Wanita Yang Kuat
For the mothers and daughters who grow up to be the same person. Generational cycles.
It seemed to Rahmah as she walked with duffle bags to Iowa State University that life would be prosperous. American air, refreshing and mellow sweeping across her yellow skin and seeping through her black hijab. She would get an engineering degree, go back to her home country, have an arranged marriage, and have beautiful children. She would work for an NRY Architects Company and thank Allah every day for the life that he has given her. America was home but not for long.
Rahmah probably didn’t think I would enter into her life. Or my little sister. Or my little brother. She probably didn’t think that she would marry men who had massive heart attacks or become alcoholics. Single mother raising was not for the weak and it wasn’t for the brave either.
Hands around her neck in suffocation.
Cigarette buds touching her thin scalp like ashtrays.
Take the man back.
Move to a bigger house.
Work long shifts in the kitchen.
Argue about how the mortgage is going to get paid.
Angry spit in her face.
Take the man back.
Pregnant with a healthy baby boy.
No healthcare insurance.
Green card.
Lump in her breast but she ignores.
She doesn’t ignore but knows that she can’t afford it.
Lump gets larger.
Stage 1.
Stage 2.
Stage 3.
Stage 4.
Single mother raising with cancer was not for the weak and it wasn’t for the brave either.
It seemed to Rahmah as she walked over to her bed, light hairs falling from her scalp onto the floor, that life would still move on. American air sterile and dry, seeping past the hair that was still left on her head. She had no engineering degree, she didn’t go back to her home country, she married an alcoholic, but she did have beautiful children. She worked as a cook for a University and thanked God every day for the life that He has given her. America was home but not for long.
I was 13 going on 14 when she had my little brother. He was the sweetest angel of a brother. I loved him like he was my own.
Momma was always fatigued. She walked with a limp as if she was still carrying eight pounds of life inside of her and it was hard for her to carry my little brother on her hip.
She called me Cara.
Cara, take your little brother. I need to go lay down.
Cara, feed your little brother and make sure your sister cleans her room.
Cara, clean the kitchen and make some dinner for your brother and sister. I need to go lay down.
Cara, go get the beer out of the refrigerator for your dad. Don’t forget, he wants three at a time.
I’ve always wanted to ask momma if she wanted to experience the birth of him. Or if she ever asked for this life. If her dreams were bigger than this or if she could be anywhere else in the world where would she be right now.
Rahmah’s thick Arabic accent would probably say that this is where she’s meant to be. To never question how or why you end up where you do because everything has its purpose. I wonder if she knew if sacrifices had a purpose.
He called me sissy. But others thought I was momma. I don’t blame them because everywhere we went, I was the one holding him and loving him and feeding him. I knew momma was ill. Her limp was getting unbearable as one side was larger than the other. She didn’t tell anybody and refused to go to the hospital. She feared of getting deported back to her home country. She was afraid that her family would shun her for converting out of her Muslim faith. For never finishing her degree. For bringing back three kids from three different men. For staying when she knew she needed to come back.
Tubes in her nose to help her breathe.
Hair completely gone.
Take your brother back.
Move to a smaller apartment.
Leave the job.
Argue about how the hospital bills are going to get paid.
Dentures out of mouth.
Take your brother back.
Tumor the size of a baseball in her right breast.
Still no healthcare insurance.
No green card.
Lump in her breast that she cannot ignore.
Gets larger every month.
3 months.
2 months.
1 month.
2 weeks.
I was 14 going on 30. I had been promoted to adulthood before ever getting the chance to taste it. I left high school a month early to watch over her every night. My sister slept on the floor next to her bed and even though I was in the room next to momma I still had an ear for her breath. I became a light sleeper since her sickness. Every night, I would sit on her bed and talk to her about the possibility of death.
Cara, I need for you to be strong.
Cara, I need for you to take care of your sister and your brother.
Cara, your dad won’t care for the three of you like I know he will so…
Are you ready to go?
I’m tired.
Rahmah’s mastectomy didn’t help stop the spread. Cancer travelled from her right breast to her chest then to her throat. Her wilted “I’m tired” was an indication of her breath slowly leaving her body. Our late-night conversations about death turned into late night conversations about life. Memories of when we would paint our nails when I was two. The self-portrait she drew of us when I was four. Our trips to the library so that she can fish for coupons. Days where I would do homework in the back of the kitchen while she would work. Those nights I cherished because I knew they wouldn’t last.
It seemed to Rahmah as she sat up for her last breath that her children would be in the hands of me. I would never be able to finish my business marketing degree. I would marry men who were abusers. I would never be able to have children of my own. I would work at a bar restaurant to make ends meet. And I wouldn’t know who to thank for the life that I have been given.
Rahmah probably knew that she wouldn’t live to see past 44. She probably knew that her alcoholic husband would abuse her children after her death. She knew that I would move out at 18 and my sister and brother would end up in foster care. That her two daughters would grow up to find love in all the wrong places. That her son would grow up to be just like his father. Single sister raising for three years for two siblings wasn’t for the weak, but it wasn’t for the brave either.
To my little sister,
You’ve got to be strong.
For yourself.
For your little brother.
Dad won’t take care of you all like he should.
And I won’t be there to save you.
Take your little brother.
Love him.
Care for him.
Feed him.
You’ll be looked at as momma.
But that’s okay.
I need for you to be strong.
I pray you hold onto your faith.
Your innocence.
Your love.
Your perseverance.
Like momma and I wish we held onto ours.
I hope our life shows you.
What you can be better and more.
10.
14.
20.
Love.
I called her Marie.