My Mother's Strength: My Journey (Part III)

The day of Mom’s funeral, I felt peace. More surprisingly, I felt strong. 

When Dad asked me if I wanted to speak at Mom’s funeral, I said, “Of course. I have to.” At the time, it didn’t register with me that it might be difficult to get through a speech about the loss of the most impactful person in my life. But it did register with Dad and Auntie Toya, both of whom decided not to speak. I thought it was the right decision; they could simply sit in their grief and just be. They had already been stretched so thin with caring for Mom and planning the funeral. They were also dealing with the shock of it all. I was the only one who understood Mom’s prognosis when she got sick. 

We all took the lead at different times, and I knew I had to take the lead on the day of Mom’s service. It was my turn to be strong for Dad and Auntie Toya. It was my day to be strong for everyone. I could hear Mom say, “Ashley, go be the family representative! You know what to do! Show them that Harvard education.” She loved to throw Harvard and Stanford in any conversation she could. She’d say, “Black folks don’t get to go to schools like that. You need to let the people know.” To say the least, she was proud. 

Before any big speech or presentation, I’d practice with Mom. She was an excellent public speaker. She honed her skills in monthly women’s Bible studies and a stint in telemarketing where she gave lots of presentations. From my legal oral arguments and entrepreneurial competitions to wedding speeches (and even a rap concert once), Mom was there to listen, provide feedback, and share encouraging words. Mom would also say a prayer for me. If it mattered to me, it mattered to her. My heart would pound fast and out of my chest before any speech. She’d say, “The nerves will go away when you start talking. Also, remember to look cute. When you look good, you feel good!” 

Soon after the cancer spread to her spine and her brain, causing Mom to undergo emergency surgery, I bought a stylish outfit that Mom would like. I thought we might be nearing the end, so I wanted to be prepared. I couldn’t honor Mom in a basic dress. My cousin Eryka said it gave off Blair Waldorf (from Gossip Girl) Upper East Side vibes. I agreed. I knew it was strange to think about trivial things like fashion during such a difficult time, but I think Mom would have appreciated it. Fashion was part of our love language, and it gave me that extra boost of confidence the day of her funeral. 

As I approached the podium in my far-from-basic dress, I remained positive. Because Mom was Miss Optimistic, I focused on the silver linings—all the things Mom got to do in life. While I am fortunate enough to have attended only a few funerals, I noticed that the speeches were often framed in tragic realities. For instance, at the funeral for my friend’s stepfather, my friend delivered a heartbreaking speech. While she talked about all of the wonderful memories they shared, she went through the laundry list of things he would miss: her wedding, children, career accomplishments, and the little (yet meaningful) moments. She lost him too soon as well. Our hearts all ached for her. Naturally, everyone cried. Many wailed. We were at a funeral. Crying is normal. 

But Mom wasn’t normal. She would not want everyone crying at her funeral. Mom didn’t even like the word funeral, so we called it a homegoing (i.e., going home to be with Jesus). She would want everyone rejoicing over her celebration of life. Her service was beautiful and uplifting, just like her. Lots of people wore purple (her favorite color) among other bright colors. The funeral service director described it as a “delightful sea of purple.” It was as if she planned it herself. 

Part of me felt like I should show everyone that I was okay, even if it was only a half-truth. Although I was devastated and heartbroken, I wanted to put their heart at ease the way Mom did for me; the way she tried to protect the hearts of so many. The other part of me was genuinely okay. I felt Mom’s presence. I felt her positive spirit cheering me on. I had practiced my speech and said a prayer beforehand—the same routine I shared with Mom. My heart didn’t pulse fast, the way that it always had. I didn’t shake. I wasn’t nervous at all.  I felt empowered to share my mother’s story. It felt surreal. How is this happening? It was like Mom had suddenly transferred all the strength she had inside her to me. Or, perhaps, I always had it in me. I just never had to use it. Dad said it could only be God. 

The defining characteristics of Mom’s strength were her positivity and protective instincts. That was how she loved. As the words began to pour out of my mouth at Mom’s service, I could not think about my pain. I could only think about how Mom loved. She would want me to stay positive and protect her loved ones from the pain of her loss. Although this was an unrealistic desire, Mom often had unrealistic expectations of life. It was part of her charm. I knew I couldn’t disappoint her; I wanted to continue to make her proud. There were so many times when Mom made her pain secondary to remain strong for me. There were so many times when Mom flashed a big smile and told me to see the glass half full even when it wasn’t. There were so many times that she pushed away fear so that I could see the light in life. Mom was a large part of this light. Her light now lives within me. And if anything, she has always taught me to let it shine.