The first woman I ever knew was Juanita, my mother, therefore she is the woman I have known the longest. Her influence definitely shaped the standards for my daily life, just as her mother's shaped hers. The way I go about my basic household chores, the way I cook, and raised my children (making necessary adjustments, of course), I owe to Mother. And that is only the beginning. Respect shown to superiors ranked high on the list of common courtesies and polite manners, so much a part of life growing up in my little cocoon-wrapped existence of the Fifties. Knowing one's place in a man's world, first as a girl, then as a woman, had been passed down for generations, instilled into us all as rigidly as the Southern Baptist doctrine seemingly running through our veins!

Sometimes even now, from here in this whole new universe of my life today, I am shocked at my physical resemblance to Mother, as well as the personality characteristics we share. My hands are becoming her hands, this I noticed more than ever last night. She and I can even wear the same glasses and see perfectly. Genetics are powerful!

Mother is the strongest woman I know, although physically failing now, having battled arteriosclerosis for who knows how long. She began suffering from angina in her early sixties, and underwent quadruple bypass surgery at about the age I am now, when her pain became too severe. Just as Bill Clinton is beginning to experience the maintenance necessary with the disease, Mother has endured for years, undergoing several stent replacements, and most recently, vascular surgery in her neck to remove blockage.

Thinking about it now, ENDURANCE, both physically and mentally, may be Mother's most defining quality, a trait common to all my grandmothers, including the great grandmothers, ESPECIALLY my maternal ones. With all due respect, I submit my poem inspired by them all.


FORGIVE THE GRANDMOTHERS
(1993)

Forgive the grandmothers,
their docile obeisance, their unopinionated views, their unassertiveness,
their servile attitudes.
It was absolute authority that made her bow her head,
a cultural thing that prohibited her, but praised and honored him.
Forgive the grandmothers for teaching male superiority,
for misleading us about what feminine decency meant.
That self-esteem was white starched shirts, shiny scrubbed floors,
fresh baked bread, piousness,
and literacy restricted to reading scriptures.
Forgive the hovering about,always at beckoning call,
for believing she was most attractive when he stood proud and tall.
For countless family dinners that served the men folk first,
while she was judged by tasty meals,
the value of her worth.
And for steadfastly believing her place was in the home,
while understanding when men folk gathered,
their need to talk alone.
Forgive her part in enabling him to reign:
head of the table, head of the house, head of everything.
Forgive her quietly giving birth
in a quality show of strength:
Any woman worth her salt, decently endured pain.
Forgive her performance of duty in keeping the children quiet,
careful not to disturb Daddy when he came home at night.
Forgive her mindless chatter,
her silence when it would have mattered,
for the mockery made each time she marked her ballot.
Forgive her disdain for the sister who resisted
by casting her own vote in protest, refusing to double his.
Forgive the grandmothers if you can,
for their clucking godliness—
Those little women of velvet steel deserve our graciousness.
So, forgive them, forgive them, lift up their lowered heads.
Forgive them their delusions, they knew not what they did.