By Michael H. Brownstein
[Too often I have witnessed toxic mothers and devoted children who enable their toxicity. I wrote the following in my first chapbook, The Shooting Gallery (Samisdat Press), which might even be available from Amazon. It’s a small section from the story ”YO Mama.”
Happy Mother’s Day to all of the mothers out there who are doing their best and trying their hardest to make a positive difference in the lives of their children.]
Because he was new and dressed well, the biggest bully in our class got into his face and said, “Yo mama. What’cha goin’ to do about it?” Then she spat, almost hitting his new and clean shoes. “Yeah,” she spat again, and we knew for sure fists would fly.
That new boy didn’t step back or even blink. He stood there a second, cocked his head to the right, looked her in the eye, and said quiet as midnight back in the hills where even the insects sleep, “Yes, I guess you would want to talk about my mother.” Proper as all get out. “I've got nothing to hide. She buys me everything she knows will keep me comfortable, and when I have a problem or am lonely, she stops whatever she is doing and makes the time to listen to me. We talk, too, long talks, sometimes long into the night when I’m scared or mad or maybe just because I cannot sleep. She cooks all types of fine meals and takes me to all kinds of fine places. Yes, I guess you would want to talk about my mama, because I know God made her just for me.”
And she, the toughest girl in all of our lives, dropped her hands to her side, started to speak, sighed, and then dropped to her knees and cried.
After that we never talked about yo mama cause all of us wanted that mother the new boy had and that’s the truth.
Because he was new and dressed well, the biggest bully in our class got into his face and said, “Yo mama. What’cha goin’ to do about it?” Then she spat, almost hitting his new and clean shoes. “Yeah,” she spat again, and we knew for sure fists would fly.
That new boy didn’t step back or even blink. He stood there a second, cocked his head to the right, looked her in the eye, and said quiet as midnight back in the hills where even the insects sleep, “Yes, I guess you would want to talk about my mother.” Proper as all get out. “I've got nothing to hide. She buys me everything she knows will keep me comfortable, and when I have a problem or am lonely, she stops whatever she is doing and makes the time to listen to me. We talk, too, long talks, sometimes long into the night when I’m scared or mad or maybe just because I cannot sleep. She cooks all types of fine meals and takes me to all kinds of fine places. Yes, I guess you would want to talk about my mama, because I know God made her just for me.”
And she, the toughest girl in all of our lives, dropped her hands to her side, started to speak, sighed, and then dropped to her knees and cried.
After that we never talked about yo mama cause all of us wanted that mother the new boy had and that’s the truth.
| Copyright © 2022 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s volumes of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else and How Do We Create Love?, were published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018 & 2019, respectively. |
Michael, that is the most beautiful Mothers Day poem I have ever heard!
ReplyDeleteI said poem. I know it is more of a short story, but it hit me like a poem.
DeleteThank you, Bob!
ReplyDelete