Bits and Pieces: My Mother, My Brother, and Me

by Whoopi Goldberg

Probably none of us had the childhoods we think we had. We only have our individual memories of what we believe happened.

I have no one left to ask. It’s this thing we all have to face, the death of those who knew you the best, the people in your life story. I am very lonely for my family. I get lonely for the two of them.

I can sense that my memories of my mom, which used to fire strong like a torch, have now become more of a flicker in the thirteen years since she passed away. I know the same will happen with Clyde, so I want to put them down in words before they fade further.

I never doubted that she loved me for exactly who I was. My mom made me believe I could do anything I wanted.

Not everybody gets to walk this earth with folks who let you be exactly who you are and who give you the confidence to become exactly who you want to be.

Somehow, my mom made my brother and me feel like we lived at the entrance gate of a big, interesting world in which we could do anything we wanted to do.

From as early on as I remember, my mother would say to me, “Listen. The confines of this neighborhood do not represent the confines of your life. You can go and do and be whatever you want. But, whatever you choose, be yourself.”

There wasn’t much room for complaining when I was growing up. My mother would say, “If you’re going to feel bad today, then make it big. Lie on the couch and throw your wrist across your forehead and sigh loudly, so we all know what’s going on for you. That way we can step back and say, ‘Okay. That’s what she’s doing now. Go ahead. Get it over with. I’ll wait.’”

“You’ve got two choices. You can waste a lot of time complaining, or you can get up and figure out how to fix it.”

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with going with the pack,” she would tell me. “But if you insist on being an individual, it could possibly be a lot harder for you. Not everybody’s going to get who you are. They’re not all going to even want it around. And some folks won’t want you to do what you want to do. But, if you’re okay with that, then you’ll be fine. That’s all that matters.”

When I lie in real life, and we all do sometimes, I at least make it amusing enough to be forgiven. To all you parents who think giving your kid a beating was a terrible thing, and YOU would never do such a thing, live well in your perfection. In my day that’s what most parents did—if you got out of line, you were inviting a rod or a belt or a hand to visit your behind.

“Do I make you uncomfortable because, you know, this is what I do for a living?” “Why would you make me feel uncomfortable?” my mom asked in return, the way she always did, answering a question with another question. My friend said, “Well, I didn’t want to stay if it bothers you.” She said, “No. I’m fine with what you do, unless you start shooting ping-pong balls at me from your vaginal area. That could make me a little uncomfortable. Other than that, I think we’re fine.”

Her attitude was if you believe in God, then you have to believe that God is really smart and made us smart enough to know how to maneuver through this life.