I Identify as His

Birth Mom Vs. Grand Mom

Chapter 2

“Mommy, why are you so much older than my friend's moms?” an always inquisitive five-year-old version of myself asks, walking hand in hand with her across the store parking lot. She pauses looks me in the eyes, then answers as we reach the car.

“Well, It’s because I’m your Grandma.” She breathes deeply and continues, “Your daddy and mommy asked me if I could take care of you, and it’s because I love you so much, that I said yes.” My child-like mind was apparently satisfied, I jumped into the car. However, I never called her Mom again. From that day on, she was Grandma.

The level of love that I have for her doesn’t change the fact that the woman who raised me was not the one who birthed me. She said "yes" when the one who had me was deemed unfit and in reality, said she was.

On some days of intense, insightful consideration, I can be thankful that I was shielded from the potential paths of pain, one that seemed so likely the courts found it necessary to take me away from both of my birth parents. On other days, the hole caused by being torn away from the blended family in which I was born is amazingly painful. It’s incredible how little I know about my mother. It’s the lack of knowledge about her that fuels my imagination. She’s simply a phantom photograph that I protected by wrapping in scotch tape years ago. She’s not even a memory to me, merely a name immortalized in my brain and birth certificate: Sherry Elaine Tucker, forever a mystery, forever my birth mother, and seemingly never anything else.

The puzzle of my mother is still unfinished, I don’t even have all the pieces. I can only speak of the deep tear in my spirit that she created by not stepping up and being an active role in my life or even someone who tried. I can only talk about the times that her absence was felt. Although after lots of consideration, it may very well be true that her choice to be absent in my life may have been better for me than my Father’s choice to be a yo-yo continuously in and out of my life.

What kind of woman she was, depends on who you ask, my dad ignores the fact that she was an absent mother who abandoned her three children to the wind, to him that’s irrelevant, you might as well assign her sainthood. To him, she was an angel, obviously tailored to fit in with his drug-altered narrative of events.

To my Grandma, her wary caution in my desire to look for my mother while in my teen years made me hold off on the choice until I was old enough to handle the emotional decision of opening that box. I only have a handful of pictures. I also only have one story about her. It’s not even a memory, but a 1980s sepia photo of my birth mother kneeling beside me as I cry red-faced next to a Red Ryder tricycle. One for the books, before digital, ingrained in film forever. This is a picture of a day that I don’t remember. My Grandma did. She informed me,

“That was the last day your mother ever chose to come around. You were two. She came over and had two men that were proud white supremacist members of the local chapter of the KKK.”

I was wide-eyed in surprise by her revealing words and disgusted by the thought. She continued, “Well because I have full guardianship of you, I told her that she was to never bring anyone like that ever to my house if she ever wanted to come and see her daughter again." She paused and finished with, "She never came back.”

That’s it, that’s my one-paragraph story about the kind of character and woman she may have been. I have no reason to distrust my Grandma, she was the only one in this world that I could trust. It was her that taught me how to trust others and let people in, despite being born into a rollercoaster childhood.

It may be arguably the best choice my Grandma made for me, the one day when I was seven years old that out of the blue she blurts out, “We’re going to church!”

“What’s a church?” I replied simply.

It was in this environment, I thrived. When my Grandma plugged in, she had a way of becoming a permanent fixture. Once she chose the North Modesto Church of God, that was it. I was in every musical production, on Tuesday nights it was choir practice with Ms. Wilma Waterbury learning to sing and practicing for every and any production and, then children’s/youth Bible studies on Wednesdays. Every Sunday, in the third pew from the right? It was my Grandma and me. Every special event, she signed me up for, fervently changing our lifestyle. I didn't know her motives in the dramatic change except for divine intervention. For me, it was very engaging, and I welcomed the change. While reflecting on why she made this decision, I've realized, this was the same year my grandma was diagnosed with Diabetes. Perhaps this was her way of trying to create a community safety net, so that no matter what I'd be taken care of. She had a way of reminding me of her mortality.

A life-long waitress who always found herself comfortable in the kitchen, which is where she'd end up volunteering at our church. She was a great cook and loved to bake, yet the only time that I can remember her trying to teach me to had ended in injury. A scar shaped like the Eiffel tower was caused by hot homemade almond Roca accident.

Through all our challenges and stumbles, we saved each other. It was her tenacity in creating a stable environment for me to flourish that I am grateful for. Of course, we all grow up, and unfortunately, my choices in who I let influence me were about to lead me down a path of self-inflicted pain.