Maria is an activist and poet, and she’s written a moving poem about the complex relationship among her mother, her sister, herself, and her disability.
Growing Up Without A Mother
You grew up without a mother
because I stole her from you.
I stole her by being disabled
although at no fault of mine,
she decided to dedicate her life
to the one child, she felt, needed her most
—kind of like the way Jesus
left the ninety-nine sheep
to go after that one
that got lost.
I guess I was
the lost
sheep,
who eventually became
the black sheep
when I refused to conform to expectations
that oppressed me and forced me to see myself
as broken and as the reason
why you
grew up without a mother.
Your entire childhood
was scarred by separation
and every time we left,
your soul was broken, and you were left
feeling alone and abandoned
because although you were
in the care of “loving family,”
in the life of a child, nothing is more needed
than the presence of a mother
because a mother loves, and forgives
and understands,
and instead you were left
with a stern grandmother who was afraid
you would become a loose woman
because
of your outspoken ways.
You had a tough childhood.
I don’t think you ever recovered
from the last time we left
when we came to the United States
and never went back.
We left, but with the promise
of bringing you soon
-a promise that took ten years
to come true….ten years
that turned little girls
into women,
and childhood dreams
into the memories
of a painful past.
By the time I saw you again
I was married
and in my mid-twenties
and as always, you still were
the outspoken one,
the one
with the balls
to do anything,
and even though years had come
between us,
the minute we saw each other again,
we connected
as if we had never been apart.
We connected and laughed and cried
and tried to fill the hole that had been left empty
by separation…
by a decade of distance that had led us to become
the women we had become,
and although we were still young,
we knew
there was nothing we could do
to recover the lost time,
to re-live the childhood we lost,
to heal
the hole in your heart in the shape of a mother,
that sorrow that never went away
because to this day
the wounds of growing up feeling so alone
seem to have made themselves at home in you
and your persona.
My childhood was not easy either,
but I know
out of the two of us,
you
had it tougher
because no matter what physical pain I survived,
I always had the comfort and the love
of a mother by my side
-a mother that I took from you
because she,
like Jesus
wanted to save that one sheep…
in this case,
the crippled one.
And I guess in so many ways she did
save me.
She saved me from growing up
in a culture that would have kept me hidden
and shamed ,
hidden and blamed
for differences I did not choose to have.
My mother, our beautiful mother,
made the ultimate sacrifice
when she chose to leave her little girls behind
to save the one
whose life was the one in danger
-in danger of ignorance and oppression,
in danger of being wasted and thrown away
by a society that refused to understand
that disabled kids still have a future.
Her leaving you
gave
all that to me. I owe
my freedom, my pride, my self-confidence
to the fact that I had a chance to blossom
in a culture that was beginning to emerge
with the notion of disability rights.
It was fertile soil, and I was one of the seeds
that grew into the crip mother tree
I have become.
I am sorry. I am so sorry
for those ten years you waited
while you imagined an American dream
like the ones you’d seen on TV,
the high-school life
and freedom you lacked.
—a dream you didn’t get to live
because by the time we came together again
your teen years had already passed
and both of us
already had started living
some version
of being adults…
a version that involved jobs
and life
beyond the childhood dreams we had
when we got separated.
We don’t really talk about that any more.
We have both grown into women and mothers,
and we both have
very different views
about almost everything.
In so many ways, we have grown apart,
but none of that matters
because in my heart
I know that although there’s still a lot of pain,
and wounds that haven’t fully healed,
there is also immense love
and that
is what I hold on to,
and I hope that you do too.
Thank you
for being who you are.
Thank you
for your generous heart.
I hope one day you look back and realize
that although it might not have seemed like it,
you were always loved.
You were always wanted.
Some things
are hard to understand
until we become
mothers ourselves…only then
can we feel
the anguish and the pain
felt just by the thought of having to choose
to save one child.
We tell ourselves, we wouldn’t do it.
We tell ourselves, there have to be other ways.
But we know
it’s always easier said than done.
We don’t have the right to judge.
We never
have the right
to judge,
and the one thing I know for sure,
is that the day will come,
whether we like it or not,
when we look in the inner mirror of ourselves
and, as women, we learn
we have become
our mother.
—
Thank you to Maria Palacios for sharing her poetry with AbleThrive. Maria is a poet, author, spoken word performer, public speaker, professional presenter and workshop facilitator, polio survivor and disability rights activist, and a mother of two. Her work is spirited by her own woman experience and embraces and promotes self-acceptance, empowerment, and social justice surrounding people with disabilities, gender and sexuality, teen girls and women, and a wide spectrum of issues as they relate to diversity. Her hopeful message of pride is consistent throughout her raw and often sensual work. Known in the artistic world as The Goddess on Wheels, her multicultural background and passion for onstage performance have come to life through numerous events over the years.