My great concern is not whether you have failed, but whether you are content with your failure. – Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States
One beautiful summer’s day in New York City, I was wandering the streets of Harlem with my son, Will, who was only seven days old. I had him in a pouch with his little bare legs hanging free in front of me, kicking about happily. We were both enjoying being outdoors and away from the apartment.
Several local women had already stopped me to admire the new baby and were not backward in coming forward about my poor mothering skills… “You need to get some socks on that child!” was said to me half a dozen times during our walk, despite it being hot and humid in the shade.
Even though it was an unfamiliar neighbourhood, I felt no fear in these streets, as they were peopled by mothers and men who had mothers. Perhaps I was using my child as a little shield against potential foes.
As I walked along, I became aware of a presence creeping alongside me. I turned to find a woman, in her late 50s, unkempt and malodorous, trying to see the baby inside his pouch.
For the first time, my protective instincts as a mother came into play but rather than walking quickly away, I turned to the woman and smiled.
Many of her teeth were missing, her eyes were bloodshot and her face showed signs of a violent life. Her ragged, stained clothes hung from her thin frame. There was a haunted hunger in her eyes that connected me to her, in a way I’d never felt before.
I asked her if she would like to look at my son.
She looked into my eyes, frowned a little, but nodded her head eagerly. Opening up the pouch, I let her drink in his beauty for a minute or so, while I watched her tired eyes soften and gleam with tears. When she tried to touch him, I steered her hands away from his face and directed them to his perfect feet, which were bare without the socks he was supposed to be wearing. She sighed, and marvelled in the touch and the size and the delicacy that is a newborn baby.
And then she took my hand in one of hers and with the other, she tucked a dirty, crumpled five dollar bill into the baby’s pouch.
I started to protest, horrified that she was giving me money, terribly embarrassed that I was a healthy, happy mother with enough money to provide for my child, when she might not be able to eat a meal that night.
But she stopped me with a strong grip, and the words she shared with me will stay with me forever.
“Please,” she said. “Please, do the right thing by your child. Give him everything I could not give my own children. Be the mama to him that I couldn’t be to mine. I made so many mistakes. Use this to be a good mama to your boy. I will pray for you both. God bless you.”
And then she was gone. Just like that.
There I was, left alone with my baby on that busy Harlem street, hearing nothing at all but the rush of blood in my ears, wondering what had just happened. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
I cried all the way home. I cried as I climbed the four flights of steps into our clean, dry and comfortable brownstone apartment. And I cried as I pinned that five dollar note to the wall. From that note, Abraham Lincoln looked right at me, right through me. I knew that although I would never be a perfect parent, I would do my best for the child sleeping in his crib just nearby.
For his sake, for my sake and for the sake of the mama I met in Harlem.
