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minnesota writing project
center for writing
mwp.umn.edu
center for writing
mwp.umn.edu
Kelly Barrick
©2019
Steel
I cannot think of the word steel without thinking of the 17 year old, skinny girl- hand over her buck-teeth, the teeth she hated so much- trying to finish her ALC program. Asshole’s last chance? Really? What makes her an asshole? The girl who harassed her at her high school, over the boyfriend that eventually left, was the asshole. This girl, stepping over her father, passed out in his own piss on the kitchen floor of a trailer that housed 8 people, then steps over mud puddles on the gravel driveway to get to school. She clutches her stomach instinctively as she slides into a beater car and hopes it’ll start so she can make it to class on time.
It’s May of 1980 and in 7 short months this embodiment of strength will graduate high school, plan a wedding, exchange vows, break up a fight between her drunken father and brother at the reception, go into labor on Christmas Day, pull over to change a tire on the way to the hospital, and give birth on Christmas night. 1980 wasn’t an easy year. She didn’t sit down much, and if we’re being honest, she hasn’t since. But iron doesn’t bend easily.
Less than two years later would find this woman holding a toddler in one arm and a baby in the other. The world, her family, all the statistics, literally everything and every one was telling her she couldn’t do it. Armed with grit alone, she forged on. With a 9 month old baby, and 3 year old, she enrolled in tech school to pursue an Accounting certification. She frequently worked with a baby in a pack-n-play behind her desk while her husband left to hunt or fish with buddies on the weekend. He worked hard, but he played hard too. She just worked, and then kept working, an iron will to survive. There were no girlfriend’s nights, no get-aways with the gal pals. Her social life consisted of her two girls and her sisters and mother. She ate out at McDonalds and shopped at the Crossroads Mall. There was nothing lavish about it.
When they’d saved enough money, she helped get their house ready to sell. She’s the one who made sure it was show-ready each weekend, cleaned it meticulously each night when her girls were bathed, homework was done, and everyone had been fed and put to bed. Then she’d stay up and clean, and often continue working, grabbing the stack of numbers and and a calculator from the bag she’d lugged home from work. Finally the house sold, and the sense of relief, the sense of “We made it!” when moving to a two-story in the suburbs must have been settling for her; a trophy, really. Her white living room - the one no one could go in- the dining room - the one no one could eat in. Showing it all off to her family, the ones who said she’d never make it -surely her marriage wouldn’t. But it did. No boasting, no bragging. She just kept her head down and continued to flex, as iron does, under the pressure.
Her daughters were growing up now. She was terrified. Her fear came out in the rules she soldered together piece by piece, the arguments, the frustration she must have felt with a husband who wasn’t always on the same page. Steadfast in her rules, stern in her approach. “You will be home on time.” “If I ever catch you smoking, I’ll make you sit down and smoke a pack of Marlboros, unfiltered, and inhale!” “You are not sleeping over at a friend’s house in high school, it just means you’ll be drinking.” Her family criticized her every decision, but she didn’t back down.
That woman, the one who yanked my pony tail backwards and pulled my punk card for being a smart ass in the middle of a tour at the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C., the one who yelled at me in front of my friends, and then yelled at them too, the one who accused me of rolling my eyes more than I ever did - was also the one who drove me to visit 13 different college campuses because she was determined to give me an opportunity she didn’t get. She watched every single basketball game, every tennis match, every track meet, every concert, award ceremony, and marching band parade. She never missed a single one. Not one.
When their second daughter was walking down the aisle of her college graduation, she leaned over to her husband, now married for 22 years and whispered, “We did it! Both girls made it through high school and college, and didn’t get pregnant!” There it was, social reproduction, broken. In her tearful eyes, tearful because she didn’t cry in public, she knew it had all been worth it.
And when I learned in college that I probably wouldn’t be able to have kids, I know she was crushed. But she sat next to me in a recovery room while I puked up the cherry Jell-o the nurse told me to eat before I could go home after the exploratory surgery. Her eyes saddened, as the doctor left, but her voice ever-so-practical, “You can cross that bridge when you get there, Kel.”
So, when I woke up and puked one day for an unseemingly unknown reason, and a friend suggested I pee on a stick, I did it three times, because I just could not believe it. My mom was the person I wanted to tell first. A grandchild to her was like a second chance. This time she would get to spoil and relax, and not have to yell or stress. She was there for the pregnancy, and my first days at home, and the struggles with nursing - even though she knew nothing about it, she learned. I drew on her strength when I had none left, and asked her over and over and over again, “How, mom, how did you do this?”
…
My identity has always been a struggle for me. I buck the system, and attempt to go against the norm, while still somewhat fitting it. Becoming a mother, for me, was hard. I didn’t want it to be my only identity. Perhaps because it was a surprise, or because I was ill for a majority of my pregnancy. Maybe it was the weight I gained, or the career I didn’t, while my husband was climbing a ladder. Maybe, just maybe, it was because I was afraid I would become my own mother. I tend to put everyone else’s needs before my own, even if it results in resentment and frustration. I watched a woman put everyone else before her for her entire life, and I admire her so much, and yet wonder to what end? So she can be happy with her grandchildren? I feel selfish for the ability to even have the opportunity to consider these questions. And anytime I’m pondering any of these big life questions, or wondering if I am being selfish - because I have pondered all of them- I call my mom. I know she’s going to be practical and real and also just listen, her calculator clicking away in the background - because she’ll listen whether she’s at work, or working at home. I vent, or cry, or bitch, or say that it’s all too hard. She agrees, it’s hard, but not impossible. She reminds me that I need to take life in strides, including parenting, and again, “Cross the bridges when you come to them, Kel.”
I’m 12 years into motherhood now, and I'm still wondering how? How do I do this? Because I respect everything about my mother, and yet feel incredible sadness when I consider all that she gave up. I have so much because of her, and am able to be because of her. She dreamed of becoming a lawyer one day, but didn’t. Instead she made sure we chased down our dreams - mine, to be a teacher. I’ve moved back and forth across the country several times, and she’s been there, though I know it killed her, packing boxes and flying grandchildren back and forth. Each time I’ve wondered, did she ever want to move? Was she happy? Is she happy? Does anyone ever ask her? Would she tell them if she wasn’t, I wonder, or would she keep on her armor and soldier on for those around her?
In the meantime, we make plans for my son to visit her over the weekend for alone time, away from his sister. She’s excited to spoil him, and watch him ride around on the 4-wheeler bought, “for the grandkids.” I understand now that my kids have brought her a sense of happiness. The full circle, so to speak. Because she was so strong, and because she endured, and she stuck it out through the fights and pushed her stroller past the rolling eyes up the metaphorical hill - this is her time to sit back in the rocking chair she got for Mother’s Day and enjoy grandmotherhood. She smiles at me, when I pick Rowan up on Sunday and tell her all about the Ph.D. program I plan to apply for. When I start with the self-doubt and all the questions about, “How? How am I going to do this, and be a mom too?” she reminds me that I’m tougher than that. And I look at her, and I know that she’s right. After all, I came from her, the flecks of iron in my blood are hers. And bridges aren’t built in a day.
