of mothers & daughters

Later that evening, my mother came to my room where I’d been licking my wounds most of the day. “If you think that’s the last time you’re gonna have to fight or defend yourself from someone, I have news for you.” She warned. “Ain’t no punks in this family. The last thing I better ever see you do is run from a fight.” She finished. And she meant that. From that day onward, I made it a point to keep my conflicts quiet. I didn’t trust the way my mother handled things. She made matters worse whether that was intentional or not. If you asked me, my mother’s methods were less than effective.

I fought a few more times after that. My mother refereed a few rounds here and there. Each time as awkward as the first. Each time like pulling teeth. Each time motivated by the fear of whatever fight awaited me if I walked away. I had a few bullies in my lifetime, none as intimidating as my mother. My mother never intended to be a bully to her daughters. She didn’t delight in exhibiting the toxic traits she was terrorized by during her youth. I don’t believe that. 

What I believe is that it’s a battle to pass on to your children what you do not possess. My mother was confident in her character. There was nothing virtuous about being a victim. She prided herself on her power and took no nonsense from anyone, she intended the same for us. She felt she did her daughters a disservice by sending them out into the world without the desire to defend themselves. What good was a young girl who refused to fight in her own defense, especially in a world where no one else would? She had a point.