Today is Christmas day, 2011. This story is for and about my mother, RebeccaHargett Ranson, the writer. We can't be together today but that's not all that unusual
for us. We both prefer independence to tradition so family holidays are celebrated
eventually but not inevitably. No matter, I know what my mother is doing today.
I can see her as if I was sitting on the steps next to her. She is on her back porch,
sitting on the top step, smoking. She's wearing old jeans, a tee shirt with a long
sleeved button up shirt over top and Chuck Taylors. She's round shouldered, just
like her father and her son. She is playing with the little kitten that was smart
and lucky enough to have chosen my mother's backyard to wander into a few
weeks back. The kitten is tiny and elusive, matching my mom in both stature and
demeanor. Both are playful on their own terms, simultaneously aloof and attentive,
giving their all and then finding a safe place to curl up and rest.
I vividly remember being a child, maybe 7 years old, living in Athens, Georgia with
mom (momma then) and my stepfather Coke. They were perpetual grad students,
hippies with goals and unabashed animal lovers. I have a child's memory of several
litters of kittens and puppies appearing simultaneously in closets and cardboard
boxes and a laundry bin, filling the household with dozens of living, breathing
playmates for me. I loved the runts the best and I cried for the ones that didn't make
it, my first tears shed for something other than myself. At 7 years old, my breadth
of memory was so compact that I still recall the frantic desire to pile every animal
together because choosing which one to play with was just too hard. My stomach
hurt from giggling and those are moments that have stretched themselves to fit over
a lifetime of love for animals.
I can still see my 25-year-old mother just as clearly as I now see the 68-year-old
one behind those same brown eyes. But the eyes' unmistakable passion that was so
apparent back then has given way to a more guarded look, owing to the Alzheimer's
Disease that has blurred the edges of a beautiful mind. The younger Becky was
strong and defiant, fiercely committed to making the world see things her way
because it was the right way. She was, and still is, a writer, a purveyor of words
describing emotions both subtle and overt. She prefers to write about people and
how they fit into the world. Or how they don't. If she could, she would write about
herself, exposing all, sharing herself in ways that might make others squirm. She
would love that because feeling anything is always better than feeling nothing.
My mother is a lifetime social worker, even though that was her official occupation
for only a short time. She realized early on that she could affect meaningful social
change more effectively without the baggage of a government program that chooses
to first humiliate those it deems eligible for assistance. Instead, she brought change
by being a writer and an artist and a lesbian, openly encouraging free expression of
ideas, even those, maybe especially those, that disagreed with her. Over the years,
people and animals have been drawn to mom because they instinctively know
that she will take them in and care for them. Maybe the most salient lesson that I
learned from my mother is that pretending not to see injustice is the same thing as
condoning injustice. Once something is seen, it cannot be unseen. I must take action
or I must acknowledge my shameful lack of action. There is no in between.
Alzheimer's Disease ravaged two of my grandmothers, cruelly allowing their bodies
to live for far too long after their minds stopped keeping up. My mother has openly
expressed a desire to stop breathing before her mind stops thinking. Thankfully,
she is still very much my mother today. Some of her words have become harder to
reach, her mind keeping her thoughts tantalizingly out of reach of her tongue. It is
truly a devious disease that withholds the words of a writer.
I want to take all of the fear from my mother but I can't because I have nothing
to replace it with. What I do have to give right now are mere words, which seems
terribly stingy and inadequate when compared to all that she has given to me. It
could even be considered the worst kind of re-gifting since I am really just giving
back what was given to me first. But what a gift it has turned out to be. My mother
gave me my voice but not my thoughts, urging me to come up with my own words
to explain my own feelings. Her opinions were never forced upon me, even when
I asked for them. As a child, I was not required to parrot her words so that others
could marvel at the strength of my youthful convictions. Instead, she taught me to
consider all sides and come to my own conclusions, right or wrong, encouraging me
to express myself and to lend my voice to others who deserved to be heard. I haven't
stopped talking since. To be sure, not everyone is grateful for that.
She let me develop my own set of beliefs, not allowing her biases to sway my moral
balance. But, of course, I was swayed sometimes. She stood against war and racial
prejudice and gender inequality, demonstrating moral courage through action.
Rather than just talking about change, she brought change and sometimes she
forced change. She showed me, rather than told me, not to judge others based on
their skin color or sexual preference, but rather by their capacity for compassion.
Nobody has the right to judge another person's choices in life. Choice alone makes
us human. Our tastes and beliefs and desires should be learned from personal
experience, not forced upon us like some hold-your-nose-hard-to-swallow medicine
meant to fix us. Despite my sometimes obvious flaws, my mother never tried to fix
me.
Thanks to her, I have learned to acknowledge human frailty, including my own.
I know that I don't always have to fight the inherent weakness that comes with
just being alive. Sometimes I can just be weak. I have the right to change my mind
when I feel I must or even just because I want to. I need not be defined by the
inconsistencies that shape me and sometimes shame me. Convictions backed by
courage alone can be powerful but sometimes the courage is more bravado and the
conviction merely an excuse to exert power over others. At my worst moments as
a man, I am acutely aware of my mother's disapproval for my harsh stance or my
provocative words, sometimes meant to enlighten but more often meant to wound.
But she was always there to remind me that I wasn't expected to be perfect. The
truth, my truth, is mine alone, tainted by personal bias. I see things my way, I can
be graceless in my assessment and my expectations of others. I am certainly more
needlessly harsh in my delivery than she could ever be but we often shared the
same directness present in the end result, which rarely leaves doubt as to where we
stand.
While mom was sometimes disappointed in my lack of humanity, beyond that was
always her support and her love without conditions, her forgiveness granted almost
before my latest transgression, her singular knowledge of me being deeper than all
others combined, always made me know that I was loved even when self pity caused
me to doubt it. What else could even a lifetime of striving hope to achieve but that
unflinching confirmation that I am worthy, that I have value, that I am loved even
when I am at my worst.
I watched closely as my mother struggled to love the other important people in her
life. She had her share of relationship success and failure but she never hid either
from me. Children always seem to be shocked to learn that their parents aren't
perfect but she showed me early on that being flawed was normal, that perfection
is unachievable and, in fact, undesirable. She could be impossibly stubborn and
exasperating but these were not stand-alone flags planted on some barren land.
Rather they were deep seated stances, rarely taken for her own benefit.
Now when I talk to my mom, I am acutely aware of the sweetness of her voice, the
passion still very much alive even if some of the words are missing. Throughout
my life, I have always come to her first with every brilliantly dubious idea because
I knew that she would tell me that it sounded amazing. She never told me to be
careful or to take the easy way because there is so little to be gained from easy and
so much to be learned from hard. I am still learning, still stumbling, still flailing
around as I grasp for a strong ledge to hold onto. But I will only stay safe just long
enough to catch my breath, then I will find a new path or I will make one for myself.
That is what I learned from you mom. I am who I am, warts and all, thanks to you.
When your mind is wandering without your permission and you can't find the
words you've misplaced, I know that you see in yourself mostly what is missing.
Rest assured, I see all that is still there. Don't worry about me mom. You have given
me all that I need to get through this life. I love you and miss you today and every
day.
