yes mama

memory of dashed dreams. when I was growing up, life/career choices were limited for women, regardless of IQ, grades, talents.

 

 

Mama’s back was to me as she wiped the kitchen counter,

her movements an exercise in economy of motion,

made jerky by thorny irritation.

Her voice was sharp and critical;

I felt the sting before the barb.

“You must realize what a waste of time all that writing is.”

Her aim is true -- it always is.

I simply closed my hand around

the arrow only I could see quivering in my chest.

She snapped her head around to face me:

“Who do you think you are anyway?  I wrote poems in school

but I grew out of it.  Silly school-girl nonsense.  You need

to stop dreaming about that stupid stuff

and take a typing course -- something that will support you

when you’re eighteen and out of school.”

She narrowed her eyes, and her features seemed sharp and alien.

“Don’t think your dad and I will support you lollygagging around.”

“Yes, Mama.”

She dismissed me with an abrupt nod.

Yes mama yes mama yes mama

The scene in my heart is decades old.  The wound in my chest

still bleeds.

Yes mama yes mama yes mama

Who did I think I was?

Reviews

[Angi]

Annie Lee, this piece has made a huge lump form in my throat. I am going over all things I have said to my children in the last few days! It is so strange what sticks with us even years later. I see her swallowing her own disappointment as she stuck that arrow in. Just gutwrenching and such a good poem. Angi~

[annie lee]

Thank you Angi. Over the years I have come to realize that she was doing what she thought was right, steering me towards stability and security. But it still hurts when those you love the most reject what you love the most.