in the village. She’d tell me these
things and I’d be like, Lady, clearly
you do not know what kind of
stories to be telling a ten-year-old.
My mom told me these things
so that I’d never take for granted
how we got to where we were, but
none of it ever came from a place of
self-pity. “Learn from your past and
be better because of your past,” she
would say, “but don’t cry about your
past. Life is full of pain. Let the pain
sharpen you, but don’t hold on to it.
Don’t be bitter.” And she never was.
The deprivations of her youth, the
betrayals of her parents, she never
complained about any of it.