Memory of that Night

        Saying goodbye is something I have mastered over the years. When I was only a year old- being unaware of the enormous change about to occur in my life- my father took my sister and I and we moved to Arizona. At this point I lacked the intelligence to know I would be saying goodbye to my birth mother for seven years. Everything changed when my family left Seoul, Korea to live in Sparta, Wisconsin. It was not the move to which I felt apprehensive; my father was in the military so I was used to leaving my home every two or three years. It was that I discovered the woman whom I referred to as “Mommy”, was actually my step mother. Apparently some lady, my actual mother, was ready to meet me. I was scared. I did not know what to expect. I remember my father and stepmother telling me I could refer to her as “Mommy-Lira” if I wanted. They gave my sister and I a cheap phone so that we could call whenever we felt homesick. I was scared to meet her. At eight years old, I did not entirely comprehend who this woman was. I did not understand why other kids at school lived with their Mommies, yet mine was thousands of miles away. Who was she? Everything about her life was different than what was normal for me. There in that new place, I was cramped and the feeling of unfamiliarity clouded my mind and emotions…

        I am aware that connection between a mother and daughter seems inevitable, but for me, this woman was a stranger. My birth mother and father were divorced when I was young. Before I reached the age of eighteen months, my father married a wonderful woman named Kristine. I lived with my father, step mom, my older sister, and my two younger brothers for 17 years. This was my family, these were the people who meant the world to me. I had no recollection of my true birth mother, who lived such a different life. Eventually, when visitations with my birth mother became more frequent, I adjusted to the difference in lifestyles. I dreaded those July months in which I was forced to leave my father and Kristine, and spend time with these strangers I was supposed to love. Throughout my childhood, my family and I would move around to different countries, states, homes and schools; there were times where I would only visit my birth mother once every two years. I barely knew this woman and we were never given the chance to fully bond as mothers and daughters usually do. I had my mother, Kristine, and my birth mother had different daughters for whom she cared. That is what I thought.  

       As I matured and began to understand my situation, I searched for my identity, some kind of connection with my birth mother. But things were very difficult. My birth mother had grown up in Ecuador with Spanish being her first language. She spoke with an accent and this was new and intimidating. She lived in a two bedroom apartment just twenty minutes from New York City and worked a nine to five job on the weekdays.  When my sister and I came to visit, there was hardly enough room for seven people. At home, I enjoyed the luxury of having my step mother, Kristine, spend time with me. But my birth mother always had to work. The community in which my birth mother lived, was mostly South/Latin American where men, women, and kids were much darker than me. Even the catholic church my birth mother attended was scripted in Spanish. I was used to people of my color, white children who spoke like me and lived like me. I had adapted to big houses with big backyards full of white families. 
My birth mother and I lived very different lives and trying to have conversations was awkward. I had traveled to many countries and experienced opportunities of which she could only dream. She was happy for me. I was given a fortunate life and this made her glad, even if that meant being a daughter she did not see every day.  

        I hope the memory of that night stays in my mind forever. Thinking about it will always bring a smile to my face. It was about eight o’clock on a Friday night and I heard steady footsteps coming down the basement stairs. My birth mother greeted me and I remember watching her smiling face become more defined as she walked closer. Immediately she looked around the room wondering what I was up to, but quickly exclaimed she had something to show me. As she pulled out her phone, I could see just how at awe she was. That one seven minute video turned into a number of videos; various lengths and topics. Until eventually, my mother and I were singing together to our favorite worship songs and conversing for almost five hours. I had never felt like this before with her, we were so close in that moment. She had opened her heart up to me and filled my mind with her treasured stories. We talked and talked for hours, sharing special events or people that had entered our lives. We prayed together and cried together. We laughed the loudest we had ever laughed, not caring about anything else in the world. That may have been the first time I truly felt connected to her. My mother, the woman I barely knew and saw so few times in my life was finally my mother.
A couple weeks after that night, it was time to say goodbye again. I was overwhelmed with emptiness but peace. I knew I could finally call this place my home, and I would always have a mother who cared so dearly for me. 

                                                                                                          Works Cited 

June Jordan. "Report from the Bahamas, 1982." Meridians: feminism, race, transnationalism. 2003. 39-49. Project MUSE. Web. 2 Sept.  2015.