Things My Parents Gave Me

The photo booth was broken, so my mother spent her teenage afternoon taking advantage of such a delightful opportunity. I like knowing that I get these creative impulses from her. I like knowing that if we had met in some alternate universe where she was not my mother and I was not her daughter, we would still be friends. I like knowing that I am in fact, her daughter. I am proud to walk through this life with such a title.

These are some of my favorite pictures of my mother. Not because she looks particularly beautiful (which she is), and not because she looks foolish (which she is not), but because I see in these photographs pieces of myself. I see in these photographs a silly, fun, creative, carefree, happy spirit. I see in these photographs a young woman who has only begun the exquisite journey of her life, who has nothing but possibility before her, who has the ability to do anything within her. I see in these photographs what pure joy looks like.

I do not look like my mother. In fact, I barely physically resemble anyone in my family. It used to bother me terribly. I'd spend hours searching through old photographs for someone with my cheeks or nose or eyes. I think I always felt that finding some familiar feature would somehow connect me, somehow make me belong. I am still searching for such a feeling.

I have blamed my parents for a lot of things. I blamed them (yes, BOTH of them) for letting our family grow apart. I blamed them for not making it strong enough in the first place. I blamed them for not creating better rules, and not sticking to the few that they created. I blamed them for all of the ways I felt they had failed me, all of the aspects of myself I disliked. I traced all of my self hatred back to their parenting.

Which is admittedly unfair, but also very human. It is natural to wish that things had gone differently, that our lives could have been different, that we could have been different. I wish that they would have taught me not to procrastinate. I wish that they would have taught me how to take care of myself, how to clean and cook and repair things. I wish that they would have taught me how to take care of my body, how to have a healthy relationship with food, how to learn to want exercise. I wish that they had been a little less laid back. I wish that they would have spent less time respecting our boundaries and more time guiding me and my brother towards happiness. I wish that they would have spent more time making sure we felt valued and deserving and loved. I wish that they could have spent more time feeling those things for themselves. I wish that they could have made love work for all of us.

But it is also from my parents (yes, BOTH of them) that I learned to love this world. They gave me eyes. They taught me to see. They took me across oceans and up hillsides. They showed me that we are all magnificently different, and how and why each of those differences are beautiful. They showed me how and why we are also all one, and the perfection in that, the perfection of humanity. They showed me what it means to be human. They proved to me the importance of reaching out, of staying open minded, of cherishing each and every soul for exactly what it is. They pressed the goodness of the world into my palms and said "carry this with you, always." They filled my heart with compassion and understanding, and even though they could not, despite their best efforts, provide me with an example of love, they at least instilled within me the insatiable hunger for it. I have spent every day of my twenty three years falling in love with this world. That was a gift from my parents.

They raised me in a house with walls made of books. They gave me a good education. They gave me good manners. They gave me the knowledge of how to be a good friend. They filled my head and heart with language. I am here, writing this, because of them. They brought me into this world and have spent every day since trying to make it a better place for me to live. They gave me breath and have spent every day since trying to make the air sweeter. I taste their gallant efforts on my tongue every time I breathe.

They have put me on planes and trains and buses and let me have all of the adventures I could want. They gave me freedom, and the awareness of my fortune in having such freedom. They gave me the desire and will to fight for those less fortunate. They gave me money and shelter when I needed it, but they also taught me that money and shelter pale in comparison to character and experience. They gave me character and experience. They told me what was real, without imposing their own beliefs, without influencing my own opinion. They allowed me to be whoever it is I am, or want to be, or have ever been. I have not always felt accepted by my father, but even he has supported me. Somewhere deep down, I know that.

Somewhere deep down I know that even if I don't have their cheeks or nose or eyes, I am still their daughter. I am still proud (of yes, BOTH of them) to walk through this life with such a title. They are still my mother and father, as they have always been, as they will always be. They are not perfect. They are only two humans, two people, trying to do the best that they can for their children.

And while part of me hopes that I will not repeat their mistakes, that I will do better for my children, that I will not have to be the kind of parent or person that they have had to be, another part of me hopes desperately that I will. Another part of me could only hope to do so well. I hope that I can give to someone all that they have shared with me. I hope that someday someone will look at a picture of who I am now, in this moment, my mother's daughter, and see their own pure joy staring back at them. I hope that my eyes will ignite in them that familiar sense of belonging.