September 2020
When was I ‘me’?
By
Debra Waker
I look in the mirror but it is not me that I see. It is my mother. It is her square face, her strong blunt hair, her rounded figure. I am my daughter. She has my trim, young body, my bright sharp eyes, my long wavy hair. I look back at my reflection and wonder when did I become my mother and my daughter become me?
In fact, I wonder, when was I ‘me’? Was I ‘me’ when I was a child, growing up, taking my first steps and learning about the world? Or was it my first day at school? In my uniform, lining up with other children and being marched into a classroom; sitting still, at a desk all day, as I learned how to read and write. Or was it outside, in the playground as I made friends and played at skipping rope with other girls.
Perhaps it was when I learned to ride a bike. I remember the feeling of triumph, a sense of achievement as the adults around me applauded. Then as I rode alone, along the sidewalk to my friend’s house, the thrill of independence as the world opened up before me.
Or maybe I was ‘me’ when I was a teenager. When I went to my first school dance, wore nylons and a long dress. But then came the era of miniskirts and bare legs. With the confidence of adolescence, I embraced fashion and makeup along with false eyelashes, knowing that this, along with flower power and the Beatles, was the real world.
The shock of the real world was experienced as I panicked over final exams and the daunting prospect of going out and earning a living. Maybe it was with my first job and paycheck, paying rent and buying groceries as I embarked on a working life that I was ‘me’.
Or perhaps it was when I was a young woman entering into the joy and commitment of marriage, having children and watching them grow up.
I look at myself now and wonder is ‘me’ the carefree young girl or the older woman. Is it the youth that wanted to travel round the world and accept any adventure going, as my daughter does, or is it the older woman, like my mother, content to sit at home.
They are all aspects of me. But deep down I have not changed. I am still the same person, the person that cries at sentimental stories, or hides her face when the music of a film gets a little scary. The same person that still enjoys the thrill of a new experience, or a challenge, though of the tamer variety. I still struggle to get up in the morning and go to bed at night. And my fear of dogs and horror movies has not ceased.
And yet little by little there have been changes. The greying of the hair and wrinkles on the face. I notice a slowing down, each year it takes a little longer to get back in shape. I no longer like swings, or circuses, or slapstick humour. And I enjoy a night at home curled up with a good book.
Yet I recognise the characteristics we three have in common. The way we walk, and smile, the habit of pacing the floor while on the telephone. We share the inability to hold a tune or dance in time to the music. As I inherited the joy of theatre and watching live performances, so has my daughter, along with the fear of animals as we hike along the trails in the bush. Perhaps we taught each other our likes and dislikes, our strengths and weaknesses.
We are all facets of the same person. And in a strange way this gives us an opportunity to see one’s life lived out in a different time and situation.
And, I wonder, what will I become when my daughter becomes ‘me’? Will I become my grandmother?
© Debra Waker