Relatively tall, mountainous cheek bones, dimples like donuts and skin the color of Indian corn. She left life in the South for what was then the promised land up North. Although she lived, loved, raised the family and worked for over half her life up North, the soft, lyrical accents of her Southern tongue never really left her.
Words of single syllable found a new one in her mouth, often rising on the second syllable; Keith became “Ke-eith,” child became “chi-ile” and her reedy, lengthy laughter lit up a room like a legal holiday. She and her children lived in the “PJs”, the projects, but it wasn’t until years later, when we were grown, that we understood we lived in poverty, for our mother made sure our needs were met.
She was a gentle woman who spoke well of most folk, if at all, but was like a lioness when one of her children were attacked. In the early 60s when her daughter got caught up in a neighborhood fracas that boiled out of control, she snapped a broomstick in two, whipped open a path down the block to where her daughter stood, paralyzed by terror, grabbed her and whipped her back home. Only when she was safely back indoors was it found that she had been slashed while outdoors, she never noticed so powerful was her love for her daughter.
Deep rivers of loving strength flowed through her. It is my belief that a mother’s love is the foundation of every love that follows. It is the primary love relationship, the first that humans experience, and as such, a profound influence on all subsequent and secondary relationships in life. It is a love relationship that surpasses all reason. Perhaps that’s why I thought she would live forever, that this woman who carried me, my brothers and a sister, would never know death. For over 30 years she smoked cigarettes–Pall Mall called “Pell Mells” and Marlboros–but I still thought she would live forever.
When she died of emphysema while I was imprisoned, it was like a lightning bolt to the soul. Never, during my entire existence had there been a time when she was not there. Suddenly, on a cold day in February, her breath ended and her sweet presence, her wise counsel, was gone forever. To see one’s mother die while imprisoned, to see her lifeless form while held in shackles… From death row. This is Mumia Abu-Jamal.
