Thoughts on Black mOTHERhood

This post is a part of a special series Mom/Me: An exploration of motherhood and beyond. This collection of poetry, essays, and visual media showcase the many facets of motherhood and our relationship to it. In partnership with Mater Mea.

By LySaundra Campbell

Part 1: Mama, You Are Appreciated.

I’ve rarely written about my mom. My father died when I was 12-years old and the relationship between my mother and me was rocky throughout my teen years. I didn’t have the words—and wasn’t trying to explore the feelings—to describe how my dad’s death and the events that led up to it impacted me. So I placed the blame on the next person closest to me, my mom. More than having my dad alive, I wanted things to be “normal” again. But sometimes our idea of “normal” isn’t what is healthiest or will help us thrive. My childhood and life before my dad died was familiar, but it didn’t need to be our family’s “normal.” But I put unrealistic expectations on my mom to create that for me and my siblings. I wanted her to fit the mold of the Superwoman trope expected from many mothers.

It took years—and lots of therapy—to have the relationship I have now with my mom. And I’m grateful because it has helped me realize just how incredibly resilient she is. We aren’t best friends by any means—I’m super free-spirited and she worries—but we’re dedicated to understanding and respecting each other.

I accept, love, and appreciate my mom, flaws and all. As an adult, I’ve learned how to balance being outspoken and opinionated in a way that still honors and respects her. I see her as a survivor, thriver, and a devoted mother who did the best she could with the tools she had. She is hella goofy, selfless, and—even when we’re acting a plum fool—the biggest advocate and cheerleader for her children. Mommy, I see you, I’m grateful for you, and I love you. You are appreciated.

Part 2: Desires & Fears On Black Motherhood

I want to be a mother one day. I don’t know if this will be a mini-me or adoption, but someone please tell my mother—and grandmother of 7—that her free-spirited child does have a small desire to bring her more grandchildren and to not lose hope. But whoever I choose as my partner, or Ossie Davis to my Ruby Dee, should be just as passionate and devoted to raising proud, Black children as I am.

As a relatively conscious Black person in this country, the thought of giving birth to and/or raising Black children both terrifies and motivates me. Black motherhood is complex, and you have only to be a Black child to know this. Tears swell up in my eyes when I think about the Exonerated Five, formerly the Central Park Five, and what their parents went through as their children’s lives were stolen by the penal system. Or Mammie Till-Mobley. Or Sybrina Fulton. Or Geneva Reed-Veal. The list goes on. Tears also swell up when I think about Serena Williams’ experience with the medical system, which is too common for Black women. Or Gabrielle Union’s motherhood journey. But different tears swell when I read the Shady Baby captions on Instagram. Or when I see Little Miss Flint’s relentless activism. Or when Blue Ivy Carter serenades me and every other “Brown Skin Girl” I know. Or every time Zhuri James takes center stage in her family’s TikTok videos! At times Black motherhood is unfair, but it is also an act of radical resistance in a country that doesn’t want us to breathe. Black motherhood and raising carefree, joyful Black children is something I still desire.

So to my future children—natural or chosen—I won’t be perfect. I’m probably going to cry all the time because we live in a cruel world. But I’ll strive to create a home where you know love, joy, and peace. I will lovingly force you to play at least one instrument. I’ll wake you up on Saturday mornings with Gospel music, signaling it’s time to clean the entire house. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun—we’ll use brooms as microphones and create choreography to Melodies From Heaven. I can’t wait to ask if you have McDonald’s money. I’ll read you stories about how Jesus flipped tables in the temple to protest capitalism while simultaneously reading Assata Shakur’s autobiography as a bedtime story, because I can be as contrary as I want. And above all, you can always count on me to be intentional, tenacious, and devoted because my desires outweigh my fears, and I know you will be worth it.

LySaundra Campbell is a storyteller, writer, and editor. She’s social distancing with a piano, journals, and an endless TBR list. Say hello and follow her on Instagram.