I was dragging my feet. They were too heavy to lift over the littered rocks and I was already huffing and puffing. The hill was much steeper than I thought and all of a sudden I questioned why I ever thought it was a good idea to climb it. The view was not worth the trouble. I frowned at my uncle’s back. He had made it to the top without breaking a sweat. When I finally reached his side, heaving and bent over, he glanced at me and burst into laughter. “Your face,” he howled, “You look like a tomato!” I scowled further and turned away. “Well at least no one will recognize me and you won’t be embarrassed,” I shot back, my face hot from the unexpected exercise more than anything. My uncle straightened and put an arm around my shoulders, bringing me close. I wrinkled my nose at him. “My dear niece,” he smiled softly, “Anyone who knows Fatima, and sees you, will immediately know that you are her daughter.”
I never thought I looked like my mother. When I was younger, it used to bother me when people mentioned it. I wanted to be my own person, and in my mind, my facial similarities to her were somehow stopping me from that. How wrong I was. How unappreciative.
My mother raised my three siblings and I on her own, and somehow managed to do it all. She worked two jobs, volunteered endlessly at our mosque and school, and kept us fed, clothed, and loved. She would constantly look for free programs or trips that the city would do. “Free Fun Fridays” were a yearly thing for us. That’s how we spent our summers. She wanted so badly for us to not feel our father’s absence, to make up for it by doing double, triple, what an average mother would. She’d open overdue electricity bills in the mail and turn to us with a bright smile on her face when we’d come running, unaware of her burdens. She preferred ummi, but we called her mama. She never wanted us to worry, only to keep building our dreams. Never asking for anything in return, and never receiving any acknowledgement for all her sacrifices.
I learned all of that on my own later on, as I grew older and began to recognize the lines of stress in her forehead. She made me who I am today. The commitment I have to my religion after watching her read her pocket Quran every morning on the city bus. The dedication I have to my education after hearing about her taking her finals and completing her Associate’s Degree in her ninth month of pregnancy. The dream I have to make the world a little better through my own efforts after seeing her give and give with no expectations of reciprocation. All of it. It was her.
She is the kind of person you cannot forget once you’ve met. Her lilting accent that hints at her fluency in four languages and a rich history. Her sunny laughter that bounces off the walls and puts a smile on your face. Her expressive features that display her full range of emotions and lure you into her world. Her sympathetic eyes that fixate upon you as you talk, compelling you to confide in her. Her thoughtfulness when she calls you to check in or visits you when you’re sick with a gift basket, even though you know her plate is full. Her small figure that emanates warmth when she hugs you as if her brightness was inherited from the sun. She’s the life of the party and your friend in need. Despite all of that obvious beauty she shares with the world, she remains woefully ignorant of it. Of her impact on others. Of her perfect imperfections.
To be able to share those features—her smile, her eyes, her nose—is one of the greatest honors of my life. To share something precious with the one person in my life who would support me unconditionally. Who would have a solution for every problem. The one person who I knew, no matter what happened during the day, would be there to hug me tightly, wipe my tears, and ease my pain. It was her. My mother.
Mama.
Ummi.
Did you know?
I look like you.
