Folks are often surprised to learn I was raised by a single mom. Perhaps it’s the All-American girl thing I had going on growing up, the college degree from my #1 choice of universities or the perception that I have my ish together.
A bit of history – hang with me. My father had three marriages producing six children. There was a history of addiction and substance abuse in each of the first two marriages. In swoops my mother who, after marrying my father, steps right into role of stepmother of two pre-teen girls and weekends wih a younger step-son. The oldest of the six children, I learned as a young adult, was actually raised as my cousin and I didn’t even know he was my half-brother. Y’all following all this?!
Enter myself and my younger brother during marriage number three for my dad. Mercy. On top of ALL OF THAT my father was still an alcoholic who liked to smoke pot. Can you imagine being in my moms position at this point? Married, two older kids full time, one on the weekends. My “momxiety” would be through. the. dang. roof.
Let’s jump to the separation and divorce at age 7. We moved to another state – visits and communication with my father after that were scarce. Forget about child support. We had to stop visiting him for our safety – if he couldn’t control his substance abuse while my mom was around how could she trust him in her absence?
Now that you have some context – I want you to know what I remember growing up as the daughter of a single mother.
I remember my mother working – always – and simultaneously having us involved in every activity she could get us to on time. She was scrappy – she wasn’t afraid to ask for assistance so we wouldn’t miss out. I took gymnastics and cheerleading. My brother took karate and piano lessons. She also always, ALWAYS had us in church. Not just any church. Church that had age-appropriate programming for kids. That had youth groups. She made sure we showed up for those events, too, even when we didn’t want to because we didn’t know anyone. She made sure my brother and I both had reliable cars when we started driving.
My single mom then started her own plastic recycling business, managing a warehouse of men, most needing a second chance. I’d drive to her office and find her on the phone, on a forklift, knee deep in a giant box of shredded plastic car parts or talking in broken spanish to one of her many Hispanic employees that adored her. Looking back, it’s pretty remarkable what she was willing to do to make a life for us.
In high school the pushing for greatness didn’t stop. She strong-armed me into testing for AIG classes and participating in pageants I didn’t want to do (due to lack of confidence – which I am certain now is why she pushed me to do those things). I was on stage for our Miss Graham High School pageant and the judges asked me, “what is your favorite food?” and without skipping a beat I answered, “cheese grits!” There was a low chuckle from the crowd. Many, many years later my mother shared with me that it was ironic that I said that to the judges. She told me that we had cheese grits all the time growing up because they were cheap to make and we were poor. She thought I would’ve had a different answer. ANY answer. To me, it was just “normal.”
I never considered the sacrifices and hardships she endured. Looking back I can see them now: using a hair-dryer to thaw pipes because our washing machine was on the back porch, a trip to McDonalds was a treat, back to school shopping when everything was on clearance and with someone’s extra discount, free and reduced school lunches, prom dress shopping at the consignment store (before it was trendy), being the last kid picked up because she was killing herself to be everywhere at the same time. You know what I also see now? A mom who risked everything to keep her kids safe. An entrepreneur in a male-dominated industry. A giver of second chances. An ex-wife that refused to trash talk the father of her children. A mom that held her adult children when they buried their absent father. A grandma whose words mean so much they get tattooed on a step-granddaughters forearm. A woman of God who lived her life believing that there would be beauty for her ashes. And what a beautiful life it is.
beauty for ashes with gabby lassiter 