Hands

I have my mother's hands. Well, no, that's not exactly correct. I have hands that are shaped like my mother's, when, of course, my hands are looking thin. As a child, I always loved this. Well, for a while anyway. Before I knew it was better to keep certain things to myself, even the good things, I went to my mom and remarked about how great it was that our hands were the same.  She laughed. She begged to differ, far more than just a little bit.

She told me our hands were nothing alike. She pointed out how her hands were rough and knobby. She noted the scars and off colored places, areas where her hands had been burned by oil or by pops of electricity from whatever factory job she was working at the time. She noted her many calloused areas and the deep dips between her fingers, like valleys, worn down from years of work.  I did not work, she reminded me, with a voice full of both pride and bitterness. My hands were soft, pampered, and unmarked.

Then my mother told me she hated my hands.

Which, okay, as an adult, I'm fully aware that she wasn't really talking about ME so much as being resentful and angry about her life. She resented the level of work she had to do, that no other adult seemed to be willing to stay around to help her. She resented that she had to start working this hard as a child and that the beauty she once had faded in the face of constant struggle. This was about her pain and her inability to properly express it.

However, while I can rationalize and understand why she said this, my mother still told me she hated my hands.

She hated my softness. She hated my laziness. She hated what she saw as vanity in terms of handling myself. Because while I was fat and lazy, I was also vain and too full of my own appearance. She would snap at me when I asked for a cuter outfit. This is all I can afford and you're fat anyway so it's even more expensive. When I got old enough to wear makeup, she mocked that. She rolled her eyes at it. She, a painter, could not understand the artistry of what I was trying to learn to do. It was just vanity and softness.

I'm in my 40s and for the most part, my hands are still soft. I never took her route of work. I never allowed myself to be run down the way she would allow. I lotion my hands and exfoliate them. My left hand is tattooed with a flower and even though I had this done years ago, I still love it and look at it with happiness.

I can read palms. One of the most uplifting moments in my life was when I realized the palm that reflects how I feel about myself was full of love. My mother never saw the worth of my hands, but I do. I know my hands are creative. I know my hands can spin string into toys and blankets. I know my hands can create illusions, emphasize my stories, make people laugh, and give comfort.

I sometimes wonder what my mother's palm would have said, though I'm sure I know. Short life, full of bitterness. It's sad, but as much as some of that was due to the decisions of others, much of it was her own doing.

So yes, my mother hated my hands. She hated that they were her hands, but ones set to other tasks and other futures. Ones linked to other choices and other company. She never saw their value, because it wasn't a value she respected. She didn't value their ability to link me to knowledge, to help with research, to entertain. She never acknowledged how they helped me through my own struggles. She never saw them covered in blood. She never saw them counting out change to see if I could afford food, she never saw them stained with ink. That isn't my loss, it's her loss. She never SAW her child. She never SAW the person she gave birth to, the person who made her a mother.

She never saw ME for me, being unapologetically me. She just saw that I represented things she never could and hated me for it because you cannot hate someone's hands without hating all of them.

When I was 9 and my mother was 28, she had to have surgery on her hands because she'd worn them down so badly she had nerve damage. From that time on, her weathered hands not only held all their other markings, but also those scars and some lingering pain because surgeries like that often don't go as well as hoped. I loved those scars. Because this is the irony of the whole matter. The flaws on my mother's flesh were beautiful to me. I loved her scars and her burn marks. I loved her wonky knuckles and brittle touch.

In fact, I remember her touch like I'm feeling it now. I remember the warmth of her and the rough texture of her skin. I loved her hands. I loved her. Despite her shit towards me, I loved her, because she was who she was. Even if I live to be 100, I will still remember the feel of my mother's hands and of course I will remember what they look like because of course they look like mine.

All of that is why I so very much love my own hands.