Mama: Part II
Mama in all her 1970s glory
A few weeks ago, I began to share the story of a phenomenal woman whom I consider my hero and my role model: my late mother Wagaye. I find her story fascinating not just because of my proximity to it, but because she was, amongst many other things, the dictionary definition of the American dream. Over the next two posts, I’ll be sharing pieces of her story. I hope it inspires you as it does me.
Fifty-six years before my mother found herself terminally ill in the middle of Nowhere, Kentucky, she was born into a loving household of seven children. She was the second of my grandmother’s five daughters. My mom –affectionately called Wagi– was born in Ethiopia during the reign of Haile Selassie to a sharp businessman and a beautiful homemaker. Her mother was known in her community for her gentle, kind disposition and her thick, long, jetblack hair which she often wore pressed and in a 1950’s up-do.
My late grandfather –though I never knew him– was a quintessential gentleman and a brilliant businessman by all accounts. His business skills could only be beaten by his parenting. Wagi and her sisters would share stories of their father taking them on weekend trips outside of Addis and buying them all their beautiful, high-quality clothing during his international business trips to Europe and the Middle East. From my view of it, my grandfather spoiled his children with love and showered them with gifts. My mother once shared a story that always stood out to me. She was around 7-years old and got into some mischief. After her father heavily scolded her, she stubbornly refused to eat for 2-days. TWO DAYS, Y’ALL. At seven years old. Can you imagine the stubbornness and the stamina of that little girl to go on a two-day fast? After my grandfather saw that his little girl wasn’t eating, he became worried and pacified her with baked goods from the local bakery. Let’s just say that a hunger strike would not have worked for 99% of us growing up. If you’re in the 1%, we envy you.
When he wasn’t busy being a great father, my grandfather was making smart, well-calculated business decisions: he owned and operated a successful quarry, acres and acres of farmland, was constructing several residential homes, and was involved in lots of interesting, cutting-edge projects. What made his success so remarkable was that he emigrated to Addis Ababa from the countryside with nothing to his name.
In 1974, the Derg overthrew then 83-year old Haile Selassie, bringing the Solomonic Dynasty which had ruled Ethiopia since the 13th century to an official end. The new, military-led government brought with it a belief that communism could fix all that ailed Ethiopia (such as the feudal system) at the time. Like so many other working families, it became increasingly evident that my grandfather’s decades of toil and hard earned success would be for naught.
One day, shortly after the Derg’s seizure of land and properties began, my grandfather picked his children up from school as was customary for him to do, and brought them home during his lunch break. That afternoon, he suffered a massive heart attack and passed away at the age of 54. Wagi was 17 years old.
Since my grandmother did not have a formal education –something she regretted all her life as she was naturally bright and curious– my mom and her older sister (17-and-18-years-old respectively) took the reins and became the breadwinners for the family. My grandmother made sure her five beautiful daughters walked a fine, narrow line: there was no space for errors, and no space to give anyone a reason to ever say, “well, there’s no man in that house to keep those girls in line.” Moreover, in the larger political shift in the country, my grandmother could not emotionally bear to lose any more of her immediate family in such a short period of time. So, through the fire of life during this era that consisted of property loss, financial loss, loss of political freedom and stability, and overall emotional distress, my mother and her sisters developed the tightest, most enviable lifelong bond one could imagine. In addition to their immediate circle of sisterhood, they also cultivated a very close-knit circle of girlfriends. When one of the sisters made a close friend, that friend was brought into the larger sisterhood. That group, by the way, is still going strong and those are the aunties (and some of the “cousins”) I have in my life to this day.
Anyway, Wagi was intelligent and while supporting her family through this time of crisis, she continued her studies at the Commercial Secretarial School in Addis Ababa where she graduated at the top of her class despite all that was happening in her life at the time. Shortly thereafter, she landed a job as a secretary at an Italian oil company in Addis Ababa and she bought a little yellow Peugeot and became the first driver in the house. When she wasn’t busy working, or riding around with the wind in her feathered, 1970’s Farrah Fawcett hair, my mother was spending time with her sisters. She was braiding their hair for school, coordinating drop-off and pick-up with her older sister, and generally being a force of nature at such a relatively young age.
Seven years after her father had passed away, my mama met and fell in love with my dad. Shortly after their engagement, my father moved abroad to further his education and they agreed to meet up in the United States after he finished his education. A year or so later, Wagi decided to head to the United States and temporarily stay with her close friend who was living in Queens, New York at the time. Little did she know that her decision to move to New York City would be one of the most pivotal and reverberating decisions of her professional life.
Next week, I’ll share how she went from immigrant to American dream.