In Search of my Mother's Garden

I shared an excerpt from Alice Walker's "In Search of my Mother's Garden" with my students last week.

I read this to my tenth graders and we discussed the extended metaphor in the prose and what the "garden" represented. Walker's mother had the ability to take rocky soil and turn it into a beautiful garden because she possessed the "...muzzled and often mutilated, but vibrant, creative spirit the black woman has inherited." I posed the question to my students, "what is your mother's garden?" And anyone who knows me knows any writing of mine is inept without input from the illustrious L. Boogie who once stated, "I'm like the mad scientist who does the experiment on themselves." So of course I performed the experiment on myself and here is how it went....

At twenty, I have graduated from college, been accepted to law school and work full time as a high school English teacher. Every time I attempt to pat myself on the back, I remember that at this age my mother was new to the United States, newly married, expecting her first child and working while learning English at night.

Her name is signed to my story.

It wasn't until this past year that I began to seek my mother's garden. Years of adolescent angst barred me from doing so before; I was too busy resenting her. My mother, like a lot of Haitian women, is a pressure cooker. Much like that pot of rice she cooks every evening for dinner, my mother pressures her children to do more at all times. If I was graduating at 19, she wanted to know if there was a way I could do it at 18. For a young and developing woman, that pressure translated into inadequacy. Nothing I did was good enough.

As I look back on it, through teary eyes I understand her desire to see me succeed beyond even my wildest imagination. If she had the same opportunities I had... there is no telling the things she would have done. I wish I could have understood the spirit I had inherited back then. I wish I could have understood how monumental every ride I took on the Blue or Orange line was. I wish I would have said a prayer every time I walked through the front gates with the same consciousness I dodged that seal with. My journey from work, or Pentagon City, or my internship on the Hill went by quickly and quietly. I didn't see my mother sitting next to me 30 years before on her way to the same Georgetown neighborhood. I didn't see my mother sitting next to me in Dr. Mitchell's classroom. As I discussed literature as an English major... my mother learned the English language.

I wish I would have seen my mother's signature at the foot of my twin size dorm room bed before I invited an outsider to shatter my confidence. I wish as I recited my poetry in front of endless open mics I would have seen my mother's signature at the conclusion of every last line.

Every evening upon her return from a 10 hour work day, after a five star dinner has been cooked, she folds the newspaper to a quarter of its size... On it you'll see the day's crossword puzzle. It seems in a matter of minutes she has completed every small square on the recycled paper. 5A or 7D kneels before her like it seems everyone should. If during the day she is conquered by fatigue, frustration, or sheer brokenness.... during the evening she manages to conquer every thing else from puzzles to bills to dinner to... life. Thirty years ago, she couldn't define any of the words on the sheet and now, she could write the clues herself.

I found beauty in her accomplishment. I tried to emulate it. I was an English major after all and extremely well read. And.. English was my first language. As I sat on a Saturday afternoon I tried for hours to accomplish what my mother accomplished on a daily basis. I failed. Failed miserably. When my mother saw my attempt... 6 answers filled out of the near 200 she giggled quietly. Under her breath was a certain wisdom I had yet to acquire. She knew like I know now, that I had to find my own garden.

My story is her story. Every poem, composition, paper, and essay I write bears her name. My mother's garden, her crossword puzzle, her ability to turn rocky soil into a beautiful garden, speaks to the muzzled, often mutilated yet vibrant creative spirit I have inherited. I hope when I walk into my first class at the Law Center I will recall my mother's first steps... into this country, into a classroom, into her job. I'm sure at my age in this time she would have aced the LSAT. But her signature was signed to my application, not her own. She was too busy being a mother to me....

In search of my mother's garden... I found my own.

Hold your hand much bigger,
never wanted mine to grow
so I could always fit perfect
inside your palms just so....

Thank you Mama. I finally understand...


5/13/07