I never thought I’d say
I am my mom
Especially when my job
Up until now
Was not being my mom
What a surprise to find
That being half my mom
From the beginning of this round
There’s no getting around
Being my mom
As I search for more
As I explore
Can I choose to be my mom some
And my dad some
And not be my mom some
And not be my dad some
Ah who am I trying to kid
I am both of their kid
I’m their ego and id
This first Mother’s Day without the guilt
No card this year mom
I’ll scoop up the good
And let the other slip away
Drip through my fingers
It’s Mother’s Day
This year I’m okay
Being my mom
But after that
I’ll probably go back
To trying not being my mom
It may not work
But it’s a habit
Maybe I learned it
From my mom
.
About the poem:
Damn, this is a hard one for us Westerners, with our whole ‘individual identity’ thing going on. In Ghana, my friend taught me, “I am because we are.” In Korea, I think you are if your elders say so. 🙂
I was very moved by Thich Nhat Hahn’s story of a young man who said he would have nothing to do with his father. Thay laughed and said, Ha, you are your father. And your mother.
Accepting a closer connection, a reincarnation of sorts right here, makes it easier to stop the fighting. My finger cannot separate from my hand. I cannot separate from my parents.

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