My Family: My Mother, My Role Model Essay -- essay …
Instead of this repentance, I want my mother to rekindle the fire that burned inside her when she was younger than I am now, I want her to feel that sense of urgency that made her leave me in the sidelines, that made her push through life in a search for breath, because now I too know what it’s like to be asleep, I know what it’s like to live a lie, I now know that when you don’t unleash the beast inside you, it comes back to tear you at the neck instead of running free. I want my mother to find the place where she traded in her love of woman for what she thought it meant to love regardless of the pain and abuse. Because it’s my mother who needs to stand with pride for coming out of her own closet when everyone else was still hiding. I want for her to set aside her own shame about translating love into the nightmare that became my childhood; I want her to cut a line down the center of our life and hold to the light her courage to be free, allowing the shameful expression of her freedom to fall to the sides, limp and lifeless. Maybe then shame can finally break its ties with anger. For us both.
Mother Tongue, by Amy Tan - OlyPen
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The Tel-Aviv neighborhood we lived in at the time was a one-year deal for my mother. She had dragged Kaya and her two daughters and me back to Israel to live in the apartment Mom’s parents had bought her because it was close to their home. But it was much too tame for my mom, their wild daughter, who had been to the moon and back, witnessing more of the world than any of her friends and relatives had with all their combined travel outside our small distant country. My mother had seen it all, but most importantly, she had seen herself for the first time; she had found herself in the streets of San Francisco in the early ’80s, in the bars of the Mission, in the women-run fringe theaters, and coming home to my wondering father, all wandery-eyed and flushed, a new rhythm pumping through her veins.
My mother is an affectionate and pious lady
As I grew up and got older, I wanted to stand up for her, I wanted to be by her side and witness the world changing because of her courage to speak up; I wanted to hold her hand as she marched for her people’s rights, and to hug her tight when the mailman delivered a letter filled with death threats from orthodox Jews, maybe to even walk up to one of them, dressed in his dark heavy cloak mid-summer on a Tel-Aviv street, make him look at me with religiously averted eyes, at the top of my lungs to tell his people to stay away from my mother, goddammit, I wanted to be able to show her off like a true celebrity, I simply wanted to be able to be proud. But I was being asked to do the impossible.
Essay of my mother - Selfguidedlife
This space between is where I search for motherhood, where I try to understand my mother’s need to drag me from one side of the world to the other, treating me like a suitcase to be filled and stored carefully, then pulled out again when she couldn’t stay away from the thing that was ruining my life but giving her the fuel to live in this world. In the place where shame meets anger I find myself wondering why I was never enough for her, how when we finally had a time of quiet, just the two of us, she would be sad and tell me this wasn’t enough for her. She needed Kaya, she needed her LOVER, she needed to yell, and scream, and love, and be her lesbian self. Though above all that shame and anger came the hurt of not being enough. Not being enough for my mother.
Essay About My Mother And Me - …
I’m missing a moment, or perhaps a string of them; I’m missing the way the world changed for me, where simplicity turned into something else, something retched that stuck to my body, to my clothes, to my hair. Something that turned me inside out many times a day in an attempt to find a way to be comfortable, to stand still and not worry about where the next blow was going to come from. I’m missing the place where the simple truth of my mother loving women turned into everything love was not, into something I had to bury deep inside the marrow of my bones.
My Mother, the Person I Admire the Most Essay Sample
Instead, I walked in the cracks between life, moved through tunnels of shame, and held my breath when I needed to pass by anything that was her, anything that was my mother, her flaming sexuality a huge flapping flag she held through the streets of Tel Aviv with pride, with anger, with conviction.