I wrote this 6 years ago, and Mother's Day has not become less complicated. I do know this, I am proud of the women who brought me here.
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They really gave her only one option.
An assortment of tools-almost all of which were incompatible for the work before her.
Looked at her and whispered.."just like her mother".
The mother whose pictures had all been taken down.
Made sure she knew her beauty was the tool they expected her to wield, and a weapon she would be judged guilty of owning with intent.
When boundaries were crossed, the men only had to say, "well, her mother was a whoo-ore, what do you expect ?" They said the word with two syllables, stretching it out for effect.
To escape the judgment, refuge of sorts was found living a life in punishment. The blows lost their power if she exacted a balance of words that stung and flagrant betrayals. There was power there. He might think he kept her honor hostage, but she cheated him, and he held nothing.
Once her daughter had a new last name, responsibility passed, and the ruse of a marriage dissolved.
Knowing full well what people said about her, much of it true, she carried on regardless. Too much time had passed, caring now would only show weakness. Her spine straight, she convinced herself that these were her desires, her choices.
Pride in work was a gift to her. Stamina comes with survival. Not known for truth telling, there are other forms of honesty, and sometimes virtue exists in a lie.
Years after her death, a granddaughter seeks out what friends survive. I want to know her.
It's hard to convince some that I want unfiltered truth, and hard for me sometimes when I receive it. Usually a smile, a reference to her strength, liveliness, and always her toughness. I learn quickly not to ask men about her in front of their wives.
I still don't know all I'd like to, and my perception will always be skewed to the positive. I know she felt-and inflicted-pain. I know she loved clumsily and with many rules. She could laugh, and now and again, in certain parts of Utah County, I hear her voice.
A friend once said to me, "They're not perfect, but they're our mothers."
