"My mama dead, my grandmama dead"

You know, I am honest with myself. Sometimes it takes a while to get there, but I do end up there. On this anniversary of my mom’s birthday, I want to be honest with myself that she is gone. She is dead, lights out. She won’t be here to play with Juniper. She won’t get a chance to illustrate Juniper a little book with JuJu as the main character. She won’t get to fall asleep on my couch while hanging out watching TV. I can’t go to her and ask for her advice. I lost my one parent—one of the only people whose counsel I have ever been interested in.

You are prolly asking what the hell I am talking about. You wouldn’t be wrong in looking at me like I am crazy. This does seem like a rather odd realization to have some eight plus years after her death. Yet, it takes a lot of time to wade through the thicket of grief. I am always surprised to find some new dimension to my grief when I thought I had exhausted it. It turns out that you can wring water (tears) from stone.

This past week I was laying in bed and felt pretty catatonic with the overwhelming emotion of feeling rather powerless to stop the bombing of civilians in Palestine or from preventing my mom from dying to an entirely preventable form of cancer. This is grief. You sit there bouncing back and forth between your own personal tragedies and collective horrors, wishing that you weren’t just a bit actor in the epic horror film unfolding before your eyes. You wish your meager flailing about could enact gun reform, universal health care, decolonization, and the end to genocide. You wish that your emails and calls would be met with action by your representative. Yet, since Citizen’s United, there are some people (corporations and dark money political action committees) whose voices are listened to more than us bit actors. So, the horrors persist while public policy is made to appease the folks who bankroll our reps campaigns, and we, the actual corporeal beings, just wish the horrors would just stop.

While laying there, I looked up Killer Mike on youtube. I saw the words “Motherless” as the thumbnail for the video. I let the song play and I haven’t stopped playing it since.

“My mama dead
My grandmama dead
I miss 'em so much, sometimes, I just cry and hold my head
They left the world of man, made sure I’m prepared
To live a life to make sure my wife ain't gon' beg for bread
I got an altar in my home to honor both of 'em
Just this mornin', I was smokin', spoke to both of 'em (sometimes, I need you)
I asked my Betty for her prayers over my generation
And I asked Niecy, "Keep me through my tribulations"
Death'll come like thief in night and steal your joy away
Have you askin', "God, why You forsake your boy, today?" (I said, "Sometimes")
Is this a blessing or a curse, or just some other shit? (sometimes, I need)
No matter what, I'm numb as fuck 'cause I'm still motherless (you).

I remember when you told me you said I wish I could be softer on you but you my only boy and you got to be a man.”

Killer Mike - “Motherless”

In the song when Mike sang about talking to his mom and grandma at his altar, I realized the key distinction between talking about someone dying and resting in the understanding someone is gone. In Mike’s case, he talks to his mom at his altar, but knows ultimately that he is now motherless. In my case, I talk to my mom at my altar, but I used to believe that somehow I am was not motherless. Sure, I talk about my mom dying a lot. I made it into my origin story and talked about how it switched the tracks on the course of my life. Yet, if I am honest with myself, I have yet to really acknowledge that I am motherless. There are no matriarchs left in my family of origin. They are all dead. The person who raised me and was my sole cheerleader is dead, gone, a pile of ashes in a bag, and, “I’m numb as fuck ‘cause I’m still motherless.” I am just another of those men raised by women who don’t have their mom around anymore, trying to keep it together.

This acknowledgment is like taking off a piece of armor that I didn’t even know I had on, and It’s not fun. In another section of his song “Motherless,” Killer Mike likens this grief to feeling like he lost his coat. Yes, I am coatless in a winter storm just trying to hold it all together when I just wish my mom could put her arm around my shoulder and tell me its gonna be ok. I know I act like I got it figured out and being motherless doesn’t bother me. It does though. It does though. Acknowledging I’m motherless has got me feeling real lost and vulnerable; the exact feelings I was trying to avoid.

Personally, I am finding it hard to show up here with all this. I don’t want to share any stories. I don’t want ride my bike. I don’t want to do fiber art. I don’t want to go get tattoos. I don’t want to open a business checking account. I just want to hermit in my basement. I want to put on a hoodie, pull up my hood, and just be quiet. I don’t want to strive. I just want to be a mediocre person who eats; sleeps; enjoys time with family and friends; and has fun with some music, movies or video games. I want to go on walks and notice bird song, the cold wind on my face, and the bare trees. I don’t want to tell you what to do or tell you how to feel (there are enough people doing that right now). I just want to hibernate until I have felt everything that needs to be felt. So, for a spell, this weekly practice will probably be the extent of my creative work.

I will close with some words from Tool’s “The Patient:”

“But I'm still right here, giving blood, keeping faith
And I'm still right here

Wait it out
Gonna wait it out
Wait it out (be patient)”

This is what echoes through me now as I continue to show up here for this work. I continue to spill blood in this expression of my own experience. I continue to keep faith that taking off this armor and feeling the bareness of my own impending winter of grief will lead to where greater understanding of my own human condition and connection with my spiritual practice. If you are struggling through this winter of grief too, I hope you can be patient and wait it out. That’s my only wish for you that it’s maelstrom doesn’t drown you, as it has to me in the past.

As always, I am glad you are here and care about my thoughts enough to read.

Until next time, dear reader,

James

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