I am my mother’s child

The first time I realized I was just my mother in a different font was in 1997. We were on a field trip with my class. She was staring off into space thinking about whatever Black mothers in the 90s thought about when they would rather be at home. I looked into her face and finally saw myself. I’d heard for years that I looked like her but I couldn’t see past our surface differences.

She was short to my tall. Small to my big. Dark brown to my medium brown. Short hair to my long hair. Ambitious to my Coaster. My mother would look at a B and plan to make it an A. I would look at B and pat myself on the back for escaping the clutches of a C. We were not the same.

In that quiet moment though, I saw her and I saw myself. This moment lasted a few seconds. I didn’t go over and hug her. I didn’t reveal my realization. I sat at my own table and looked into my own space feeling a little less alone.

The older I get, the more I see her in the mirror. Our voices are both loud and soft in the same way. We are both fiercely independent yet well taken care of (spoiled okay? we are spoiled brats). We both are risk averse but will move if absolutely pushed. We share my grandfather’s brash laugh. We inherited my grandmother’s quick humor. She is the reason I love classic movies and cozy murder mysteries. She’s the Perry Mason to my Columbo.

Here is us.