Today Juneteenth is a federally mandated holiday, as well it should be. What a long, horrid road we still have to travel in its honor and its shame.
More personally, it is the birthday of my third child; this year it marks his fifty-second birthday and the twelfth anniversary of my official and universally applauded expungement from the family. My daughter Sarah, my youngest, had been on a crusade for that accomplishment for several years, and for Justin's fortieth birthday surprise, she huddled with Ann, Justin's wife (another person who actively has disliked me from the first), and set up a gathering of the entire family, including spouses and children and good old friends, everybody they could think of, with the notable exception of the birthday boy's mother. By my count, close to thirty people traveled from far and wide for this occasion.
I never knew what hit me; I didn't even know it was happening until I stumbled over it in a Facebook post by my eldest Billy (never known for keeping his mouth shut) about how thrilled he was to be nestled in the arms of his entire family again, on such a momentous occasion etc etc etc.
Almost entire, that is. Except for the other person who had been in the room when Justin was born, i.e., I.
Oh, my anguish, tears, fury, hastily written accusatory emails. Months, years spent in impotent rage, agony at the effrontery. Good God, I didn't think I'd survive it.
Today, today, finally, today, the day of the Emancipation Proclamation, I am grateful. Before today, I haven't realized the full import of my exile, which is that I am declared free from guilt. Of course, as a mother I was flawed in many ways, and tried very hard -- as hard as I could -- to raise my kids in a horribly turbulent time for myself and for the world in general. Slightly crazy Sarah blames me for pretty much everything, and she is free to do that; she is free to do whatever she has to, in order to deny responsibility for her own failures at achieving perfection. Justin is free to do as he will do. So is angry, self-absorbed Billy. So is isolate Andy, wherever he is.
And so am I. Absolutely free. What has been the most difficult part of freedom has been believing it. I should not have had children in the first place; motherhood is a lousy vocation for anybody, but for someone who is missing the nurturing gene; missing the gene for admiring everything every child does, no matter how silly, inept, ugly, doomed, self-serving; as well the gene for absorbing without complaint every wound inflicted on her; and probably missing the gene of offering unconditional love to the little monsters, it is a nightmare. Ask any mother, and listen to her lie in her teeth, before she finally admits, yeah: Motherhood Blows Chunks.
Sure, I miss the company of my kids: they're smart and funny, and good company for those upon whom they do not spit. On the other hand, I have a lot of smart and funny friends, and they don't spit on me! They love me, they enjoy MY company, and they tell me so, mirabile dictu.
My Juneteenth coincides with that of Black Americans: it's not over, of course, and the repercussions of the abuse continue to vibrate on the soul, but I take possession of my freedom today, and happily accept my new job: believing it and operating from it. I recommend it. Rejoice, y'all. Let the kids fuck up their own lives, and try not to gloat -- that's just not worthy of our liberated selves.
