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Reader submission by Valerye Griffin
The marital union of my parents was inevitable. Similar to the innumerable romantic films we’ve all seen in the movies, their story started when they were just teenagers. Both were natives of the same South Philadelphia neighborhood where they later married and started a family. My parent’s marriage seemed like a well-oiled partnership which included making sure my younger sister and I were taken care of. From the outside looking in, we embodied the perfect family.
Despite all the pleasant memories I have of our family, there are some not so pleasant ones kept tucked away. As I got older, I began noticing my seemingly picture-perfect parents had some glaring flaws. I initially dismissed them as being typical “adult problems” all married couples experienced. The perpetual couple argument cycle: a disagreement develops, followed by an argument, resulting in a mutual compromise or understanding, and then both parties move forward. Yet, for my parents there was always the lingering of problems that never seemed to go away.
I could tell my parent’s volatile relationship was disproportionately affecting my mother in ways I wouldn’t be fully privy to until I was much older. I observed her diminishing fervor for life due to her deteriorating marriage. Both of my parents were raised with strong Christian backgrounds, and divorcing was not supposed to be in the plan. My father being a pastor only added more complication to their situation. There was implicit pressure from those around them to push through their problems and stay married.
After a brief reconciliation following their second separation, my mother decided to leave her marriage for good. And that’s what she did.
The night my mom decided to leave my Dad, I was 11. My mother came to me after she and my father had an intense, chaotic argument to tell me she was leaving. She downplayed the severity of it so I could digest what was happening, but I knew. It was evident the choice to leave weighed heavily on her. The weariness in her shaky voice trying to explain herself to me was and is still haunting. She seemed physically and mentally taxed.
I didn’t grow up hearing the term self-love, but I got a great example of it that night. My mother could have easily come back to attempt to put her family back together, but she chose to set firm, permanent boundaries. She was no longer accepting anything less than what she deserved anymore. She didn’t know it then, but her taking the steps to live on her own terms by removing herself from an unhealthy relationship continues to influence me in my own life.
My mother leaving my father taught me the basic tenets of self-love. Some could say it was selfish for her to leave or she should have stayed to make it work. But after repeatedly putting marriage, a man, and the idea of a “perfect family” before her happiness, she finally chose to put herself before everyone and everything.
As Black women, being able to handle all of what life throws us gracefully is something we’re often expected to do. That inescapable “strong Black woman” label rejects our vulnerabilities and denies our right to just sometimes being a downright mess. Many of our great-grandmothers, grandmothers, and mothers were and are still examples of matriarchs holding their families together by any means necessary. Even with heavy burdens and overwhelming stress, the women many of us know and grew up with continue to go through life carrying an unbelievable amount of weight on their shoulders.
This unattainable image of a woman unscathed by a cruel world by keeping it together 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, plus the 366th day during a leap year is dangerous. Joan Morgan writes in When Chickenheads Come Home To Roost, “…the myth of the STRONGBLACKWOMAN empowers us in many ways. When you’re raised to believe that the ability to kick adversity’s a– is a birthright – a by-product of gender and melanin – you tend to tackle life’s afflictions tenaciously.” We must push back on this myth of being strong, because we are not invincible. My mother was not invincible. Your mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers were and are not invincible. As Black women it’s time to grant ourselves humanity.” My mother didn’t need to be a superwoman in that moment when she decided to leave. She just needed an out of an unhappy marriage. At 35 with two children, she took the leap.
My mother’s leaving didn’t lead to an immediate perfect ending nor did it solve the internal issues she’d end up dealing with in the aftermath of her divorce. A dissolved marriage involving children can often be tricky, resulting in difficult custody struggles which can leave families even further broken. In my case, there were no court dates or bitter custody agreements; however, my parents were not exempt from having to navigate co-parenting while still dealing with their own issues.
Now that my sister and I are both adults, we’ve talked extensively about what we were exposed to by our parent’s relationship. Even though a divorce in the family can be heartbreaking, and was indeed for us as children, it did not break us. If anything, it empowered us to approach relationships and marriage with sensibility. It allowed us to see that once you start to lose yourself in a relationship, it could be time to step back or eventually away altogether.
Both of my parents have since moved on to remarry and start new lives since their divorce. My mother in particular is living an incredibly full, happy life– the one she must’ve had a glimpse of right before she left.
You can read more of Valerye’s writing on shehatesheels.com and follow her on Twitter and Instagram at @nameisval.
