Tears of My Mother, page 1
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This book is dedicated to any first-generation child who ever felt like they were not enough, who felt that they never belonged. Our story is unique, but that is what makes it so beautiful. In this moment, I hope you feel seen.
INTRODUCTION
I sat in a green armchair in the corner of my kitchen, fiddling with my hair as my mom stood at the kitchen island, cutting fresh okra. Recently, my mother, Iyom Susan Okuzu, had volunteered to cook dinner for my family of five: my husband, Eddie; our older son, Karter; younger son, Kruz; and baby daughter, Kamrynn. She was going to make her signature spicy, comforting palm oil okra soup with pounded yam. Once she’d organized all the soup ingredients—okra, red onion, spinach, a habanero pepper, crayfish, assorted meats and spices, ogbono seeds from the African market—the chopped onion and crayfish went into a pan with hot oil. The room filled with an aroma that instantly took me back in time.
Nigerian food is hearty, rich, and humble, and it dominates my childhood memories. I’d see Mom standing in front of the stove, stirring two, three pots of fragrant stews or soups with a slotted spoon. Many nights she’d come home exhausted from a twelve-hour nursing shift at the hospital and head directly to the kitchen to fry up meat or fish. The movement in our home always originated in the kitchen. In any Nigerian home, it’s where the action is. You can have a twenty-room house, but 90 percent of the time, the people who live there will be in the kitchen.
Smelling the sizzling onions, my two sons came barreling in, tossing a football. Their toddler sister, a new walker, tried to keep up. Karter, the spokesman of the group, asked, “What’s for dinner?” All three kids circled their grandmother, the boys tall enough to peer into the pan. They do the same with me at 4 p.m. when I cook dinner. I make tacos and spaghetti and love experimenting with international cuisines, but cooking Nigerian food makes my heart sing. The fact that my kids’ favorite dishes are Nigerian—like Mom’s okra soup and my grandmother Angela’s fried plantains (crispy on the outside, soft and sweet on the inside, and spicy when dipped in palm oil)—is a testament to the techniques I learned from them when I was a child.
“It’s not ready yet,” said Mom, shooing the kids away with a laugh. The two boys ran out of the kitchen as quickly as they had rushed in. Kamrynn hung back, wanting to help. The highest form of love in our culture is preparing a family meal, and my daughter had instinctively sensed its importance. “Go play with your brothers,” I told her. I was hoping for some alone time with my mother. I had something to ask her, and to tell her.
We watched Kamrynn toddle out. Mom flashed me a smile and I flashed one back. Then silence.
Stalling, I asked, “How’s Jordan doing?” My brother, eighteen years my junior, was a sophomore in college.
“He’s doing well,” she said. “I’m very proud of him.”
I nodded, swallowing a lump. Not that we weren’t all proud of Jordan, with good reason. He’d grown up well, despite the loss of his father (Jordan and I had different fathers). I just couldn’t recall the last time Mom told me that she was proud of me. The expectations for Nigerian girls are so much higher than they are for boys. A girl is considered a failure if she doesn’t cook expertly, keep house, marry a good Nigerian man, have children, care for the elders, look fabulous, and be a doctor or a lawyer. Nigerian boys only have to avoid getting a girl pregnant too early and eventually provide for their families. But even then, if boys miss the mark, they’re cut a lot of slack. They’re given dozens of chances to get back on track, reach their potential, and achieve success. Girls, not at all. Our missteps aren’t brushed off, and we don’t get pats on the back for doing the right thing. It’s expected of us, and any failure is met with disapproval by our demanding parents.
I glanced around at my glorious chef’s kitchen, the gleaming stainless steel appliances, the hammered copper pots and pans Mom was using. My gaze drifted into the living room, with its creamy walls and yummy plush couch, the colorful accent pillows I’d carefully chosen. Just outside the back door, we had ten acres of rolling green lawn and trees for the kids to play in. Two new cars were parked in the driveway. Eddie, the kids, and I had been living in our new house for just over a year, and it felt like home. Buying it was the culmination of our years and years of hard work, first earning our degrees, then proving ourselves in the workplace. Our family oasis was an objective symbol of success, and it felt good, validating, for my mother to spend time here and see the payoff of all her hard work raising me. It’d be even better if she acknowledged it.
When I was growing up in North Carolina, Mom always made our homes look beautiful, even when we lived in more modest places. Our apartments got bigger and nicer as Mom’s income grew. She started as a nurse and eventually became the director of nursing at major metropolitan hospitals. Still, although we were comfortably middle-class in terms of income, Mom had never figured out how to manage her money. In Nigeria, cash is king. So when Mom came to America, she didn’t have the savvy to use credit well and wound up with a bad credit score. Even at fifty-something, she struggles with that financial culture gap.
I got out of the chair and walked to the counter. “Can I help?” I asked her, sounding a lot like my own daughter. A pot of water was boiling on the stove, just waiting for yam flour to be poured in, the first step in the process of making pillowy, springy pounded yam balls to dip in the soup. “I want to help,” I said.
“It’s all under control,” said Mom, sending me back to the chair. I sat down, feeling dismissed, which took me back to childhood again. This scene had played out in the kitchen throughout my life when I offered to stand at her side and cook with her. She would refuse the offer, every time. I never pushed it.
My mother had long proven her capability as a woman who didn’t need help. Gifted, gutsy, and brilliant, she first came to America at seventeen and single-handedly put herself through college, eventually earning two master’s degrees. Not too shabby for an immigrant. She arrived here bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to grab her slice of the American Dream. Then she suffered heartbreak and had to grow up quickly in a country that was not her own. These tragedies made her wiser, but they hardened her, stealing her optimism and the spark in her that I remembered from childhood. Her suffering showed her that the world is often cruel, and never wanting her own children to sulk or be blind to the cruelty of the world, she did not go easy on my older sister, Yvonne, and me.
Watching Mom stir the yam flour in the pot to smooth out the texture, I noticed a slight sheen on her forehead. She made a noise, a “hmph,” the sound I’d heard a million times—her exasperated noise.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
She shot me an annoyed expression, another hallmark of hers. Every Nigerian mother has a repertoire of facial expressions and distinctive sounds that show how they feel without having to utter a single word.
“What?” I pressed.
Finally, she said, “Wen,” using my nickname, “you don’t know what I’m going through.”
“So tell me,” I said.
She shot me another look, the one that said, “I’m just overwhelmed.”
“If you’re tired, you don’t have to cook for us,” I said.
“Well, I’m doing it,” she said, her tone short, anger creeping in.
Now I was annoyed. “You offered to come over here and cook. No one asked you to do any of this. You insisted, so why are you doing it with anger?”
The truth was, she was angry at life, had been for a while. I was still trying to understand what my role was in her disillusionment. In our Nigerian culture, parents are only as successful as their children. My whole life, my mother had been adamant about keeping Yvonne and me locked into her vision of success and living our lives the way she wanted us to. We were given two options for our future: doctor or lawyer. Yvo (pronounced e-voh) became a surgeon and married a lawyer. I got my doctorate and married a lawyer. Our success gave Mom bragging rights for life, but it didn’t appear to make her happy.
“Don’t live your life for your children like I did,” she said. “You’ll just wind up alone.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d said this, and I wanted to respond, “Don’t take out your frustrations on me. Didn’t I do everything you ever asked of me?” But I didn’t dare speak the words out loud. Back talk was not part of the Nigerian parent-child contract.
I took a breath. “Mom, if you’re upset that you sacrificed so much, don’t sacrifice anymore.” I walked toward her. “I got this. I can finish dinner.” I moved to take her place at the stove, just as one day Kamrynn would take my place.
Susan frowned. “You don’t want my food,” she said, not budging.
For her, the very suggestion that I didn’t want her food was like a slap in the face. I hadn’t meant that, and she knew it. It was as if she was determined to misunderstand, to take offense at my attempts to have a real conversation.
My eyes burned. I had to confront my truth, one that I had danced around my entire life: my mother and I, as close as we are, don’t really understand each other.
How can it be that two people who lived side by side in small houses and apartments, talked every day for decades, went through so much pain and suffering together, could still keep so much hidden? Would we ever really understand each other and become as close as I wished we were?
Mom has always been my role model for nearly everything, but since I’d become a mother, I’d been noticing behaviors of hers—vulnerability, neediness, covetousness—that I didn’t want to emulate as a parent or as a woman. As a dutiful daughter, I walked a constant tightrope of meeting my immigrant mother’s strict expectations and upholding our Nigerian cultural traditions. But I also wanted to define myself—a first-generation immigrant raised in America—and my parenting style, on my own terms.
Mom and I never talked about past hurts—at all, ever. I wanted to be a different kind of mother, one who was available to talk with her kids about their feelings. Tonight I’d meant to bring up a couple of things, as some old hurts had been nagging me lately. Clearing the air with my mom would go a long way toward healing some of my own feelings.
I also wanted to tell Mom about a major decision concerning my career. And I knew she wouldn’t approve. Her parenting style was to use her disapproval like a blunt object. My sister and I succeeded out of fear of disappointing her. I was putting off telling her my news because I knew she’d give me her disappointed look, and I’d feel like I failed her. I was a mother of three, with a career and a marriage. I was thirty-seven years old, and Mom’s approval still weighed like an anvil on my choices.
As always, I couldn’t quite bring myself to say what was truly on my mind. I told myself, “Come on, Wendy. You can do it!” But then, I set the table instead. I knew rehashing ancient hurts wasn’t going to make Mom happy. Her happiness depended on my meeting her expectations for me. However, her expectations and my happiness were not aligned.
All my life, I’d done everything she asked. When would that be enough? When could I start living my life for me? What did I owe my mother now?
The food ready, I called in the family. My sons, my daughter, and my husband, Eddie, gathered in the kitchen and we sat down to eat. We ripped off pieces of the pounded yam ball, transforming them into balls with our hands, and dipped them into the soup. Mom watched us all closely as we took our first bites.
“It’s amazing,” I said.
She said, “I don’t know, I used too much salt. I’m not sure if it affected the recipe.” Her modesty was a fishing expedition. Food is her love language, and we had all learned to speak it.
“Oh no, no, no, no. It’s great!” I said to show my gratitude and appreciation.
Eddie said, “It’s delicious. Best I’ve ever had.”
The kids joined in, too, gushing praise until Susan smiled and dipped a piece of pounded yam into her soup to assess what she’d created for all of us.
ONE Coming to America
When I was three, my mother shook me awake in the middle of the night.
“Get up, Wen,” she said. “We have to go.”
My sister, Yvo, then six, was standing next to Mom at the foot of my bed. We were in a house at my maternal grandfather’s compound in Nigeria. Two weeks prior, we had fled my father’s home in Imo State to take refuge at my grandparents’ in Anambra State. Mom helped me out of bed, picked me up, and carried me out of the house. Like me, Yvo was wearing just her pajamas. Mom was dressed in her regular clothes, a long skirt and a long-sleeved blouse.
I’d never been awake that late before. Mom helped my sister and me into the back seat of the car. A man I didn’t recognize helped Mom load our six suitcases into the trunk. Mom slipped into the seat next to me, and the man got into the driver’s seat. “Let’s go,” she said.
“Where are we going?” I asked, confused.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
I dozed off in the car and woke up again in my mother’s arms in a white tunnel. Yvo held Mom’s hand and walked alongside us. The tunnel ended and we were ushered into a space I’d never seen before, with rows of cushioned seats and bright lights overhead. Mom found our row and buckled Yvo and me into our seats before she sat between us and fastened her own seat belt.
Overtired and excited to be inside an airplane for the first time, I cried when I was forbidden to run up and down the aisle. Eventually, I fell back to sleep and woke up the next morning in another new place, a new country. We were met at North Carolina’s Raleigh-Durham International Airport by a woman named Winifred, one of my mother’s sisters (she had four sisters, three of whom lived in and around Durham). I was too young to remember meeting my aunts before. Winifred drove us to a town house on Fargo Street. It looked just like all the other town houses on the block.
Mom said, “This is our new home, girls.” The house was, as I came to learn, owned by Aunt Ekwy, another of Mom’s sisters.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked once we were settled, fed, and dressed. The midmorning sun coming through the windows was bright.
“He’s fine. Don’t worry,” said Mom curtly.
“Is he coming here?” I asked.
“He’s coming,” she said. “He’ll be here soon.”
A lot was new to me in America: the relatives and friends who came in and out of the house on a steady basis to sit and talk to Mom; the humid climate; the people on the street and in stores who wore strange clothes and spoke with a weird accent. Many of the people were white, which was also a change from what I was used to.
Inside the house, it still felt like being in Nigeria. Mom cooked all our favorite dishes to give us a taste of home. And she spoke Igbo, the dialect of southeastern Nigeria, while she held court in the kitchen, entertaining and cooking for the stream of visitors. I’d never seen her like this before, so free and fun, the perfect hostess with a wooden spoon in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. I came to understand that most of the people who dropped by were our family members, aunts and cousins as well as some friends from the local Nigerian community. Listening to them talk, I soon realized that Mom had lived in Durham before I was born. Even though both my parents were Nigerian born, this was where they had been married in 1981. My sister, Yvo, had been born at Duke University Hospital later that year. Having been born in Nigeria, I was the only member of our immediate family who was totally new to this place—although Yvo’s memories of the first two years of her life in America were faint at best. I adapted quickly, as children do.
Thanks to Mom’s incredible cooking and open-door policy for guests, Fargo Street was like Grand Central Station. Back in Nigeria, our routine centered on home and the fundamentalist Christian church where my father, Edwin, was a pastor. Our lives before had been circumscribed, with few social gatherings. Now, in Durham, our house was alive with people, music, laughter. It was a place of joy.
For weeks, the newness distracted me from the mystery of why we were here in America at all. I missed my father, but I was okay. As long as my mother was to my left and my sister to my right, I felt secure. It didn’t matter where I was.
Over the course of a year, the three of us settled into life in Durham, and I got to know my aunts better. Mom worked odd jobs as a home-care worker and whatever else she could find. After several months, I stopped asking about my father, because Mom always said the same thing: “He’s coming. Soon.”
And then, out of the blue, Mom called to Yvo and me one random afternoon and said, “Girls! Your father is here.”
What? My sister and I ran toward the front door. There he stood, the man I had been starting to forget. I was overjoyed to see him after a year of absence, and dazzled by his huge afro, chocolate skin, electric smile, and soft, sweet cognac eyes. They were shining at me now, and I hugged him as tight as I could.
I glanced back at Mom to check how she felt about this, and I was relieved to see her beaming at him. “Your father is going to live with us from now on,” Mom informed us with no other explanation. Whatever made my mother flee with us in the dark of night a year ago had apparently been resolved. I was way too young to understand the emotional adjustments and negotiations that went on between my parents. I was just thrilled to have him back in the house. We moved out of Fargo Street, into a two-bedroom in the Lakewood apartment complex. Yvo and I had bunk beds and shared one room, while Mom and Dad had the other. Our furniture was utilitarian and basic.
