My Mother

My mother's family came to the United States from England. Sheffield, England to be exact. They left Liverpool, England on April 16, 1910 and arrived in Portland, Maine on the S.S Canada passenger ship. They were part of the Mormon wave of immigrants from Sheffield, England that started in the 1840's. Overcrowding and unsanitary conditions made for a wretched existence in Sheffield and so the Mormon missionaries were quite successful in recruiting converts with the promise of a new life in the United States. Some even had their trips funded by the church. My mother's family paid their own way, but because her father was only a hawker and draper, they traveled in steerage class. Steerage class was the default choice for poor, but hardworking people unable to afford proper accommodations. Often hundreds of people were housed in one room. Once a day they came to the deck for their daily meal of beef broth and bread. It was a long, harrowing and often painful journey. My partner always says "When all your choices are painful, choose the pain with hope". They left a hopeless existence, traveled a painful
journey with the hope for a better future. Upon arrival in the United States, they traveled directly to Salt Lake City, Utah where the oldest sibling, Fanny, had already settled, having been the first in the family to immigrate from England in 1907.
She was only 4 years old at the time she immigrated, but she remembered that trip. She was 97 years old when she told me that story, and she died a few months later. That was 5 years ago and I still miss her. She was my rock, my savior, my person. She taught me how to live and love by example. She was married to the same man for over 50 years when he died. She loved him so much, we thought she would soon follow suit, but she lived for another 25 years. Sometimes I think she did so only because she felt like I needed her. And I did.

She taught a lot of things. She taught me not only how to cook, but how to cook with love. She loved you with food. And it was her greatest pleasure to cook for me. I remember her in my early years always wearing an apron. To this day, even though I am a vegetarian, I miss her pot roast, pork chops and meatloaf! Eating her meals filled up the empty spaces inside me; I knew she made them just for me, because she loved me.
She taught me how to believe in myself. She told me throughout my life that I could do this or that, that I would...someday, that I should always try. She thought I could, would, should do anything I wanted, and so I also came to believe it. She instilled in me confidence.
She always believed I was a good person, even when as an adult I couldn't always believe it. She never scolded or even raised her voice; in truth, I never wanted to disappoint her so I tried to never give her cause to scold. Her depth of love for me was apparent to anyone who came within her sphere. When I brought my friends home from college, she would tell stories of how I "caught the ball" when I was 2 years old, or some other achievement I had accomplished, some quite ordinary to the listener but always considered extraordinary in her eyes. My ex-partner once said that I could be a mass murderer and her reply would be "Well they must have been very bad people for her to do that". I could do no wrong in her eyes; I knew this, and in a way, she became my conscience.
Her name was Gwen. She didn't give birth to me. She didn't have any legal rights to take me away from an untenable home life. But she was always there when I needed her. She gave me unconditional love. And that was what I needed to survive.
She was my mother's mother. I called her Nana. I just looked up the meaning and origin of the name Nana. It has a Hebrew origin and means Grace. Of course.
I have 2 children now. I didn't give birth to them, I don't have legal rights over them, and unfortunately they don't live with me anymore. But I love them unconditionally, as Nana taught how. I believe in them, as Nana did in me. I try to be there for them when life gets tough. And most importantly, I try to teach them how to live and love by example, just like Nana did for me.
Nana was my mother in every way possible except legally or biologically.
My name to my children is Mamere. It means "my Mother" in French. And everyday I strive to give them what my grandmother gave to me. A sense of belonging and hope, belief in themselves and unconditional love. And most importantly, the ability to survive. And I hope that I have taught them by example that when all their choices are painful to them, to choose the pain with hope in it.