Anita Nahal
Single mothering is tough. Being an immigrant is tough. Single immigrant mom or immigrant single mom? Yes, I know folks keep saying, “Single mothering is tough. Not good for the child. Not good for the parent. There is no father. The child is yateem*.” So many societal injunctions. This. That. Comments, comments, comments. Patriarchal mostly, despite being born in the land of myriad female goddesses. The West is not very different.
A half-moon reveals a single mom’s impending motherhood. The father is not on the ground. Deserted or dead. Still, just not there. Strong mamas in most cultures. The father is not questioned when there is no mother. Division and multiplication accolades scream on twitter. Leaving deductions and subtractions sifted into the bowl of a mother.
I did not let that crumble my strength…wasn’t a soft cookie. Nor did my resolve melt away like overrated margarine on hot toast. I always bought real butter. Better some lumpy hard butter that my heat can melt than sticky oil coating my insides rotten. And encouraged my son on similar wavelength. Recent immigrants around me were buying homes, establishing real estate roots, while I was on a journey to raise a decent human being.
“Degrees, degrees, degrees, it’s not funny,
it’s the status and a rich man’s world” (Abba extended)
“Give it up man, decent, decent, decent
I wanna raise a decent human in this snooty world.”
(This song just kept repeating and repeating on my lips)
Duality of being Indian and American did not stress me out too much. Neither did hyphenated identities keep me awake at night. Nor did nostalgia burn into me. I did not flatten, singe, or walk around with puffy eyes. Instead weight of best integrations of myriad cultures, like trusting and clasping strangers’ palms in a robbed night, kept me driving.
I am wood. I am water. I am fire. I can breathe fire. I walk. I sprint. I can pull the brakes. I am a cocktail of tears, sighs, smiles. I am hugs from my son. My blessing. My gift. My saviour. Hugs that have kept me going. Kept this female iceberg floating. Folks saw only the tip above the waters of us emotional refugees. We swam subterranean finding ourselves mostly alone on many roads, bridges, tunnels, pavements, among dense weeds and weird unknown forms. We gulped in water. Spat it out. Waved aside. Looked askance. Dragged and clawed any and every air bubble our way. Kept walking and walking. Like Robert Frost. Like Maya Angelou’s oil wells were pumping in our living room despite first furniture being hand-me-downs. I am a single, immigrant, pleased, grateful, tenacious mom. And that’s no fallacy.
*Yateem: Orphan
