1
Bad Mother
I SIT at our long kitchen table, my hands folded, breathing in the rare, luxurious quiet. I close my eyes and inhale the silence. I bask in it. I savor this silence. I am not used to it. We donāt usually experience much quiet around here. With three kids coming and going, swooping in and out of rooms, basketballs bouncing, friends trailing, doors closing, footsteps thundering up and down stairs, laughter, shouting, singing pummeling the air, the mere idea of silenceāthe remote possibility of itārarely nudges its way into my consciousness. At least not during the day. At night, when Dellās on the road and the children have fallen asleep, well, thatās a different story. Then silence descends. I will seek it out, walk into it, and enfold myself inside it, losing myself in the quiet and the dark of the house.
This day, on this late Friday afternoon in 2009, I think about Sunday. I consider whether I can plot an escape between church services for some āme timeā and sneak out to the movies. I decide Iāll make a game-time decision. I lean my elbows on the table, lower my head, close my eyes, and take in this silence, trying to hold on to the quiet for as long as I can. I try to clear my head of clutter, force my mind to go blank. I canāt manage it. Iām too antsy. Thoughts of what to make for dinner seep in. I see a Caesar salad, frozen lasagna, Texas toast. I bat those thoughts away, or try to. I whisper a line of Scripture, thanking God for this moment, for this rest, for this quietā
āMom?ā
Sydel, fourteen, my youngest, sprints into the room and lands on the chair opposite me. We Currys move quickly and with purpose. We donāt usually run in the houseāIām always asking the kids to slow downābut we enter rooms at a good clip. We arrive, even if we have no particular purpose in mind, even if weāre simply entering the room.
I slowly open my eyes and take in my daughterās face. She leans into me, her eyes ablaze. She has something she needs to say. I see her formulating her thoughts. Searching for the right words. Doing a rewrite in her mind. I can feel her anticipation. Yes, she has something on her mind. An ask.
She hesitates before she speaks. I know I am about to be hit with something that Iām not going to like. I can feel it.
Get ready, Sonya.
Sydel has been busy lately, scrambling to find her place at her new school, Charlotte Christian. She has thrown herself into a very active ninth-grade social life. Ninth grade is the toughest year to negotiate, a transitional year, a time that falls between still being a kid and becoming a teenager. Passing puberty, racing toward Go. Sometimes we call ninth grade the end of middle schoolāthe last year of junior highāand sometimes we call it freshman year of high school, nothing junior about it. Which is how Sydel sees ninth grade. No more junior high, no more kidās stuff. She has not entered high school casually, on tiptoes. She has burst into high school. Translation: fitting in, parties, boys.
She knows, though, that we have a family rule about all that. Same rule I instituted for her brothers, Stephen and Seth. Very explicit. Very clear. Uncompromising. No debate. A rule that canāt be broken and one I enforce.
No dating until you turn sixteen.
In Sydelās case, no boyfriend.
Absolutely no boyfriend.
āSo I wanted to talk to you,ā Sydel says.
Oh yes, sheās got an agenda.
āAbout?ā I say.
I brace myself for whatever sheās got.
Okay, girl, Iām ready, bring it.
āTomorrow night,ā she says.
āWhat about tomorrow night?ā
āI think Iāve mentioned this to you before.ā
She halts, curls her lips slightly, shifts in her chair.
She has not mentioned this before, whatever this is, though I can guess.
āThe party,ā she says, as casually as she can, as if sheās discussed the party dozens of times. Then she powers past the details like they donāt matter, irrelevant bits of meaningless informationātime, place, the girl whoās hosting.
āActually,ā Sydel says, gesturing elaborately. āWeāre going to a movie first, then back to her house for, you know, the, uh, party.ā She punctuates the word party with a dismissive wave. āReally just a few of us hanging out.ā
I feel myself nodding.
āWho are these friends?ā I ask, stalling. āThe ones attending this party?ā
I know the answer. Sydel has recently been invited into a new social circle. This group has embraced her, the cool, status-y newcomer. The group consists of a few older kids, including one or two Iāve heard about through parents. These kids, Iām told, are a bit moreāmature.
I also know that hovering around this group is a particular boy. A crush. Sydel doesnāt talk about him much. But she talks about him enough. Itās not how much she talks about him that matters. Itās the way she does it. I have an intuition about these things. Boys. Matters of the heart. Crushes. I, too, raced past ninth grade. I see myself back then, a freshman in high school, no junior high about it.
āSydel,ā I say, āyouāre fourteen.ā
āGoing on fifteen.ā
āIn a month.ā
āTwenty-eight days.ā
āBut whoās counting.ā
Sydel adjusts her position on the chair, tucks a leg beneath her.
āPlease, Mom. I want to go. You know these kids. Theyāre my friendsāā
She lists them.
āSo only girls?ā I say. āYou didnāt mention any boys. No boys will be at the party?ā
āWell, I mean, maybe, there couldāā
I hold up my palm. A stop sign.
āSydel,ā I say quietly. āI donāt want to be the bad cop here, but you know the rule. No dating until you turn sixteenāā
āThis is not a date. Itās a party. A get-together.ā
āSydel,ā I say, sharper.
āMom.ā
Another adjustment in her chair and in her tone.
āEverybodyās going,ā she says.
I hate that argument. The everybody is doing it defense. She knows I hate it. But itās her last gaspāher Hail Mary pass. She has no other option. She has to go for it.
āPlease,ā she says.
I wrap it all up for her. My summation.
āSydelllll,ā I say, drawing out her name to make a point, then allowing it to land heavily, all without raising my voice. āI donāt feel comfortable about this. You are fourteen years old. You are not sixteen. And I know about the boy situation. I want to remind you. We have a rule. You know very well what it is. Iām going to have to say no. Iām sorry.ā
Thatās it. The end.
Except itās not the end.
Sydel keeps going. She keeps fighting, flailing. She raises her voice. She blows by logic now and goes straight for emotion.
āI donāt understand. Why canāt I go? Itās a movie and then because itāll be so early, a few of us are getting together at a personās house whom you know. A few kids. Thatās all it is.ā
āIām sorry,ā I say again, closing the conversation. āYouāre not going to go.ā
She purses her lips as if sheās swallowed something sour and then she says, flatly, āYou are the worst mother in the world.ā
I feel my throat constrict.
Time stops.
You are the worst mother in the world.
I cannot believe these words have spewed from my daughterās mouth.
Not from Sydel.
Then I feel myself doing itāthe Oh, no, you didnāt neck and eye roll. The look my mother, Candy Adams, gave me whenever I crossed the line. The look every Black mother on earth shoots at her child whenever they cross the line. The neck and eye roll just comes out of me. A reflex. An instinct. I canāt help myself. Here it comes. Iām giving my daughter the Candy look.
That sentence. Those eight words. Parents at the school and friends who are parents have told me that their kids have hurled this sentence at them. This dagger. When they told me, I thought, I canāt imagine my kids ever saying that to me. No. My kids would never say that to me.
But my daughter has said it. The sentence I consider my worst nigh...
