My mother, myself,
Two sides of a mirror,
When the glass is dim
And cloudy.
Stained in a few places,
A scratch here or there,
There is no doubt
We are alike in so many ways
And yet, we always
Moved in different directions.
I recall the similarities
And the differences
As if they were items on a shopping list
I left home on the counter
Even though I knew it well.
Same disability,
Both treated differently.
One in the 1930s and the other
In the 1960s.
So differently, but still
Barbaric by any modern definition.
Cloaked in trauma
That ruled our adult lives
While we were both so clueless
About how it affected us.
We were both told stories
About ourselves that hid the truth.
You, the child of a disabled father
Who was denied an education
That was considered a waste
Of time and resources
In a world that once
Considered a handicap
A moral failing.
Me, the child of a disabled mother
Who never allowed that word to cross
Her lips or be said in any conversation
And who overcame every obstacle.
Also me, the child who never understood
How dangerous the word ‘handicapped’
Used to be back when
Handicapped children had no legal right
To a public education.
You taught me to say, I’m not
Handicapped.
There was a little problem with my legs
When I was born, and I had surgery
To fix it, and it left me a little bit lame.
Just as you were taught to say you weren’t
Either.
You were simply dropped
Down a flight of concrete stairs
By an elderly aunt
And that injury led to your issues.
You grew up believing your story
As much as I grew up believing mine
Until the facts that had been concealed
So long ago, could no longer
Be hidden.
Until the photos, the records, the
Whispered stories among relatives,
Could no longer be denied.
You spent your life
Saying only what needed to be said,
Keeping silent
Or spinning a story that made things
Less dangerous, less ominous
Until neither of us could tell
The truth from the story.
You chose the reality
You could bear.
I spent my life
Saying everything
That came into my mind
Oversharing with anyone who’d listen
Or spinning an ever-changing story that made things
Happier, calmer, or in some way richer,
Until I became lost in it
As well.
I chose the reality
I could bear, too.
My mother, myself,
Two sides of a mirror,
We became the flip side
Of each other.
Forever imitating one another
But always moving to
The opposite side.
Only able to touch
Through the cold, shivery
Smoothness
That kept us eternally moving
The other way.
by Jan Mariet 02/01/2025