Personal Narrative On Mama

“Who are you?” My mother, Elizabeth, yelled so loudly it attracted the attention of my father. I could do nothing else but stand and stare at her. How was it possible that my own mother had forgotten not only my name, but also my face? I did not know how to respond to her. Was this just some joke she was playing with me?

It was my mother. She ran into the room where my aunt and I slept.

“What mum?,” Shocked to hear her mum’s voice she calls out again. “ Mum! Is that you?”

“Mom” I said with confusion “What are you doing?” She turned around as I saw the small baby in her

“You know you can call me mother if you would like, and I would love to tell you a tale.”

I gazed fleetingly at the woman, and the sight of her big, black eyes popping out of her skull at me had started to unnerve me a little. That was when I began to whisper, “Mama,” trying to get her attention across the table. But it wasn’t until the creepy woman had rapped her knuckles on the window and shouted, “You!” before pointing a bony finger at my mama, that my mama’s attention had finally been pulled away from her cell phone which she had been preoccupied with.

”Geraldine Anderson’s personal assistant, she asked me to come by Geraldine’s home this Saturday and take some family portraits.”

“Just tell me who she is already!”, I said a bit annoyed as I sat down on my bed. My mom did the same, sitting down next to me.

Mom looked back and saw my face peeked a little over the hall. She motioned me to come in as she ended the conversation with Nana. She walked over to me and I said in the most casual voice I could put out at the moment, “Who was that on the

I went into the living room to let the mom outside to use the restroom. Came back in the my grandma’s bedroom.” My mammie , said to go check on the puppies

"Mine." Knowing I wouldn't get the answer from her, I trudged upstairs and asked her mom, my aunt Shari.

After my mother and I have an argument she usually smiles at me and says, it’s because we’re so much alike that we argue. She reminds me that our lack of communicating often stirs more trouble than why we were arguing. I used to get upset that my mom didn’t set time aside for our family to spend time together or make us eat together at the dinner table. I was upset because I was comparing our family to my friends’ families. I valued those things and assumed my mom didn’t, but I was wrong. My mom had so much on her mind everyday it was breaking her on the inside. Not only had I wanted my mom to be like my friend’s moms, now I had wanted my mom to be different because she was depressed. Bonhoeffer mentions that we desire images of others that we want, but aren’t the true image they bear as Christ’s (pg37-38). At first I was puzzled. How is a good image of mine, not Christ’s image for her? I learned that His image is neither right nor wrong, but simply uniquely divine. My mom could have done those things, but her whole life would have had to be different, and I would never want to change who my mom is.

“Hey, honey, you want a snack? I went to the store today and bought the pretzels you like!” My mother appeared from the solitude of the kitchen and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. Her hair was pulled up in a neat bun, and she wore her usual outfit of a skirt and

Mom’s hand is resting on my right arm, as if she is holding me in the picture’s frame. The rest of her features seem to blend into the drab background, but her right hand shows up clearly as it holds me in place.

The ticket taker looked up, “I don’t seem to remember no ‘mama’s’ walking through here. What did she look like?”