Her Mother's Daughter: Rena Comes to Austin

When my daughter Rena announced her plans to visit me in Austin I felt guarded enthusiasm. In fact, I felt reluctance about receiving any visitors in fear they would rupture my newly constructed peace. For the first time in 30 years I was living in my own home, and although I have a roommate, we maintain mutual respect and boundaries. I vowed to prevent penetration of drama, negative energy or disruption to my agenda. This house was not Dohrmann Lane with my kids entering and exiting as they please, no advance notice given, every crack and crevice filled to the brim with 20 years of living.

On one hand I was thrilled Rena was coming to Austin for a visit. I wanted her to like my house, Austin, and be proud of what I accomplished. Like many mother-daughter relationships, ours has had its share of strife. We are alike in many ways, and rub each other the wrong way because of it. I admire Rena for her brilliance, determination, wit and tenacity. Despite severe ADHD, she completed law school and recently sat for her bar exam. She is a beautiful and talented artist, writer and performer. I believe Rena could do anything she puts her mind to. Rena's and my mutual admiration society has been fraught with intense emotional upheaval, fights and slamming doors, accusations of blame with no offers of apology on either end and sometimes weeks of silence.

The magical and horrific dynamic between mother and daughter has been written about from every angle. As both a mother and daughter I know the script well. In recent years, after a turbulent relationship with my mother, I have finally taken myself out of the equation enough to see her as a person whose dreams and hopes were dashed by the edict of a generation. A nurse rather than a neurosurgeon, a wife who followed rather than led, a parent who abdicated her role to a more dominant partner, and mother who buried her grief with her child many, many years ago. I had rightful gripes and hurt; however, at some point you either move forward or not. I can view my mother with compassion and still maintain my perspective on how I was raised and the effect it had on me, for the good and bad. In the aftermath of my father's death my mother has built a fine life for herself, is well regarded by her circle of friends and makes amazing jewelry. Every now and I then I recall her stories about being a nursing student in New York City, marching against fascism, and her years as a nurse in Boston. Always at the top of her profession, her ambitions and financial security were forsaken to follow my father from coast to coast until she had enough. The funny part was when she had enough and said no, he stopped roaming. All the anger and years of hurt will never be completely behind us; however, she is a big supporter and I know she is thrilled about what I am doing at this stage of life.

What was not done for me I have tried my best to provide for my children. Without a great deal of means on their parent's part, my kids have been fortunate to travel abroad, complete their educations, attend a wide range of cultural activities, meet interesting people and receive support and encouragement to pursue their dreams. Raising black children requires extra vigilance and resolve. Staying on top of racism on a daily basis is no small task, and reinforcing a positive sense of self in a society that sends message upon message that being black equals inferior requires a strategy and refusal to accept low expectations. I am still reminded of how institutional racism has formed my kids, and particularly in my son's case, no matter how much love and encouragement we showered him with, racism robbed him of confidence and put him on the defensive. Someone once said I was like a mother lion with her cubs, always ready to battle, and perhaps it is an accurate description of a mother who has fought and held her ground, looked into the eyes of those who would damage my children and refused to blink. As I sit in my Austin home, thousands of miles from where they lay sleeping, I can feel the anger rise to a boiling point when recalling the teachers, health professionals and passers by on the street who threatened their well being based on their skin color. I will never loose the resolve to flatten anyone who crosses my kids.

The intense love Rena and I feel for each other unfolds in many ways. Control, a battle for authority, protectiveness, and a recent tendency to back off and lick our wounds from a distance. We got off to a shaky start this visit,a fight on the phone before she departed complete with threats to leave on the first plane back to San Francisco. My desire to introduce her to friends (I am proud of you if you are listening!) and her resistance to doing what I want for whatever reasons (have to eat before 9pm) was our first and last obstacle. Once we passed that threshold, we were off and running to our happiest time spent together since she was a student in Paris. We experienced the best in each other. She got on well with my roommate Tara who is only two years her senior, the three of us sharing meals and discussions. It was smooth sailing and joyful. We walked the dogs at Red Bud Island, watching them romp on the trails, swim, and fetch balls. It was a comical moment when I fetched balls along side them in the water. In a short time we established our rituals; taking the dogs for their morning foray, stopping for hibiscus tea at Quacks, brunch at the Nomad Bar/Cafe, and swimming at Barton Springs.

When Rena left I held her tight and blinked back tears. I was reminded of our special time in Paris, our last evening spent at the coin laundry across from her small flat, sitting side by side, pressed against each other reading as our clothes tumbled in the dryer. Her hand reaches for mine. "Don't go Mommy." I had to though, my son was in his last year of high school and I was needed at home. There were jobs to do and bills to pay or I would have gladly stayed tucked away on rue St. Jacques. This time I was the one asking her to stay. "I will be back, maybe for your first day of class to pack your lunch and send you off, like you did for me." You are welcome, anytime, and I meant it. We elevated our mother daughter trajectory to a new level, one that included compassion, respect, mutual consideration and the ability to simply enjoy each other without the burden of a constant tug of war for control. Certainly the change of location and house had switched up the game; however, it was as it should be and my fears of constant jockeying went unrealized.

Rena made one of her usual mad dashes for the airport. My friend Kim and roommate Tara wondered if she would make the plane. They were doubtful but I had been through this time and time again over the years. It no longer worried me. She would make the flight or she wouldn't. We fly non revenue and are able to wait for another flight or drive back home. Either way, I knew she would be fine. I felt confident to wager in her favor, Rena making the flight, breathless with a story to tell. I received a call when she boarded the plane, and as I predicted, there were twists and turns to recount but most important, she made it. The close calls and near misses, in addition to the planes missed, provide the perfect metaphor for Rena. One way or the other she will make it, no matter how close the call or great the obstacle. After all, she is her mother's daughter.