The Lost Daughter: A Memoir (25 page)

BRINGING MY MOTHERS
together felt like catching sight of a Hobbit riding a unicorn down Main Street. Surreal. It wasn’t long ago that I held little hope that I’d muster the courage to see Mama face to face, let alone coordinate a meeting with us all. Seeing them together emphasized just what polar opposites they are. One could not imagine two more different women.

I had no idea that the road I was on would lead to this meeting. There were many dead ends I had to maneuver around. I left everything and everyone I knew many times along the way. But the farther I traveled, the stronger I felt, despite the fact that there were times when the urge to divert down Easy Street was nearly overwhelming. The only thing that kept me going in the right direction was the fact that I knew not doing so meant losing myself forever.

So here I stand. My emotional Everest peaked. My flag planted. My reward? I’ve gained family in Oakland and Texas that love me and accept me. I’ve strengthened my bond with Jane. After our visit with Mama, Jane tells me how adorable Mama is. She’d anticipated anger but instead got a sweet, funny, curious woman—the woman I remember so vividly from my early childhood. Jane and I are nestled in the cool dark interior of a chauffeured car headed to the airport. East Oakland slides by in the bright afternoon and, to the unknowing eye, looks like a not too bad place to raise a family. Still looking out the window I tell Jane, “Mama wants me to come spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with her.” There is a brief pause before Jane asks, “Will you?” And I tell her, “No. I’m going to be where I belong. With you.”

There hasn’t been a fairytale ending with my biological mother, but our story isn’t over yet. What I did not expect was to find some things hadn’t changed and never will. We will continue struggling to connect, she will battle her demons and I mine. Now, though, I can honestly say that I love her and respect her, and that I need her presence in my life. Our differences, our fears, our fights won’t run me off like last time. And so where one road ends, another begins. This time I’ve unburdened myself of my savior complex. I can’t save my mama from her life, any more than she could have saved me from mine. For this leg of the journey I’m traveling light.

This is my mama at age sixteen.

My daddy holding my little brother, Randy.

In the top row, fourth from the left, is my sweet maternal grandmother, Marie. The handsome gentleman in the suit next to her is my grandfather. They divorced before I was born, and though he lived in the Bay Area his whole life, I never met him. The baby in my grandfather’s arms is my father.

One of my happiest memories is of visiting Daddy in prison. I was in my forties the first time I saw this photo of my little brother, Daddy and me. I was shocked how closely it matched my memory of the visit, right down to the nature mural behind us.

Me, three years old.

Uncle Landon, Aunt Jan and cousin Thembi in 1983.

Dress-up day at Aunt Jan and Uncle Landon’s house. From the left: cousin Thembi, me, cousin Kijana and cousin Ayaan. We are all sporting magenta lipstick. I really resemble my mama at age sixteen with my poodle hair.

Tom Hayden, me and Jane at Laurel Springs. This was the beginning of our beautiful friendship.

Twelve years old, and in my first play at Laurel Springs. I played a wicked nurse à la Nurse Ratched in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
.

Me in my favorite striped shirt, hugging Jane and a friend in a summer-camp group photo.

Me and Jane looking very eighties at my high school graduation.