We Are Each Other
"Grandma Pearl taught me that if I want you to be free, I am required to do more than just acknowledge your existence."
This is Radical Joy, a column curated by
.“In a world that often demands way too much of our labor, joy can feel like a radical act. I’m so grateful for the opportunity to edit the Radical Joy series for Raising Mothers and I’m excited to celebrate the boundless joy of BIPOC mothers through the curation of essays and stories that uplift, heal, and sustain us. My hope is, through storytelling, we can collectively sit with all the nuanced ways joy shows up in our lives and explore how we can nurture it, despite the burdens we carry. Consider this series an invitation to and for mothers of every background to tap into the energy of joy and become its witness.” - Tracey Michae'l Lewis-Giggetts
There is a puddle of grape juice on the worn linoleum floor tiles.
I don't remember the cause. It could’ve been the anesthesia flowing through my spine. Or maybe it was the familiar friend who sometimes comes and hugs me tight—twisting my core, denying my desire to breathe, forcing out my fears. She burns my throat and erodes the enamel on my teeth. Her presence is felt across my shoulders, between the webbing of my fingers, shooting down my thighs, around my ankles, and into my toes. As I lay in bed, staring into your eyes, slightly elongated and lifted at the corners, I wonder if there were times over the past nine months when you felt her, too.
After your birth, your father brought me two boxes of grape juice and a pack of saltine crackers. Labor left me famished and fatigued, so communion was his best attempt at connection. He still struggles to find tenderness for a woman like me. I ramble about jewel-toned sunsets accented by the texture of the wind. I become inebriated if I encounter the faint aroma of liberation. I enjoy being well-rested, unproductive, and ungovernable. Most folks would prefer I display a more palatable identity even though the constant performance of respectability is exhausting.
Today, I feel better.
We are decades past those harsh fluorescent lights. These days, our skin glows in concert halls. Even the dust bunnies hop into the aisles and ride each note up the rafters. They can feel you in the cheap seats. You pursue everything that makes you happy, and I can barely keep up. I find it hard to breathe as I choke on the excitement of watching you split open at the seams, seep into the floorboards, and fog the windows. Your grandeur is inescapable. You are floral chypre. When I squeeze your svelte frame, you melt. Your breath comes easy. My embrace does not fetter you. Our hearts sync, and the beat echoes through my chest. I inhale deeply before pulling away, but you linger a bit. You enjoy sharing your happiness with me. I can borrow as much joy as I need.
Sometimes, I am embarrassed by how unhappy I can get. I feel ashamed of the palette of my emotions. I have so much angst about how I should show up, whether inspiring or predictable. You don't care about any of that. You just want me near.
Many days, I feel like I am drowning—breathless and paralyzed, watching the sunlight dance on the water's surface, but barely able to hold my head high enough to fill my lungs. I am surviving, floating but not treading water in any particular direction. You excitedly float alongside—you always have. Never hesitating to get in the water with me, even before I knew what I was doing.
You are such a beautiful child. I look at you and know God is real. I adore you, and I know the Lord delights in you as well. In a world that seeks to consume anything and everyone, you have learned to reserve yourself only for those who can appreciate your complexity. Your discernment is more ferocious than your desire for validation. You confidently shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against those who refuse to honor your humanity. I watch you in awe and see conviction in your pretty almond-shaped eyes, slightly elongated and lifted at the corners, just like mine. You trust me not to consume you.
In the past, I couldn't see myself beyond cold, sugary cereal. Breakfast was just sustenance. Grandma Pearl saw so much more. She made me egg sandwiches for breakfast with grape jelly on cinnamon raisin bread—a distinct amalgamation of flavors. I still remember the smell of scrambled eggs and toast—the deep purple jelly staining paper plates. I would leave for school so excited to beat out the first and second-grade classes in multiplication drills. Grandma Pearl didn’t learn multiplication.
Some days, I make French toast for you with a unique blend of spices. Fresh blueberries, sugar, and lime juice form a compote you spoon over top. I steep your tea with rose petals, sweeten it with brown sugar, and froth the oat milk before adding it to the cup. Grandma Pearl taught me that if I want you to be free, I am required to do more than just acknowledge your existence. I must note how your eyes twinkle when food comes from the skillet instead of the microwave. I must warm the wool blanket before we cuddle up to watch cartoons. I must recognize the melody of your right hand against your thigh and take you to the park for a few hours to quiet the noise.
Sowing seeds of celebration reminds us of our magnificence. We nurture our roots with compassion and consistency and rub a little oil on the leaves so folks know we've been tended to. I light candles to commemorate birthdays, paydays, and new hairstyles. We practice robotic dance moves late into the evening, putting on a show for ZZ, Monstera, and Fern. On Tuesdays, we toast with grocery store bubbly and lavender mocktails at our house party happy hour. I selfishly honor my body with rest and movement. I don’t have to earn permission for that.
There is joy in every Saturday morning breakfast ritual. Bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches with orange marmalade cut into the shape of hearts. When it is your time, you will make something unique. You will encourage passionate pursuits in your children and your children’s children. Their passion and drive will power them forward. You will gaze into their almond eyes, slightly elongated, and lifted at the corners, just like yours, and know exactly what to do.
Ashley Pugh is an emerging author passionate about literacy. Reading and writing about distinct Black experiences remind her that she has the power to manufacture joy. She served the healthcare industry for fifteen years before reimagining life as a creative. Her self-published children’s book, “Alphabet Gumbo,” draws from her background in early childhood education and nursing to encourage language development while honoring the traditions of her South Louisiana family. She is excited to continue crafting stories that center women and children from historically excluded groups. Ashley describes herself as queer, charismatic, and staunchly ungovernable. She currently resides in Atlanta, Georgia.
Thank you for supporting us in big & small ways since 2015! Raising Mothers is an independent literary magazine, run by a single person—me. Join us as a monthly or annual sustaining member & keep Raising Mothers ad-free. Help us reach our first goal of 100 paid annual members. Invest in amplifying the parenting & personal narratives of Black, Asian, Latine(x), Indigenous and other voices from the global majority at our many intersections.
Before you go, leave us some love by tapping the ❤️. Also, restack & share to help others find us. We’re @raisingmothers all over social media.