A Gift from Z: The Tradition of Letting Go
The Tradition of Letting Go
I love my mama yall. Being on social media makes you realize not everyone has the luxury of having a lovable Mom or even a good relationship with their mom. I am blessed and I know it. I don’t know how the selection process goes with that, but whoever selected Zerella for me, ‘preesh!
I have been reading - er, listening to Tina Knowles’ Matriarch. Such a good read. One thing that struck me was her discussing the things her mother passed down to her and their traditions. So I made a little list of what my Mom has passed on to me.
Self-Expression (All eyes and mouth):
My Mom is the most unintentionally hilarious person I know. You know the meme about keeping your mouth closed but your face says everything that you’re thinking? Well, both my mom and I show it on our faces AND we say it.
Faith
I woke up every morning to my mother on her knees in prayer. Every single day I spent in my childhood home, there she was, still in her nightgown, on her knees before the Lord in prayer. To this day, my Mom is a faith powerhouse. A pillar of poise, prayer, and purpose, my Mom has always told me to “trust God,” and those words have rung in my ear even in the worst seasons of my life. And that’s one of my favorite things to tell my kids.
Creativity
From sewing to drawing, making paper dolls to clothes to art, my Mom had an eye and loved to create and be surrounded by beauty. I loved the little doodles she’d do for me and the Barbie Doll clothes she would make from remnants while on break at North State, the sewing plant where she worked. And she can dance. Sing too, although she spent most of her time in the choir eyeballing my brother and me to make sure we weren’t cutting up. We were. Nonetheless, I consider myself a creative, encouraged by my mom and the freedom she gave me to create as a kid.
Clothes
She is such a cutie; always has been - never caught without her Mary Kay lipstick, or her heels. She always had a twinkle in her eyes, walking with a click up and down the aisles of JCPenney, Brodys (Belk), or Sears, finding things for me or her. I will never forget when she got a credit card for Thalhimer’s in Raleigh - Google it. Wooo baby! Our closets suffer from the weight of our love.
Girl Code
My Mom is a girl’s girl. I never heard my Mom putting down other women - EVER. She lives by the code. Uplift and elevate other women. Period. Oh yes, and she is a complimenter. “Girl, you're wearing that dress!” to even a perfect stranger.
The real legacy my Mom gave me? The art of letting go.
I am a child *cough cough* adult of a divorce. My parents divorced when I was around 19. But you know, like Seinfeld said, breakups are like a Coke machine, you have to rock it a few times before they finally tip over. So, before the divorce, I had seen the rocking of the marriage until it fell apart. I saw my Mom hold on longer than she should have. It made me angry and I accidentally developed a “F*ck THAT!” attitude. One slight, love or not, baby or no baby, I was gonna be OUT! When it came to treatment, my word was my bond; when I am done, I am DONE.
Watching and learning that was painful, and honestly, what she actually wanted to teach me was forgiveness and how to stand strong in a very rough season in marriage. She wasn’t trying to turn me into a feisty, fireball love bug. Sorry Mom. Here I am.
Sidebar: There is something about lessons taught through involuntary pain. Not gonna lie, I don’t exactly know what it is, but they super suck and linger. Next time I talk to my therapist, maybe we can work that out. However, I learned a lesson, and it made me hard in some ways. I was gonna let go if it killed me, or mainly before it killed me.
Some years later, during my marital challenges, my mother said to me, “You do NOT have to put up with [that]. Don’t do like I did. You will be fine if you put yourself first.” While my circumstances weren’t the same, I appreciated that my Mom did not use her voice to encourage me to stay in dysfunction just because she had for a period in her life.
Over a series of conversations, these are the things she said to me: “It took me a long time to get to the point I could be free. I would not let go of trying to make [your Dad] be to me what he didn’t want to be. What kind of life is that? Even after we were divorced, I was angry because I felt he OWED me something. And maybe he did, but he wasn’t gonna give it to me, so why hold MY LIFE up? “
She was adamant, “Don’t you do that mess. I was holding on to the house, the image, the hope of being old and gray with him. And I was miserable.” And she was back then.
There had been so many conversations through the years; with each one, I saw her letting go of what a woman was supposed to do, what a marriage was supposed to be, how to live as a divorcee in her 50s, then in her 60s. Relinquishing the ideas of what a woman should settle for, and mainly who others told her she was, and becoming Zerella.
The Ultimate Act of Freedom
In 2020, she showed the apex of her freedom to just “be”, when, out of the blue, love - Mr. Frank - sashayed into her life, and before we knew it, we were planning a wedding.
And she was moving to Tennessee! Not My Mama!
Yes, my mama, who had lived in Pitt County since she was a teenager with a brief stint in New York (which she didn’t like), was moving to Tennessee?? When we asked about it - “we” being her children, grandchildren, and friends - she said, “Of course! I am going with my husband!” Oh, and she grinned like a Chess cat, as she would say.
You’re really leaving Mama?, I thought.
She was 71 at the time, and although parents sure do turn into teenagers in their senior age, I could not challenge her. I wanted to ask her about her stuff, her church…Me!
So I asked, What are you doing with all your stuff? She said, “Oh, yall can have it!’
WHAT??
No matter where Mama lived, she had her “core” stuff. Her fancy dish display hutch, dining set, and canopy bedroom set. On her walls were the remnants of Home Interiors purchases from long ago. Tim Ashkar’s “The Beauty of Color”(see image) that has hung in every Black grandmother's or auntie's house since the 2000s, and plants that needed no water because…plastic. Her house was Gram’s house, and every piece was warm with familiarity.
She didn’t want her art? Or the same plastic plants she’d had since 1993? The little white porcelain Bible opened to the 23rd Psalm? Her… home interiors?
Surely she was joking.
She wasn’t.
That little Bible? I had to rescue from a box I was about to transport to Goodwill. I had to confiscate my brother’s and my favorite dinner plates from childhood. A little cute Christmas China set whose home was in the coveted fancy dish display? Worse. Headed to the trash. What the…? I didn’t want the home interiors. It was in its rightful place; headed to haunt someone else’s house with the ghost of 1989.
As the time drew closer for the wedding and the move, sensing my confusion and probably just a teeny bit of heartbreak, she finally said, “Girl, listen. This is my time. It’s my time to be with a man who is crazy about me and burn the road up and do what I want! I don’t have to hold on to this stuff to be your mama. I am happy. You’re young. Come see me.”
And that was that…
She was good, and in a few months, she was gone. Settling into a new life in Tennessee.
No clinging to the past. No hauling old hurts into her new life. Just faith, a suitcase, and a man who adores her—walking into the next chapter like it was always the plan.
Mom, you’re my hero. My friend. The woman who taught me that fear doesn’t get the last word—love does. For showing me how to choose faith, to buy and wear the dress, and to get creative and authentically set myself free.
So, thank you. Thanks for being Zerella. For being my Mommy. Thank you for teaching me the most valuable tradition that I will be sure to pass down, and the ultimate act of self-care sometimes is simply letting go.