Barbie Perkins-Cooper, Author

Tag: Mother’s Day

  • Happy Mother’s Day 2021


    Dearest Readers, tomorrow, May 9, 2021, is Mother’s Day. Like every Mother’s Day, I reflect on my mother and the estranged history we shared. I am so envious of those who had such wonderful, caring mothers. Never did I. As much as I tried to make peace, we could not. In 1978, I visited my mother, only to be shunned by her once again. She told my son I was a drunk and a whore. Such a lovely, pleasant fabrication for a grandmother to tell her grandchild. When I approached her, she screamed at me. In 1988, another attempt was made for us to make peace. Arriving at her apartment, I hoped she would hug me like I’ve seen other mothers hug their child. I opened my arms, anxious for her embrace, instead, her toxic tongue started shouting again. She was angry that we arrived in a camper, not staying with her. In all honesty, when I saw how filthy her house was, I knew we could not stay there. During the fall of 1992, I revisited her, finally tracking her down in Warm Springs, Georgia. My youngest sister, Savannah, was staying with her after becoming homeless. Savannah glared at me.

    “You think you’re something, don’t you,” she shouted. “Walking in here just like you own the world. Just look at you. You bitch.” Her right hand slapped my face hard, stinging and leaving a bruise.

    Mom watched. Never did she reprimand Savannah.

    “I think it’s time I left,” I whispered. “I didn’t come here to be mistreated or abused.”

    “Oh. That’s right, Rebecca Sue. You go ahead and run away from a fight. I reckon you do think you’re better than us. Ain’t you? Just go. I never want to see you again.” Mama turned away.

    Yes. I walked away, refusing to lower my standards to Savannah or my mother. I wanted to make peace. All they wanted was a repeat of the history we shared. The fights. Verbal attacks and intolerance we shared. I chose to stay away, recognizing the reality that some families can never make peace.

    Perhaps this essay will be another chapter in “CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD.” [My latest work-in-progress]:
    Mama wore her best house dresses when she was in a good mood, which wasn’t often enough. Those days, it felt as if the sunshine from the window kissed the living room with colors of the rainbow, at least for me.
    Mama would smile at me and say, “Honey, can you curl my hair?”
    After I shampooed her hair, I curled it with jumbo rollers. My fingers shook as I rolled her hair. If the curl was too tight, she’d get a headache. She screamed in pain while her hands slapped my face. If it was too loose, the curl would flop, and she’d remind me I had no talent to style hair or do anything right. Her actions spoke volumes about her lack of love for me.
    Sometimes, she smiled into the mirror, nodding with delight when finished. During those special moments with her, I took the time to make my Mama up with makeup. Her skin was olive, as smooth as a baby’s behind—no wrinkles or age spots. When I lined her eyes with black velvet eyeliner, she could equal the beauty of Cleopatra or Elizabeth Taylor. I never understood why Mama failed to make skincare and makeup part of her daily routine.
    Mama never believed in routines. She lived her life only for the moment and the next handout from someone else.
    “It don’t matter to your daddy or me if I fix myself up,” she said. “He don’t care about me. Why should I?”
    Never did Mama hug or kiss me with her acceptance. I dare not ask if she liked her hair or makeup. I knew better. The sting of her palm on my face told me when I was not meeting her approval. I prayed she wouldn’t notice my anxiety or my trembling hands. When I asked how she wanted her hair styled this time, she looked in the mirror, scratched her head, pulling the gray strands out.
    “Stupid girl, you should know how I like my hair styled! Cover the gray roots,” she said. “Tease it high. Don’t let nobody see how gray I’m getting. I don’t care how it looks, as long as the gray roots ain’t showing.”
    She refused to get her hair colored, afraid the chemicals would do something to her brain. She said, “Cancer runs in our family. We can’t take a chance to get that disease ’cause it kills. My great-grandmother had head cancer. She had such bad headaches her mind was gone. Don’t you put no chemicals in my hair. I don’t want my brain or my head fried with Cancer. You listen to me, Rebecca Sue. Don’t let nothing fry my head.”
    May 2002 was the last Mother’s Day I shared with my mother. Reportedly, she suffered a fall at Savannah’s apartment in early April. Savannah shouted at her, shoving her down the stairs. She was in a hurry, and she was tired of taking care of her ‘old lady,’ so she chose to leave our mother suffering on the floor. That afternoon a home health nurse came to check on our mother, discovering her lying face down, her clothing soiled from body fluids and feces. Her face was pulled down to the left side, left lip bruised and battered. When she struggled to move, she could not. The nurse documented her condition, diagnosing a possible stroke.
    The home health nurse phoned me. “I suspect your mother has suffered a stroke. She’s at E-R now.”
    “I’ll make arrangements and leave later this afternoon. It will take at least eight hours before I can be there,” I said. “Where’s Savannah?”
    The nurse hesitated, suggesting I should speak to the doctor on call when I arrived.
    I knew something was questionable. This was not the first time my mother had injuries while under Savannah’s care.
    On Mother’s Day, Mom was still in the hospital. On that morning, I arrived early, placing a pale blue gift bag on her bed. Her eyes opened. She glanced at the bag, struggling to speak.
    “B-Blue skies,” she muttered. Her right arm moved to touch the bag. I reached inside the bag, removing a blue gift box. I opened the box slowly. Mom’s eyes blinked as she struggled to smile, admiring the cultured pearl earrings inside the box.
    A few minutes later, I placed the pierced earrings in her ears. Mom sighed, touching the right ear with her right hand. She slurred ‘thank you’ and fell back to sleep.
    I stayed with my mother all of that Mother’s Day, feeding her and making her comfortable. That Mother’s Day was the last Mother’s Day we shared.
    On September 11, 2002, my mother died under ‘questionable circumstances.’ Savannah spent that night with her at the hospital. When Savannah phoned me in the late evening of September 12, she appeared intoxicated. Her last slurring words to me were, “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”
    Two years after her death, Garrett and I drove to Columbus. We dropped by the cemetery to see my mother’s grave. The years of mental and physical abuse from my mother were buried with her. I placed a bouquet of red roses on her headstone, kissed it, and whispered, “I know we were never close, but I hope you’ve found peace now. May you rest in peace, Mom. I loved you.”
    Thinking about my childhood, the physical and mental abuse, I found it strange that Savannah was repeating the vicious cycle of physical abuse. In contrast, I found peace, refusing to allow violence or abuse of any kind within my family.
    On Mother’s Day, 2015, I reflect on my mother, our estranged history together, and the questionable circumstances of her death. Savannah buried her in a closed casket. Due to another bout of acute bronchial asthma, I was unable to get to the funeral. Perhaps there was a reason for an autopsy to be performed, but now, my mother rests in peace. I hope and pray she died peacefully. Mother’s Day is always a day of reflection, sadness, and curiosity, and I pray that all mothers will have a wonderful day enjoying motherhood.

    HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

  • REFLECTIONS ON MOTHER’S DAY


    Dearest Readers, tomorrow, May 9, 2021 is Mother's Day. Like every Mother's Day, I reflect on my mother and the estranged history we shared. I am so envious of those who had such wonderful, caring mothers. Never did I. As much as I tried to make peace, we could not. In 1978, I visited my mother, only to be shunned by her once again. She told my son I was a drunk and a whore. Such a nice, pleasant fabrication for a grandmother to tell her grandchild. When I approached her, she screamed at me. In 1988, another attempt was made for us to make peace. Arriving at her apartment, I hoped she would hug me, like I've seen other mothers hug their child. I opened my arms anxious for her embrace, instead her toxic tongue started shouting again. She was angry that we arrived in a camper, not staying with her. In all honesty, when I saw how filthy her house was, I knew we could not stay there. During the fall of 1992, I visited her again, finally tracking her down in Warm Springs, Georgia. My youngest sister, Savannah, was staying with her after becoming homeless. Savannah glared at me.
 
"You think you're something, don't you," she shouted. "Walking in here just like you own the world. Just look at you. You bitch." Her right hand slapped my face hard, stinging and leaving a bruise.

Mom watched. Never did she reprimand Savannah.

"I think it's time I left," I whispered. "I didn't come here to be mistreated or abused."

"Oh. That's right, Rebecca Sue. You go ahead and run away from a fight. I reckon you do think you're better than us. Ain't you? Just go. I never want to see you again." Mama turned away.

Yes. I walked away, refusing to lower my standards to Savannah or my mother. I wanted to make peace. All they wanted was a repeat of the history we shared. The fights. Verbal attacks and intolerance we shared. I chose to stay away, recognizing the reality that some families can never make peace.

    Perhaps this essay will be another chapter in “CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD.” [My latest work-in-progress]:

    Mama wore her best house dresses when she was in a good mood, which wasn’t often enough. Those days, it felt as if the sunshine from the window kissed the living room with colors of the rainbow, at least for me. 

    Mama would smile at me and say, “Honey, can you curl my hair?”

    After I shampooed her hair, I curled it with jumbo rollers. My fingers shook as I rolled her hair. If the curl was too tight, she’d get a headache.  She screamed in pain while her hands slapped my face. If it was too loose, the curl would flop and she’d remind me I had no talent to style hair, or do anything right. Her actions spoke volumes about her lack of love for me.

    Sometimes, she smiled into the mirror, nodding with delight when finished. During those special moments with her, I took the time to make my Mama up with makeup. Her skin was olive, as smooth as a baby’s behind. No wrinkles or age spots. When I lined her eyes with black velvet eyeliner, she could equal the beauty of Cleopatra or Elizabeth Taylor. I never understood why Mama failed to make skin care and make up part of her daily routine. 

    Mama never believed in routines. She lived her life only for the moment and the next handout from someone else. 

    “It don’t matter to me or to your daddy if I fix myself up,” she said. “He don’t care about me. Why should I?”

    Never did Mama hug or kiss me with her acceptance. I dare not ask if she liked her hair or makeup. I knew better. The sting of her palm on my face told me when I was not meeting her approval. I prayed she wouldn’t notice my anxiety, or my trembling hands. When I asked how she wanted her hair styled this time, she looked in the mirror, scratched her head, pulling the gray strands out. 

    “Stupid girl, you should know how I like my hair styled! Cover the gray roots,” she said. “Tease it high. Don’t let nobody see how gray I’m getting. I don’t care how it looks, as long as the gray roots ain’t showing.”

    She refused to get her hair colored, afraid the chemicals would do something to her brain. She said, “Cancer runs in our family. We can’t take a chance to get that disease ‘cause it kills. My great grandmother had head cancer. She had such bad headaches her mind was gone. Don’t you put no chemicals in my hair.  I don’t want my brain, or my head fried with cancer. You listen to me, Rebecca Sue. Don’t let nothing fry my head.”

    May, 2002 was the last Mother’s Day I shared with my mother. Reportedly, she suffered a fall at Savannah’s apartment in early April. Savannah shouted at her, shoving her down the stairs. She was in a hurry, and she was tired of taking care of her ‘old lady,’ so she chose to leave our mother suffering on the floor. That afternoon a home health nurse came to check on our mother, discovering her lying face down, her clothing soiled from body fluids and feces. Her face was pulled down to the left side, left lip bruised and battered. When she struggled to move, she could not. The nurse documented her condition, diagnosing a possible stroke.

    The home health nurse phoned me. “I suspect your mother has suffered a stroke. She’s at E-R now.”

    “I’ll make arrangements and leave later this afternoon. It will take at least eight hours before I can be there,” I said. “Where’s Savannah?”

    The nurse hesitated, suggesting I should speak to the doctor on call when I arrived.

    I knew something was questionable. This was not the first time my mother had injuries while under Savannah’s care.

    On Mother’s Day, Mom was still in the hospital. On that morning, I arrived early, placing a pale blue gift bag on her bed. Her eyes opened. She glanced at the bag, struggling to speak.

    “B-Blue skies,” she muttered. Her right arm moved to touch the bag. I reached inside the bag, removing a blue gift box. I opened the box slowly. Mom’s eyes blinked as she struggled to smile, admiring the cultured pearl earrings inside the box.

    A few minutes later, I placed the pierced earrings in her ears. Mom sighed, touching the right ear with her right hand. She slurred ‘thank you’ and fell back to sleep.

    I stayed with my mother all of that Mother’s Day, feeding her and making her comfortable. That Mother’s Day was the last Mother’s Day we shared.

    On September 11, 2002, my mother died under ‘questionable circumstances.’ Savannah spent that night with her at the hospital. When Savannah phoned me in the late evening of September 12, she appeared intoxicated. Her last slurring words to me were, “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”

    Two years after her death Garrett and I drove to Columbus. We dropped by the cemetery to see my mother’s grave. The years of mental and physical abuse from my mother were buried with her. I placed a bouquet of red roses on her headstone, kissed it and whispered, “I know we were never close, but I hope you’ve found peace now. May you rest in peace, Mom. I loved you.”

    Thinking about my childhood, the physical and mental abuse, I found it strange that Savannah was repeating the vicious cycle of physical abuse while I found peace, refusing to allow violence or abuse of any kind within my family.

    On Mother’s Day, 2015 I reflect on my mother, our estranged history together and the questionable circumstances of her death. Savannah buried her in a closed casket. Due to another bout of acute bronchial asthma, I was unable to get to the funeral. Perhaps there was a reason for an autopsy to be performed, but now, my mother rests in peace. I hope and pray she died peacefully. Mother’s Day is always a day of reflection, sadness and curiosity and I pray that all mothers will have a wonderful day enjoying motherhood.

  • Reflections — On Mother’s Day…

    Reflections — On Mother’s Day…


     

    Dearest Readers:

    Perhaps this essay will be another chapter in “CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD.” [My latest work-in-progress]:

    Mama wore her best house dresses when she was in a good mood, which wasn’t often enough. Those days, it felt as if the sunshine from the window kissed the living room with colors of the rainbow, at least for me.

    Mama would smile at me and say, “Honey, can you curl my hair?”

    After I shampooed her hair, I curled it with jumbo rollers. My fingers shook as I rolled her hair. If the curl was too tight, she’d get a headache.  She screamed in pain while her hands slapped my face. If it was too loose, the curl would flop and she’d remind me I had no talent to style hair, or do anything right. Her actions spoke volumes about her lack of love for me.

    Sometimes, she smiled into the mirror, nodding with delight when finished. During those special moments with her, I took the time to make my Mama up with makeup. Her skin was olive, as smooth as a baby’s behind. No wrinkles or age spots. When I lined her eyes with black velvet eyeliner, she could equal the beauty of Cleopatra or Elizabeth Taylor. I never understood why Mama failed to make skin care and make up part of her daily routine.

    Mama never believed in routines. She lived her life only for the moment and the next handout from someone else.

    “It don’t matter to me or to your daddy if I fix myself up,” she said. “He doesn’t care about me. Why should I?”

    Never did Mama hug or kiss me with her acceptance. I dare not ask if she liked her hair or makeup. I knew better. The sting of her palm on my face told me when I was not meeting her approval. I prayed she wouldn’t notice my anxiety, or my trembling hands. When I asked how she wanted her hair styled this time, she looked in the mirror, scratched her head, pulling the gray strands out.

    “Stupid girl, you should know how I like my hair styled! Cover the gray roots,” she said. “Tease it high. Don’t let nobody see how gray I’m getting. I don’t care how it looks, as long as the gray roots ain’t showing.”

    She refused to get her hair colored, afraid the chemicals would do something to her brain. She said, “Cancer runs in our family. We can’t take a chance to get that disease ‘cause it kills. My great grandmother had head cancer. She had such bad headaches her mind was gone. Don’t you put no chemicals in my hair. I don’t want my brain, or my head fried with cancer. You listen to me, Rebecca Sue. Don’t let nothing fry my head.”

     

    May, 2002 was the last Mother’s Day I shared with my mother. Reportedly, she suffered a fall at Savannah’s apartment in early April. Savannah shouted at her, shoving her down the stairs. She was in a hurry, and she was tired of taking care of her ‘old lady,’ so she chose to leave our mother suffering on the floor. That afternoon a home health nurse came to check on our mother, discovering her lying face down, her clothing soiled from body fluids and feces. Her face was pulled down to the left side, left lip bruised and battered. When she struggled to move, she could not. The nurse documented her condition, diagnosing a possible stroke.

    The home health nurse phoned me. “I suspect your mother has suffered a stroke. She’s at E-R now.”

    “I’ll make arrangements and leave later this afternoon. It will take at least eight hours before I can be there,” I said. “Where’s Savannah?”

    The nurse hesitated, suggesting I should speak to the doctor on call when I arrived.

    I knew something was questionable. This was not the first time my mother had injuries while under Savannah’s care.

    On Mother’s Day, Mom was still in the hospital. On that morning, I arrived early, placing a pale blue gift bag on her bed. Her eyes opened. She glanced at the bag, struggling to speak.

    “B-Blue skies,” she muttered. Her right arm moved to touch the bag. I reached inside the bag, removing a blue gift box. I opened the box slowly. Mom’s eyes blinked as she struggled to smile, admiring the cultured pearl earrings inside the box.

    A few minutes later, I placed the pierced earrings in her ears. Mom sighed, touching the right ear with her right hand. She slurred ‘thank you’ and fell back to sleep.

    I stayed with my mother all of that Mother’s Day, feeding her and making her comfortable. That Mother’s Day was the last Mother’s Day we shared.

    On September 11, 2002, my mother died under ‘questionable circumstances.’ Savannah spent that night with her at the hospital. When Savannah phoned me in the late evening of September 12, she appeared intoxicated. Her last slurring words to me were, “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”

     

    Two years after her death Garrett and I drove to Columbus. We dropped by the cemetery to see my mother’s grave. The years of mental and physical abuse from my mother were buried with her. I placed a bouquet of red roses on her headstone, kissed it and whispered, “I know we were never close, but I hope you’ve found peace now. May you rest in peace, Mom. I loved you.”

    Thinking about my childhood, the physical and mental abuse, I found it strange that Savannah was repeating the vicious cycle of physical abuse while I found peace, refusing to allow violence or abuse of any kind within my family.

     

    On Mother’s Day, 2015 I reflect on my mother, our estranged history together and the questionable circumstances of her death. Savannah buried her in a closed casket. Due to another bout of acute bronchial asthma, I was unable to get to the funeral. Perhaps there was a reason for an autopsy to be performed, but now, my mother rests in peace. I hope and pray she died peacefully. Mother’s Day is always a day of reflection, sadness and curiosity and I pray that all mothers will have a wonderful day enjoying motherhood.

    Happy Mother’s Day to all of you who truly know the definition and love affiliated with motherhood. May your day be filled with the love and best wishes of family on Mother’s Day.

     

    ###

     

  • Mother’s Day Reflections


    Dearest Readers:

    Today is Mother’s Day in the USA. A day to appreciate mothers, regardless who — or where — they are. And so, I would like to wish all of the mothers a Happy Mother’s Day. Today, I remember my mother. She died unexpectedly on September 11, 2002. There is an interesting story regarding her death, but that is another chapter I will share in my book, “Chattahoochee Child.”

    Today, I will reflect on Mothers. Motherhood is a day that most girls dream about as little children. We play with our baby dolls, changing their diapers and clothes, feeding them baby bottles and we dream of the blissful day when we become mothers. Becoming teenagers, we babysit, still dreaming about the day when we give birth to a child.

    I will go on record here to say, it takes more than imaginations, dreams and desires to become a mother. A mother is the first person babies get to recognize when we are so dependent on a mother. I imagined myself as a great mother because I loved small children. I loved scooping them up sitting on my lap while I read picture book stories to them. I loved playing pretend with them, singing and dancing with small children, and I loved babysitting.

    After marriage, I discovered it indeed ‘takes a village to raise a child.’ After giving birth to my child, I recognized motherhood was more demanding that I imagined. Suddenly this tiny little boy was placed in my arms, screaming louder than I imagined a baby could scream. After we came home, I was convinced I did not need help to care for him. After all, I was his mother. I could handle any of the demands he screamed out to me. I was wrong!

    Mornings began early — really early, and sleep was something I was deprived of. I learned to sleep when the baby sleeps. My husband did not help — at all. He used the excuse he didn’t know how to care for a baby. He couldn’t change diapers or feed him. All that he enjoyed was the fun of making a baby. Maybe that is why we only had one! While making a baby was fun, the joy of caring for a baby quickly wore me out. And when my husband jokingly mentioned having another, I did not laugh. Motherhood was just a bit more demanding that I ever imagined.

    Perhaps that is the reason my mother and I did not get along in life. As a child, I was the persnickety one! I loved to dress up and make an entrance. Singing and dancing on the stage gave me life and I knew at the age of five-years-old I was meant to entertain. As a teenager, I grew into a shell, hiding away, afraid to speak, sing or dance. I watched my parents marriage quickly deteriorating. I stood between them, serving as the referee so they would not hit one another. I remember screaming, “Please stop this. You are killing each other.”

    When I was 15, my parents separated and divorced. Mom moved us into our grandparents mill house. I enrolled in high school, blending into the walls. No one remembered me. The music stopped and I no longer sang or dance. My life was in turmoil. My mother and I fought. Sometimes she would pull my hair and slap me, just to shut me up. I saw the bitter side of motherhood and for a while, I thought I would never become a mother.

    Today, I do my best to look for the good that was inside my mother, and I reflect on her unhappiness. Not every one is good mother material. After all, life has a way of demanding too much controversy and difficulty. After moving away from the mill village, my husband and I drove back to the mill village occasionally to see my mother. Each time, I left in tears. Bitter words were spat at me. Questions vocalized that I was ‘rich’ since I drove a new car, wore expensive clothing and shoes. I laughed! All of my clothing and shoes were sale or clearance items and I managed a tight household budget. It was obvious with each visit that jealousy brewed inside my mother. Never did she rush to hug me, or tell me she loved me. All I remember were the brutal attacks, and with each visit, I wiped tears from my eyes while inside all I wanted to hear was that she loved me and was happy to see me. She stood her ground — refusing. Inside her home, all of my pictures were gone. In her eyes, I no longer existed.

    In later years, she had a stroke. I found out when the nursing home phoned me to ask if I would fill out paperwork for her to remain. My youngest sister was missing at the time, and the social worker admitted to me that my mother had been removed from my sister’s home after a court order.

    I completed all of the paperwork and my mother received the medical care she deserved. I drove to Georgia to see her. She didn’t recognize me, but did recognize my husband. Returning home, I spoke with the nursing home every day, hoping that my mother would improve.

    On September 11, 2002, my mother died. I was informed after my sister’s son phoned me to let me know the funeral would be the next morning. The one comment made to me several times while on the phone was: “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”

    I had less than 24 hours to get to the funeral. At the time, I was in bed sick with acute bronchial asthma. I was taking Prednisone at the time and was a total zombie to be around. My husband was away in Italy, so I did not make it to the funeral. Never did I get to say goodbye to my mother.

    Three months later, I wrote a letter to my mother, to say goodbye. Now at peace with her death, and our history together, I wish her a Happy Mother’s Day in heaven. To all of you who are mothers, or have mothers still alive, I do hope you will take the time to wish your mother a Happy Mother’s Day. Even if there are challenges and adversities you share, think of it this way — she is the one who gave you life. Without her care, you would not be around to breathe or appreciate life.

    May God bless mothers, everywhere. As we know, motherhood does not come with an instructional booklet. None of us are truly prepared to be a mother; however, we must work together to become appreciative of each other and our lives together. Life is too short to hold a grudge. Pick up the phone today to speak to your mother. To say thank you..and most of all, to say, “Mom. I love you.” Regardless. She is your mother.

    Happy Mother’s Day!