Photo by Joe Ciciarelli on Unsplash

What Caused My Mother, My Mentor To Cry Bitterly Into Her Notebook?

Why on Earth would a former child of the projects choose to become a writer? Fresh out of college I believed I would be the exception to the whole “starving artist” rule. Things would be different for me. Not just because I have a strong work ethic and natural talent like my writing compatriots, but because I have the mentality of one who grew up on welfare and thrived. I know how to fight for life’s basics. The “projects” taught me that. It was the perfect place to write to learn how to write like your life depends on it.

“Projects” is a word I learned in the media. It has all the passion and pain behind it, but lacks compassion and love. What they called the projects, I called home. Mom made it home. My heart constricts just thinking about her soft brown eyes and strong hands, braiding my hair into two tight, neat rows, marching down either side of my head. I often watched as she repeated the process on my four sisters. I loved going first to get it over with. This strong woman who braided our hair was our mother and my first writing mentor.

My first “real” encounter with writing wasn’t in the classroom.

Mom’s bedroom was across the hall from mine. Just two steps into the narrow hallway would bring you to the entry of her room. She often left her door cracked open at night, to listen for us kids in case we needed her. That night, I’m not sure what propelled me into the hallway at such a late hour. I had school the next day and needed sleep.

Her light was still on and her door was ajar, just enough to see inside. I stood motionless, quietly watching as her shoulders heaved up and down. The rise and fall of her creamy brown skin and the giant tears that fell from her cheeks made me curious and sad. Why was my mother crying in her notebook?

I’m not sure how long I watched the cycle of her writing and crying, writing, and crying. I guess it was long enough to make me both curious and scared. What could she be writing that made her cry such heavy tears?

The next day at school, I barely heard what my fifth-grade teacher was spewing out. All I could think about was sneaking into my mother’s room and reading her notebook. I needed to see what secrets it held that made her cry in the middle of the night.

The last bell finally rang, ending the school day. I gathered my stuff and ran home as fast as I could. I have little recollection of any other parts of my day. I can only tell you of that moment, kneeling beside my mother’s, bed holding her torn, dog-eared notebook in my hands.

I quickly flipped to the middle of the book and ran my hands over warped lines distorted by moisture. I read and reread each word trying to make sense of them. There was so much anger. So much hurt. I started to cry. Her words made me cry.

She called my name again. I guess I was so lost in the agony of what she had written, I never heard her enter the room. She magically appeared beside me and pulled the notebook from my hands. “This is private, Kim!” She scolded. At that moment she took pity on me and held me. “Sometimes I write to let the hurt out,” she said. “It helps me feel better. This notebook listens and never interrupts,” she whispered into the air. “Writing helps me heal.”

I finally understand what Maya Angelou, a great American orator, meant by,

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you”.

That day I became a writer, kneeling beside my mother’s bed, feeling the pain of her words. She taught me that writing is therapy. Our words have energy and need an outlet. Journals can hold your deepest secrets and a blog can heal a broken soul.

She never told me what to write or how to write. She just wrote because her life depended on it. And now I write just like her. I write the pain and passion in life. I learned to write that night in the projects, and I will continue writing until my pen runs out of ink.

Written By Kim Jagwe of Sowl Studios