My Mother : A Short Story

"Anita began raising Darnell 15 years ago, when his mother began deteriorating in different ways. They've been through it all; she laughed when she talked about how much trouble he got into early on, and she shook her head proudly when she said he was now "the man of the house," helping with all the other children who have landed in her home over the years after their parents gave up. "She's my second mom," Darnell said. "I don't let that 'mother' word out easily, I really don't. But she deserves it." He told me his story matter of factly, telling me he struggled at times when thinking about his mom, in particular, but "I had to learn how to accept that she was doing the right thing for me when she decided she couldn't raise me."

Sitting on my mother's lap has always been the safest place for me. Although she beholds a lovely image, I imagine her as a fearless warrior ready and armed to attack anyone who dared to touch her child. I admired my mother's strength as I watched her work for tireless hours, but, furthermore, I admired her willingness to sacrifice resting time in order to be with my siblings and me. Although my mother did not have a warrior's armor consisting of a sword and shield, listening to her stories about Mexico, her love for my father, and their struggle in America, she became that fearless fighter who protected me and guided me through hardships.

It’s a funny story that my mom always brings up. When I was about 2 or 3 years old we were sitting at the dining room table eating and I had a piece of ribs stuck in my teeth that I couldn’t get out. So my Granny popped her dentures out and said “Here Tank, you can use mine”. That’s disgusting but funny because I said “Unun Granny, I have my own”, and pointed at my teeth. I was something else. My mother went into labor on Christmas day. It was at about 10:30 pm. She sat home waiting on my father to bring her food. My granny didn’t cook for the holiday because my mother’s due date was so close. She was in pain later so my granny took her to the hospital, and she spent hours in labor. She went into the hospital around 11pm and didn’t have me

As a high school math teacher, I am having rewarding experiences educating and motivating students, but it is not my true calling. I want to positively affect a wider scope of the public and do so in a way that can improve and potentially save lives. The medical field is the best option to fulfill this desire and becoming a physician's assistant has become my new passion. The aspects of the profession that most attract me are its rewarding nature and its fascinating and diverse content. Due to my experiences as an educator and professional football player, and to my intelligence and compassion, I am confident I would be an excellent physician's assistant. While shadowing a physician's assistant in an orthopedic practice, I met a patient, Diane, whose story solidified my commitment to becoming a PA. Seven months prior, Diane was on the verge of becoming a diabetic due to her obesity, but was unable to lose weight due to a poor diet and an arthritic knee that prevented her from exercising. The physician's assistant at Diane's family practice sent her to a dietician to improve her nutrition, and to an orthopedic center, where another physician's assistant gave her a series of Synvisc shots to relieve the pain in her knee. When I met Diane, she lost 42 pounds and, consequently, she would likely be approved for a knee replacement surgery that would allow her to continue her remarkable turnaround. The ability to work in diverse fields, such as a family

I knocked on the door it was that soft kind of polished wood. I heard a faint whisper saying “Come in.” I walked in and said “Hi momma how are you doing?”

The sobs are what awoke me that day. I was in my bedroom in Saint Simons Island, Georgia. She was crying and saying something to me, but through the sobs, it was incomprehensible. Eventually she composed herself enough that I could understand, even through the still rapid sobs.

In the hills of Mississippi, on a country road outside of small town named Eupora, is a small house on a hill surround by one hundred acres of land is a small three-bedroom house owned by Levi and Cordie Sellars the parents of my mother, Vera Mae Sellars. The birth of my mother was a hard one because she was breach and the doctors worked hard to save her and my grandmother. The doctor loss track of time during the birth to record her time of birth on the late night in July and the early morning of August so her birth was record on August 1, 1944. I

In my own life I had once been an avid reader, I would read for hours on end every day after school up until seventh grade. Before seventh grade I knew that I had a connection to the words that the author put down, after each word I would be drawn even deeper into the book than I was before. In those years each trip to the library was a brand new experience, three new books to read and finish in a week before we had to return them: Check. Whole heartedly my obsession with reading was because of my parents. My parents had always stressed the importance reading on me as much as possible. Like Eudora Wealty where as a child she was “ presented with books of her own, which appeared on my birthday and christmas morning” (Wealty, 49), each christmas or birthday that I can remember I received

“Amanda!” I reluctantly put down my book and followed my dad’s voice to the living room.

Exhausted after a long day, she finished drying her hands, yanked off what used to be her mother’s cooking apron, and restlessly flopped down on her favorite chair at the dining table trying to get as comfortable as possible. She, who now feels like the responsibility reposes in her hands, finished washing and scrubbing the last dirty plate left from our customary evening dinner. Ironically it seemed as if her conventional shyness had for once vanished her soul as she sat there prepared to tell me the story of her life, the story that she usually never warms up to because it brings back such melancholy memories of her past and of her beloved ones. My mother, beautiful yet frangible, is like the newborn baby of a mama bird. Effulgent, caring, and commiserate she is a woman who has always put her family first. She always looked up to them, always revered them, and was always affixed to them. Though warmed by their endearment and affectionate care, eventually all babies grow up and have to learn to flutter away individually without the guidance of their parents. Coincidentally, she too was no longer able to depend on her family’s support, and it was then that she had to leave the nest. But even so, she has learned to acclimate to the ways of life, and despite the barriers and difficulties, she has managed to find hope and merriment. Reaching that state of joy is a struggle, and that search for contentment has been quite difficult for Isabel.

Since I was a little girl my mother always taught to be strong, but in a mannerly way. She had to grow up quite fast, because she was born into a warzone, which made her very independent and strong at a young age. In our culture, it’s unusual to have a friendship with your parents because it should be more of a private relationship. Thankfully, my parents and I had an open relationship about everything and get to express my feelings without having to hide them. For my mother, she witnessed things kids her age should not, she gone through things many did not, and she also suffered a lot of pain and deaths of her loved ones. “I remember being so scared of my mother’s corpse, and I had to ask myself why I was scared, the woman lying there is my mother,” she said as she was reminiscing about her mother’s death. I wondered to myself of how it must have been for her; but she continued on to tell me the story. “A few months later we lost your uncle and we didn’t worry because we knew that mom was up there waiting for him, but then we had your oldest brother and he died from an overdose on malaria vaccination when he was only seven months.” Hearing her going through that made me feel like I got stabbed in the chest. I just sat there and thought about how empty and lonely she must have felt during those years. She later told me, “sometimes we lose the big things in our lives so that our eyes can open up to all the little things we take for granted.” Anytime I would

I shuddered behind my mom’s leg clinging with all my might, like a dying leaf to a weak twig in the fall winds.

It is a surreal feeling knowing how much you can impact someone’s life as a parent, but the shocking part of this matter is how much it makes you change in the process as well. I want to show my daughter to appreciate and look for the good within everything throughout her life as I have learned through my time as a parent. I had my daughter when I was fifteen years old and this experience has helped shape me into the person I am today.

When I was 12 years old I lived with my great grandparents, grandmother and aunt and during that time, I would hear conversations about my mother. There was one evening while standing in my great grandmother’s kitchen before supper I overheard a conversation between my great grandmother and my aunt. My aunt said, “Robin (my mom) isn’t any good and little Peggy doesn’t need to talk to her or be around her.” My great grandmother didn’t agree or disagree she just said, “She has a right to know.” My great grandmother was very sweet but also frail she stood about 5’1 but had a hunch back that made her look shorter and wrinkly hands that were riddled with arthritis from working in the cotton fields when she was younger.

The most surprising thing about my mothers' story is that she lived. While hearing my mother’s story I got told one calamity after another. Privilege is always earned on someone’s else’s suffering. My mother and father suffered for my privileges, therefore, I will also pay for my children someday. She was 9 years old when she came back from school one beautiful sunny afternoon to be greeted with guards that put her mother, and her 5 siblings in a circle in the center of the house. The guards pointed rifles to their heads and took my grandma to question her about my grandpa and his job. My mother tells me about how those rifles stared her in the eyes as if they were asking her "any last words?". My grandpa was a rich young guy who owned an