Aya Collective Publishing

Contributing Author, Marjorie Grevious

Who are first-born Black daughters after their mama dies and they have no children of their own to take care of? 

Who are first-born Black daughters so intertwined with the roles they play that they forget their own fool selves, fun selves, loving selves, quiet selves, sensual selves?

Mama was one, I am one, My Beloved is one. 

Who are we after caretaking, caregiving, and the business of family evolves into something we don’t recognize, something that no longer fits?

Who am I beyond the ties that have bound me, or do they hold me together?

Mama never found out, I guess I will spend the rest of this life trying.

Mama was a screamer. It would be many years before I realized why her loud cries of ecstasy were so similar to the simmering rage that filled her throat when frustrated with her children. Both sounds terrified me as a child, and taught me the meaning of when one’s blood runs cold. If I ran to her bedroom to save her from the man causing her to cry out, then I would be met with the sharp rage tipped tongue telling me to go back to bed or I would meet dire punishment. I know this is not the memories she had in mind when she asked me to write the story of us-she and I – first born daughters to mothers who were shattered, or would be shattered by the men they loved. I know only bits and pieces of Mama’s truth, the parts I saw through a child’s eyes and now process with adult understanding. What she was able to share took a long time to come out, and when it did I wished it had stayed hidden.

Secrets in our family are like a dark maze of spider webs you walk through and can never shake that creepy sensation that something is crawling on you, inside you. I am the oldest of four and it has long been understood we each had a different Mama. Not just versions of the same woman, but completely different people. They knew little of my Mama, while I came to know each of theirs quite well. Every once in a while as the years passed, Mama would look at me and ask, “when was the last time you saw your Mama?” It always made me catch my breath. In these singular little moments, I knew that she knew I missed her desperately, and the longer we both lived the less of my Mama there was.

Mama had me young, less than two months after turning 18. She had a gullible naivete, and innocence that didn’t match her incredible intellect. She graduated from high school early and went immediately to Howard University. The story of my father remains a mystery and comes with only a few details. Early in my 40s, I took Mama out to dinner to celebrate being accepted into a creative writing fellowship which was based on the creative nonfiction I was crafting about our family stories. I decided to broach the subject of my father again, which had been glossed over when I was young, sketchy bits of story as I grew older, and then Mama just claiming forgetfulness based on the passage of time.

At this dinner at a high-end steakhouse, I excitedly shared with Mama my fellowship opportunity and how I wanted to tell some of our family stories, much of which was shrouded in mysterious secrecy. I tentatively asked Mama if she could remember anymore about who my father was, or how she really met him. Mama glared at me the way she used to when I was a girl and in deep trouble. She slammed her hand on the dining table and spat out “is this what you brought me here for, to ask me all these questions again? I told you all I could remember and I am not going to talk about this anymore!” I was stunned, and tears came into my eyes. Mama appeared shocked by her own reaction as she retreated into that little girl place. I hated this version of her when she was feeling vulnerable and needed. She had a way of regressing into one who needed the caring and tending, and not the aggressor I so often experienced. 

Now that I was grown-grown, I thought she might be more open and honest with me about my father. Who was he? Where did they really meet? What did they do in DC together? How long did they date? Did he know about me?

About Marjorie Grevious
Marjorie is a sporadic writer at best, the proverbial, wandering, starry-eyed  English major, and world traveler. She has earned multiple credentials that allow her to mindfully curate her work as a Spiritual Wellness Consultant and founder of Temple Within (templewithin.org)

Marjorie’s favorite subject is the surreal, fantastical, mad adventures of growing up in a family full of  amazing stories and dark secrets. She promised her Mama she would write it all down. When not wandering the globe Marjorie shares a delightful home in south Minneapolis with her Beloved Lisa where they garden and cook with equal passion.