I felt ashamed of you. Other mothers appeared gorgeous and would clank their high heels on the school floors. You, on the other hand, would stomp across the playground with an air of needing to prove your existence. You never attended any meetings, never even knew the names of my teachers. I disliked the way your hair was thinning, the dark spots forming on your cheeks, the saggy skin above your eyebrows, but most of all, I detested the way you called my name. You never added a sweet touch, unlike other mothers. We never hugged. Our skin only touched when you pulled my arm or smacked my hand. You never had any makeup or jewelry for me to try on and giggle at my reflection. You never wore high heels that would make me trip on the carpets, feeling like I’m on top of the world. You never wore colourful clothes, never went swimming, never drove by yourself, never laughed, never loved. . .
Mama, I may be exaggerating, but it’s never easy having a Palestinian refugee mother.
You never felt like a girl, and neither did I.
The day you told me that I didn’t look as pretty as the other girls in the photo I had excitedly shown you was the day you realized that I was as ugly as you. You rushed me to a dietician to shape me into an appealing child. You warned me not to grow up like you, so I never wrote about you in elementary school. The other kids would document their mothers, but I wasn’t proud of mine.
You constantly worried about how my body resembled yours. Later, you would tell me that I’m your biggest concern in life, that I’d be lost without a husband, and that no man would want me. You picked apart every part of me, from the way my hair tangled in a bushy mess to the way my feet spilled out of sandals. You told me to “love myself,” but I don’t think this is love.
The day a boy shouted my name from the balcony, I didn’t have time to create an excuse for his presence. Your bulky figure slumped over the rusted edge as you threatened to harm him. I remember how cramped the living room felt with only our voices filling the space. You grabbed my arm and pulled me next to you, instructing me not to become a whore. “Boys will only hurt you. You know what kid stays on the street till this hour? Huh? Only degenerates. You stay clean, okay?”
This boy secretly walked me home from school daily. He was a small and thin boy with a slight hunchback, who lived in a rough neighbourhood where troubled children resided. He had a darker complexion than the other kids and wasn’t particularly bright, but he had a gentle demeanour.
One day, I noticed a purple bruise forming above his eye, and we both knew only a mother could love this harshly.
He was from Syria, but he kept it a secret, and he tried to fit in with the popular kids at school, using too much gel in his hair. Eventually, he dropped out.
Mama, I’ve caught a change in you, a softening of your sharp edges. I wonder what broke you so deeply that it caused this transformation. The first time we hugged was when I revealed to you that I had attempted suicide twice. You ran to the window and screamed, “Let me jump!”
When I told you that I liked girls, you couldn’t help but cry and say, “But you were such a good girl!”
But I never was good.
We never truly talked, and you only knew the parts of me that I allowed you to see. You never noticed the pictures I’d send to random boys, the times when one threatened to slit my throat, or when another tried to take advantage of me.
You never asked about my whereabouts, even when it was past 10:00 p.m. or when I first tried alcohol. You didn’t care about my clothes or the way my thighs gleamed under the party lights. You never questioned the girls I hung out with, the ones who tried to take my shirt off. When I introduced you to the 21-year-old boy who ruined me, you said, “He seems nice. Don’t ruin it.”
I don’t mean to criticize you, Mama. I’m angry at the world that has abused us both and all our generations. I know you grew up in harsher conditions and never knew life could be charming. When I asked you about your childhood dream, you said that children like us couldn’t afford to dream. I know that life has never been kind to you, and you have never experienced the loving touch of another person. I know that your body has betrayed you time and time again, and you spend your days exhausted. You work eight hours a day, take care of your mentally challenged brother, look after two kids, deal with an absent husband, suck up to an abusive boss, and avoid communication with family members. You try to be kind and to be a mother in the way your mother never had the chance to be. I’m sorry, Mama.
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