I know gratitude, I know support, I know femininity. From a young age I was taught to be obedient, but I was also taught to set boundaries. I was taught to work whole heartedly with pride, but I was also taught that I deserve rest.
My mother raised her daughter in a world she didn’t know or care to be a part of. She raised a daughter within a culture that from the moment of her first pregnancy, didn’t see the value in what her body has created. So I was always taught to value myself. My mom raised a mixed-cultured child, fitting the criteria of a good Lebanese child, but she did so while always imposing feminist values. Out of her love for femininity and her feminine ways, she lives her life with the principle of a feminist, without even knowing what that is. She raised two boys that subconsciously put women on a pedestal.
I’ve always loved how feminine my mother is. She cares for every details of herself. The perfect purse with the right shoes and the right belt. We don’t wear black, brown and navy blue together, a silk scarf is a staple accessory. Nails done, skin soft. I can smell her skin, so clean. To me, it’s a part of what it means to be a woman. Nudity is sacred to her. I have caught glimpses of her body. In avoiding exposing her chest, I became familiar with her back. I would think wow, even her back is perfect. Smooth, beige — like honey. Her spine created a perfect concave tunnel down her back. I can see beautiful silk dancing along her spine. I can’t wait to grow up and be that kind of woman, I would think to myself.
My mother gave me her tongue. A currency that is not tangible; not for gain or profit. But my mothers tongue is everything. Rolling out of her mouth right into mine was my culture, her connections to her land that she never fails but to shed tears for. Now those same tears fall from my eyes. My mother gave me her tongue in the kitchen. A love that fills my mouth and my stomach. My mother gave me words, my tool to express. My mother gave me her tongue, and her mothers tongue, and her mothers tongue. In this tongue I learned about love.
My mothers mother died the year I was born. I was a child but I’ve always been a woman. My grandmothers tongue lives within me.
My mother, a woman. I remember the day I saw my mother as a woman and only a woman. Not a mother, not a wife, not a sister. Just a woman, having coffee with some friends. We discussed love, relationships, regrets and dreams. I made my mom a mother. But, as I’m growing to see, motherhood is only a small fraction of her womanhood. Sipping her latte, that happens to always be a little too sweet or not sweet enough, she giggles talking about her husband, she chokes up talking about the last 20 years of her life, she calms down telling me how she’s found inner peace.
My mothers name is Salam.
Peace.
Taste her name on your tongue.
