Our children, ourselves

When I discovered that my 16-year-old daughter was eight months pregnant, I came to face-to-face with my own shame and guilt. I recalled all of my warnings to her about boys and men, and I realized just why she hadn't told me she was pregnant: How many times had I warned her not to "let that happen"? Remembering my words made me relieve my own pain.

The father of my daughter's child left her just as her father had left me. I knew how afraid she was, how alone she felt. I sat down and cried for both of us. And I realized how little I had actually helped my children understand what I had learned over the last ten years of my life. I had never resolved my confusion about my relationships with both my father and my children's father.

When my father would say he was coming, my mother would scrub me, fix my hair and put on my nicest clothes. He rarely showed up, and I would cry myself to sleep. When he'd call again, we'd repeat the ritual. My mother never asked him why he disappointed me, and I never asked her why she didn't ask.

I was on my best behavior when my father finally did show up. I was eager to please him. I said very little. I ate very little, and I never asked him for anything. I believed that if I acted nice and caused no problems, he would want me and love me. I've come to realize bow I repeated this pattern in my relationships with men.

When I was 16 years old, I slept with the first boy who said he liked me, told me I was pretty and paid attention to me. I gave birth to his son when I was 17. My son's father, who was 19, was unable to provide emotional or financial support for us. I was an angry, shame-filled, confused teenage mother.

I spent the next 14 years of my life in relationships with men who were not there for me. I expected very little from my partners, and that's what I got. I made it easy for them to leave by expecting them to do it. I didn't realize that my children, particularly my daughters, were watching me. My youngest daughter tried hard to please other people as I once had. She missed her father as much as I had once missed mine. She needed to be nurtured by masculine energy.

I was 28 years old before I moved toward a more spiritually conscious, self-loving approach to life. First I had to accept myself as a beautiful African woman, which can be hard in a society that does not recognize our beauty. I began searching our culture for the meaning of womanhood, love, relationships and self.

I had to admit ugly things about myself. Sometimes I would look in the mirror and cry. Sometimes I would laugh. But I never lied. Once I accepted the good and the bad, I found the strength to move forward. I read books about the power of thought. I joined groups of other people who were on the same path. I stopped putting myself down and stopped letting others do it.

Those honest talks with myself helped me to recognize the patterns I had created in my life. Unfortunately, I never discussed these ugly and painful truths with my children. So I preached. I warned. I threatened. And my youngest daughter still got pregnant.

We can't hide from our children; they know us better than we know ourselves. My children saw through me to my fears. They detected my contradictions. They knew all of my secrets. Our children are aware of who we are, and they bring forth our patterns of living and thinking. They are our mirrors.

My daughter gave birth to a 6-pound 10-ounce baby boy. His existence was denied for the first and most important months of his life. I know he felt that. His mother lived in fear. I am sure he knows that. His father is gone. He will come to know that.

My grandmother always said, "Trouble is what God uses to prepare you for better things." My family is prepared to love this new baby into balance. I pray for him each morning. My daughter sings and talks to him. She is learning to love herself and her son unconditionally. I am learning to accept my daughter as the part of me I had tucked away. Together, we are searching in the mirror of self and accepting all the wonderful new things we discover. We will break the patterns.

My grandson's name is Oluwa Lo Mo Ju, Yoruba for "God who knows best." He really does.

Iyanla Vanzant is the author of Tapping the Power Within (Harlem River Press).

COPYRIGHT 1992 Essence Communications, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group