By Doreen Samuels
One
I only have two memories of my mother. One is me sitting in front of her while she combed my hair. The other is her taking me to visit one of her friends when I was five years old. That was the year she left me with my grandmother to go live and work in England.
While I wasn’t in need of food or clothing—probably because my mother was sending back money—there was a void in me. Nights were the worst. When I was a little girl in Jamaica, the nights were the worst. Although I’d go to bed with three or four cousins, I’d feel all alone. While they slept, I’d stay awake crying, trying to keep my sniffles quiet so they wouldn’t hear me.
During the day, every time I’d see an airplane overhead, I would shout, “My mother is coming to get me.” Then I would stand and watch until it disappeared out of sight. Once I realized she wasn’t on the plane, I would go into one of my moods.
In those years when I was growing up, no one ever told me they loved me, and I needed to hear my mother say she loved me. But we were too poor to talk on the phone. And my mother never walked back through the airport gate to come and get me.
Two
The present my aunt sent me for my thirtieth birthday was a plane ticket and visa so I could visit her in Canada. So I left my six children in the care of their father—the youngest was one—and went for a brief vacation.
But once I was there, I kept noticing all the work opportunities. I thought if I stayed awhile, I could send money back for my children. Then I could go back home.
It was hard. I missed my children. When I finished working on a weekday or had free time on Sunday I would go to the park. Seeing the children playing there and running to the ice cream truck brought me joy because it reminded me of my children and sadness because my children were not with me. Sometimes I would hear the voices of other children and it would sound in my mind like the voices of my children.
When I would get home, I’d see the walls of my room and the top of my dresser filled with pictures of all my children. Sometimes I would sit and watch cartoon shows and wish my children could have been there to see this with me. I almost felt like I was watching the show for them because they couldn’t see the cartoon in Jamaica. One day I found a little doll out on the street, and I brought it home with me and put it on my couch so that every day when I came in from work I could see it and remember my children.
My only consolation was knowing I was doing this for them. Although my husband had a farm, he couldn’t make enough money to support our family. He’d go to the market, and people would buy his vegetables but then tell him they didn’t have the money to pay him. So the checks I sent bought the toilet paper and soap and all the other things my kids needed. And because high school in Jamaica is expensive, the money I made in Canada was the only way my kids were able to get an education.
But every day I spent in Canada I questioned if I was doing the right thing by doing the same thing as my mom.
Three
I was thirty-five when I finally heard from my mother by phone.
“Why didn’t you come for me?” was the first question I asked. Her response was she did not have the immigration documentation to come in and out of the country. She could not leave England to get me in Jamaica and then return to her job. I was surprised but touched to hear her call me “Gem,” my childhood nickname. But still, I didn’t know whether to believe she really loved me. “Do you remember my birthday,” I asked? “How could I not remember the birthday of one of my children?” she answered.
I understood. After all, I’d had to leave my own much-loved children. I knew that time and distance could not break the love a mother has for a child.
Once I’d heard from my mother by phone, I talked to her every night after work. Sometimes she sounded sleepy because of the five-hour difference between England and Canada, but I was on cloud nine just to have my mother in my life.
But the distance between us and the realities of our lives as immigrants continued to come between us. We lost contact again for a while after I moved from Canada to the United States. But I tracked her down in 1992 to tell her about the birth of my last son. Then after my mother’s phone got disconnected in 1997, I wasn’t able to locate her. And when I was finally able to call my mother after getting her number from a cousin, I learned that my mom was terminally ill with lung cancer.
Her wish was to see her little girl. The little girl she had left so many years before—me! For so many years I had wondered if my mother had loved the children she had given birth to in England more than she loved me. But now she told me she would travel with a nurse to the United States just to see me.
She was supposed to come at the end of October 2003. She passed away in the middle of October.
Just as my mom had been unable to come to see me when I was a child because of immigration restrictions, I was unable to go to my mother’s funeral in England because of immigration issues.
One of my sons went to the funeral to represent me and my family, while I stayed home and grieved alone. I didn’t even tell any of my friends that my mother had died because I thought they would say: “What kind of daughter doesn’t attend her mother’s funeral?”
Four
I’ve never told anyone this story before, but I’m telling it today to let my children know how much I love them. Everything I’ve ever done has always been for them—especially the times it didn’t look that way.
If you have never had to grow up away from your mother or be away while your children grow up, take a moment to think how lucky you are. As an immigrant, I am grateful for the opportunities I’ve had to work in Canada and the United States to make a better life for my family. But few people understand how much parents and children suffer in this process.
Sometimes I feel as though my children do not understand why I did what I did. It pains me to think of the sacrifices they had to make, and I don’t think they fully understand the sacrifices I had to make. Every day I thought about my children, but because they didn’t know that I feel that they are still hurting.
I know how they feel. As a child, I cried in bed at night, wondering if my mother loved me. As a young adult, I felt sad as I watched other people’s children around the ice cream truck because I was unable to see my own kids. And as a woman, I grieved alone while others gathered around my mother’s coffin.
But although I’m sometimes sad when I think about my mother today, in my heart I feel at peace. During our conversations my mother told me she loved me, and I believed her because I know how much I love all of my children. And like her, I know how much you must love your children to bear the pain of leaving them so they can have a chance at a better life.
