A Poem for my Mother

Happy Mother’s Day to a woman who constantly inspires.


My mother is a beautiful soul that was never told she could smile. Through intergenerational trauma, she was told she wasn’t worth a smile. And yet, she has inspired a fire inside my soul that radiates outward through the shine of my white teeth peering between crescent lips. I smile, because of her.  I smile because my mother has inspired me to find greatness when I am told there is none.

None? What type of concept is that? It’s subjective, but if you enter this world being told of nothing great, then you tend to internalize that you’re no one too great… No one matters except those that you want acceptance from. No one matters except a five year old girl who is sitting in front of a camera. She smiles larger than what her face can contain. It is the escape of true happiness, and the happiness escapes the infant’s body completely with a slap that wipes the smile right off her face. There is no forced friction of hand hitting skin, but rather a mother’s hateful words which suggest that her daughter is unworthy of smiling; that her daughter is unworthy of happiness; that her daughter is unworthy of existing. This narrative is not my own. I am not that five year old girl. This narrative is my mother’s, encased in maternal jealousy, fueled by unresolved pain from being denied her mother’s acceptance. As I said before, the cause is generational, and my mother became the first woman to rewrite the narrative. The journey is emotional, but it is also a story of healing. 

Healing is a process of undoing all the damage that we are fed as children. Healing, so we can find our sense of self beneath the preconceived notions of who we ought to be. My mother is an enigma. The more I talk with her about her accomplishments, the more wild her story gets. During the time that I’ve known my mother, she has been through clown college. She has openly talked about her experience with weed and being a paranoid high. She has been a woman in business doing everything from a woman’s adventure club (going dog sledding, gun shooting, horseback riding and organizing a two week backpacking trip across Italy) to having her own catering business. One of my favourite projects that my mother humoured was her desire to start a lounging stool collection. Needless to say, my mother embodies greatness. I’d like to think that she is proving her worth by partaking in so many wild and vastly different projects, but I also wonder if it was an attempt to find her sense of self after never being given the opportunity to develop agency in her mother’s embrace. 

They say a mother’s embrace is crucial for a child’s development, but the relationship that I’ve had with my mother was impactful from conception. My mother never knew she could get pregnant, until she had my older brother. Then she had people pray over her to get pregnant with me. Her pregnancy was life-threatening. There was a tear which caused significant amounts of blood loss. The doctors had to perform an emergency c-section and I lived my first week inside an incubator while my mother regained her health. Eventually we would both be sent home in full physical health. We know that emotionally, there was still healing to be made. My mother would often apologize for being emotionally absent in my early years. She fears that she was rewriting her upbringing. She is the only girl with three brothers, and I am the only girl with three brothers. In an attempt to free me of the intergenerational trauma between mother and daughter, my mother distanced herself. She didn’t want to become her mother, and she didn’t want me to turn into that five year old smiling in front of a camera and being told that I don’t have the right to be happy.  

Happiness is one of the perks to the human experience, and arguably, so is the gorgeous phase of teenage angst. Regardless of my mother’s efforts, during my adolescence, I was tainted by the intergenerational thought that we are never good enough. I failed to see my own mother as worthy. I was aware of my painful, ill understanding of my mother. Embarrassment filled my bones. It weighed me down, drowning in the sea of invisible love. I couldn’t express any form of love or acceptance to her because I actually thought my mother was dumb. I fought so hard to challenge this thought because my heart begged me to fight. My heart begged me to support my mother and her differences. My heart begged to scream WORTH! from the rooftops, until the top of my mouth hurts, until my heart drops. And I realized, this is a woman who inspires women to recognize their own worth.

Worth. I have used that word a lot. If you did a search of how many times I used that word in this story, you’d find thirteen results. Although it’s a word I don’t struggle using, it’s a word I struggle with in terms of association. As my mother heals and recognizes her worth, she has opened a dialogue where I can explore ‘worth’ alongside her. I know that we have progressed as dynamic characters in this narrative because I no longer see my mother as dumb. I haven’t associated that word with her for a long time. Instead, she inspires me to arrange a multitude of words of affirmation. Words that can be arranged in a poem for my mother, who inspires:

Would you believe me if I told you, that
Half the time, I let life get ahead of me, but you, 
Often remind me of how precious time can be.

I am, time and time again, the moments of wonder that
Never cease, and I am the time you spend counting the 
Seconds until life really begins when it already has.
Perchance you are still with me, even with all this distance.
In every second of the day, I hear your voice.
Reminiscences of teachings only a mother could conceive.
Even with all this distance, you remind me that I am worth
Spending time on, because of how precious I can be.

I told my mother that I wanted to write about her, and she texts: 
“I am honored that you want to write about me for the contest. I got emotional about the implications of that choice (we are not my relationship with my mom!).” 

It’s not only that I want to tell a story about a woman who nearly died because of me, but it’s that I truly felt inspired, nearly compelled to write about the enigma that circulates through my thoughts. I want to tell the story of a woman who inspires greatness. This is a tough story to tell because it is emotionally loaded, but I want people to recognize my mother as the beautiful soul that she is. People that are meant to be her support system failed her, and they continue to fail her. She is worth so much more than what she has been given, and she gives these people so much more than they’re worth. When they tell her she can’t smile, it’s because they are projecting their own twisted belief of self-worth. But you already know that, don’t you mother?`

My mother is a beautiful soul that was never told she could smile. And yet, she continuously inspires a fire inside my soul that radiates outward through the shine of my white teeth peering between crescent lips. I smile because of her. I smile because my mother has inspired me to find greatness when I am told there is none.

A Poem for the Romantics

In one swift gesture,
I wrapped the comforter around me 
And through my legs,
Surrounding me in a warmth
Similar to when we’d lay
On our sides,
Bodies pressed together.

I breathed out heavily,
And a ‘hey’ escaped with it.
It was a response
As if you were there –
Arms wrapped around me,
Bodies pressed together,
Laying on our sides –
And had just recited

The Words of a Romantic.


A poem by Shayla Hickerson

A Swelling Heart Can Easily Shatter

I know that you love me because you do express your feelings, although sometimes I wonder if I’m actually that special. It makes me extremely happy when you tell me things like how much you love my laugh, my eyes, and my smile.

It leaves me feeling something that no one has ever given me. When I don’t see you for almost a week, it’s a feeling that develops in the center of the chest as if all the deep sorrow one could contain gathers up into a tight ball. Then it starts to rip at your insides. It leaves you feeling empty everywhere else in your body, but in the center of your chest, it feels like the world is collapsing in on you. You have the power to make my world collapse in on me. You the power to break me.

Yet, when we are together or when I read your heart-filled texts, the feeling is not full of sorrow. It is a feeling of eternal joy and happiness that swells in my heart. It still makes my world collapse, but not into ruins because at those moments nothing else matters when considering how happy you make me then.


Journal entry by Shayla Hickerson

Muse

Mother me until my insides bleed out a sea of warmth.
Utter nonsense that strings through the air and creates a dialogue of langue.
Seize the opportunity to care for me tenderly, unconventionally, unintentionally, infinitely…
Eternally, internally twist my insides so that I become a thread, wrapped around your finger –
warped around your linger. Stay.


A poem by Shayla Hickerson

A Poem for the Extraordinary

– EXTRAORDINAIRE –

The way her voice found me through the void felt like the warmth of yesterday’s embrace.
It was certain, and it is eternal-ly imprinted in the back of my eyelids.
And somehow I manage to feel your touch as her voice tickled the hairs on my arms,
And danced so graciously to the beat of my eardrums.
It was extraordinaire. 
You were extraordinaire.
But the melodic echo faded and she was gone.
There is no song left to play that records the diaristic pain that I woke up to.
And so, I am stuck; frozen in nothingness. Just this numbness.
If you listen closely, they are the same.
If you listen closely, her voice reaches me again until the image of you becomes the black blanket covering the back of my eyelids.

Falling into a new embrace; falling asleep.


A poem by Shayla Hickerson

Romanticize

I’m fluid,
like a river flowing over sharp bends and obstructions;
I am neither myself, nor Someone who I don’t recognize.
I float along the surface of reality;
a reality of televised series of events
not fit for the big screen, but fit for the projection screen
spread out across the back of my eyelids.

I am the supporting role, and you are the hero;
the character who is romanticized beyond recognition.
I support the role which I have crafted for you.
You exist not as yourself, but as a figment of my imagination.
You are the love that I mold with my figurative hands,
an artwork which is conceptualized and played by your form
in my dreams,
in my thoughts,
in my storyline which has yet to be written.

You are fluid,
like the ink of my pen as I write poems
and connect words that create the outline of you.
You are neither yourself, nor the person I dream you to be.
You float along the waves of thought that roll into my mind.
And I hope that you don’t mind,you exist as the static in a fuzzy televised screen
captured on the back of my eyelids.

We are both fluid,
we exist together in my thoughts
and yet you cannot even begin to comprehend 
that we are two bodies of the same water.


A poem by Shayla Hickerson

Sexual Availability: a poem

Courtesy of Shayla Hickerson, Sexual Availability: Figmented, 2016

I am but a mist hanging behind the pull of your eyelids. A figment of your imagination melting in the eavesdrop after a chilling winter spent in yesterday’s embrace. The rotation of the record player started to match that of the rotation belonging to the roll of your eyes viewed in high definition from my front row seat, whilst the rate of my heart paused. The little dream you dreamt of me faded through translucent pixels as the melancholic melody was heard through a final, whispered vinyl revolution.

Sexual Availability: Part 1, 2018

A static echo fills the air as the vinyl continues its lifeless spin.
The music has stopped, but no one was around to hear it.
They walked away once the track had finished.
They got what they wanted,
and split.

The boy seemed to have like the atmosphere,
But he didn’t want to invest in caring (,) just for the record.
The needle digs in deep.
A cut appears, but no blood was drawn for your satisfaction.
Call it a hit and run.
Call it whatever you like.
Call it nothing at all.

Sexual Availability: Part 2 (2018)

I am nothing but a vinyl that continues its lifeless spin, even once the music has finished its song. You played me like a symphony, but didn’t desire the instrument it took to produce such works. I was discarded and left for storage once the desired applause had hushed.