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Everyone has to deal with expectations. It’s a part of life. Parents, friends, teachers, relatives, all expect things from us. It’s how we handle those hopes and dreams of others that help make us who we are. At least that’s my mom’s opinion. She’s quite the positive and religious person, my mom. I wish she wasn’t. My life would be much easier if she suffered from depression, or just let life pass her, and us, by. But then again, I guess there’s a benefit from having my mom the way she is. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.
I believe that every parent has expectations of their children when they’re first born, probably even before they’re born. The dad dreams of a strapping young lad with a blazing fastball, while the mom dreams of a little girl she can dress up in those insanely cute outfits. Ahhhh.
That’s all fine and good for most of the masses, because once the baby arrives and the diapers and sleepless nights pile up, those expectations become muted a bit. Most parents still have high expectations for their kids, they’re just a bit more grounded in realism. I envy those children.
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“Mom, how did you decide on my name?”
She shakes her head while continuing to stir the pancake mix. She puts down the bowl and rubs her face, leaving a streak of flour across her cheek and sits me down at the table.
“The kids giving you a bad time again?”
No response. A whitened finger lifts my chin up, my eyes locking on her green compassionate ones.
“My answer is always the same, Sweetie. God told me your name, just like for Samuel and Timothy. I can’t question God’s will, and neither should you.”
“But, Mom, Great Ness? Couldn’t you have gone for two out of three?”
Laughing she gives me a hug, whitening my navy sweatshirt and returns to stirring the large metallic bowl.
“Everyone expects me to be great at everything, just because of my name. They think I’m spoiled, that you and Dad were nuts, that you lost a bet. What am I supposed to do about it?”
Over the sizzle of the batter hitting the grill she responds without hesitation,
“Who says you have to do anything? Just rise above it.”
Easier said than done.
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“Great, can you stay back for a minute…your grade has really slipped…is there something going on at home?”
“Great, your principal called again. He said you started another fight?”
“Yo, Ness, you sure you want to do this, man? I mean you have a car, why you stealing your dad’s baby? You gotta death wish.”
“Ness, you stole your mom’s jewelry? For blow? What’s happened to you?”
“Ness, you have a visitor…”
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I pause for a moment and peer through the small, thick window encased within the four-inch-thick door hoping for a small glance to prepare myself. I get it. There she is in a formless dun dress with her trademark long black hair, now streaked with grey.
The guard brusquely leads me through the door and into the first cubby. Up close I can see how the last four years have aged her considerably. Her face is haggard and wrinkled. Her eyes, which held so much compassion, are now sad and timid. I’m not prepared for that. My mom has never been timid.
I sit down. Neither of us reaches for the black phones with tangled cords. Strangely there is no awkwardness, just sadness and regret. When we finally speak it’s short, to the point, and changes me.
“Hey, Mom. I…”
She waves me off.
“Don’t talk, Great. Just listen. You were always good at that, just not at following through. Now you need to do both. I spoke with your lawyer. You’ll be out by Monday. But, you have to follow a number of conditions, most of which you can probably guess. But, there’s one you need to commit to more than any other…”
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I look out at another crowd of disinterested high school students who are simply happy to be out of class and not much more. Will I reach any of them? Unlikely, but there is always hope and that feeling is what spurs me on. Whenever there are moments of doubt I remember those few amazing successes.
I smile at my new life where the true purpose of my name finally comes through. I rise and begin to speak…
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