Sit Quietly and Listen

My mom told me a story I had never heard before about the day I was born. She had had a difficult C-section delivery and was still feeling faint and disorientated. The doctor held me up over the curtain so my mother could see the “fruit of her labor”, (her words, not mine). She said my eyes darted back and forth wildly around the room until she felt herself gasp. She said once I heard her gasp, I recognized her voice, made eye contact, and stared at the first love of my life. Her first thought? “What a stupid looking baby.” She wasn’t wrong. I can imagine with my large bug eyes, mouth slightly agape I reminded her of a small catfish, freshly caught. I was certainly not the delicate flower she had envisioned I would be and at 19” long and 6lbs 7oz, I was “solid” was the word I believe she used.

I remember we were sitting at our favorite spot. It was an old kitchen table that had been worn with use that was nestled between two windows on either side. The soft summer breeze made our long talks seem lighter and our laughs more loving, deeper. After I was able to get the shock off my face that caused her to giggle and shake her head, I laughed as well. I remember after we were both done laughing my teenage attitude quickly returned. I said, “Thanks for thinking so highly of your one and only daughter mom.” Very sarcastically. I had turned fourteen and had just learned how to harness this new tool, sarcasm. I had used it on a few occasions to poke and jab at my mother but did this very carefully. She would allow a few prods here and there but when I drew blood, she would quickly remind me who the true master was. This day was different.

She took a deep thoughtful drag from her Marlboro, sighed, flicked her ashes in the tray in front of her while shrugging, and said, “I had you during one of the worst blizzards so some of the lights in the hospital flickered on and off, I was in a city I barely knew, I was homeless and was on a lot of medications. Sorry.” Her sincerity touched with sadness broke my heart and my attitude and just like that the sword of my sarcasm dropped. I was now disarmed, and the true weight of her words could be felt vs me blaming her for the words she spoke upon my birth. My mother had always had a gift for that. She always knew when and how to snap me out of my moods.

To the world I was hard to read, snappy, and always sharpening the blades of my sarcasm for my next victim. My mom always knew the truth. I have always had a deep love for people. I love having new interactions, learning about traditions from all over the world, learning what differences we have, and most importantly our similarities. My mom was always the best at offering different points of view, so I was always thinking about one issue in a few different ways. Whenever we discussed the world at large she always wanted me to ask questions and not make blanket statements. Blanket statements were dangerous and very limiting she would always say. The only thing that holds true for everyone is gravity and death, everything else is negotiable.

My mom had one of the most diverse friend/acquaintance group I have ever seen. It seemed like when I was growing up that my mom always knew someone from everywhere. When she was going to invite someone over that I would become curious about she would always say, “You may have some questions about this person or about how they look/act. Please do not be rude and ask me your questions when they leave, and I will answer to the best of my ability ok?” I would always shake my head yes.

I remember one day we went to her boss’s home which was large and beautiful and then my mom’s boss introduced me to Heather her “roommate”. I knew something was being hidden but I knew not to say anything further. That night when we came home, I had a lot of questions. Most of the answers I received were simply, “Love is Love.”

She would say the same of her strict friends, her very religious friends, and she even had a few that were sex workers. I would hold my tongue until it was just her and I, then she would ask me, “What did you think of so and so?” I would give my honest opinion which would cause her to have several different looks on her face. She would wait patiently for my inexperienced assessment of her friends and then she would tell me the truth about their lives. The struggles they dealt with every day, judgements, hardships, and sometimes even the many forms of abuse that they would have to endure.

After she told me one story about some of the harsh treatment that one of her sex worker friends had to withstand at the hands of their family, a realization dawned on me. I said quietly, “You never know what people are going through huh mom?” My mother smiled broadly now knowing that the lessons she had taught me about not judging people were beginning to sink in. She shook her head and said, “Everyone has a story that deserves to be told, listened to, and respected. Everyone will tell their story but only to someone who will sit quietly and listen. Will you do that?” I remember shaking my head excitedly, “Yes I can listen.”

This was the most important lesson that my mother could have ever taught me. Growing up it was difficult sometimes to listen quietly without wanting to interrupt or add to that person’s narrative. It is the lesson that has served me the best in this life and hopefully in the next. I love that my mom encouraged me to see the world through different perspectives whether it be art, music, movies, books etc. She showed me that there is always something new to discover, explore, and learn about.

She has been deceased for 14 years now and when I am dealing with a difficult patient, co-worker, or the general public I can hear her voice saying, “Sit quiet and listen. You will learn something new.” I find when I can sit and listen, I learn something every time. I just hope I make her proud.