My Mom

I couldn't write it on Mother's Day, by I can today

Let me tell you something about my mom. All who knew her will recognize this. She was a force that commanded the presence of every situation she was in. If she was engaged and informed of the subject, she was a meaningful part of the discussion. She had opinions, and she made them known. More often than not, they were proven right.

She could be intimidating. Her intellect was well honed. She had a knack for saying things that would cut an argument to the quick, and this was not something people were particularly used to in her generation. This gained her some interesting admirers, however. There were some, particularly in her church’s adult Sunday school - which they called the Truthfinders, as it turns out - that challenged her on a regular basis based on their differing ideological views. As I learned debating her, she always had an answer that made you want to go back and do more homework.

She was also my greatest critic and defender simultaneously. She would make me question my decisions while simultaneously assuring me that she was there for me and would defend me to the ends o the earth. She held me to high standards. She would come down on me when she realized - rightly more often that wrongly - that I was phoning it in and not living up to my potential. She was my guiding star that zapped me once in a while when I most needed it.

There was an incident my junior year in high school where all this became evident. It was, as it turns out, one of the most seminal moments in my high school academic career. I had a teacher named Nida Parker for Honors English. She was an award-winning teacher and highly respected, but she was also one of those teachers that prided themselves on being tough for the sake of being tough because good teachers were supposed to be that by definition. As a result, she was so feared that there was a name people called her. They called her Nida the Living Dead after the movie.

I clashed with her immediately. My mother had taught this 11th grade honors curriculum before in California, and she immediately thought this was not the right way to teach it. One day, we were taking a test. I was sitting diagonally with one of my best friends. He aced the test. I got a C. What happened next I could never have predicted. Ms. Parker accused me of cheating by looking at my friends paper. I objected saying how could I have cheated when he got an A and I got a C. She would not relent.

My powers of persuasion did offer me an offramp of sorts, however. I was able to get her to allow me to get extra credit to make up for it. The task she assigned was to provide two poems. I jumped at the opportunity. Every subscriber to this journal understands why, as I revel in poetry. I actually thought that this was my way back in to her good graces. I was naive.

I wrote two poems and showed them to my mother for approval, which was the custom for all things written as since she was the authoritative expert. Then I proudly turned them in thinking this would change things. I was absolutely dumbfounded by the teacher’s response. She didn’t accept them nor offer extra credit. She told me to my face that I couldn’t have written these poems because they were “too good.” She refused to believe that I had such ability.

I could have had my spirit crushed. Instead, it made ne double down. Unfortunately, she was also on the National Honors Society committee and subsequently had me blackballed. What I most regret is the fact that while our battles in the classroom debating issues back and forth on escalating terms actually helped me in the long term, I am worried that it hurt my fellow students in gaining the knowledge they needed,

What I do remember most fondly, however, is how my mother confronted Nida the Living Dead with dedicated conviction and the facts to back it up. My mom not only had my back, but she proved herself throughout her life as a force to be reckoned with. I learned that from her, which is why I am where I am today. Every time I have spoken out and defied the status quo, I have channeled her.

She is no longer here to slap me back into shape. Our guiding sail has been removed. Fortunately, however, her guiding strength echoes in the wind. The standard has been set and hoisted. It might be made with different cloth, but it remembers its purpose, and it continues to guide us towards the principles that I know my mother held most dear.

Those are honesty, responsibility, tenacity, and love.