Thinly Veiled

She gazed at the delicate threads that had been intricately woven into the lace passed down through generations of women in her family. She studied the patterns and designs that had been a part of her family for years.

She pulled at a small thread and unknowingly undid a knot, which began to unravel. She didn’t know how to stop it, and she didn’t know how to repair it. Before she knew it, the thin veil her mother had given her was gone.

She stood alone in front of the mirror - looking, seeing herself without the weight of the lace -

And for the first time, she thought she caught a glimmer of who she really was.

_________

I was doing a crossword puzzle over the weekend when one of the clues asked for a type of orange:

N-A-V-E-L

That one word produced a rapid-fire montage of childhood scenes featuring my mother - and my grandmother - interrupting me mid-sentence to correct my pronunciation or point out that certain words were simply not to be used because they were... crass.

“Belly button” was not allowed. That was a N-A-V-E-L.

“Tush” was questionable. “Butt” was absolutely not happening. The approved term was bottom.

My brother might tell a fib. He would never lie.

And “lady”? A female person was a woman. Because while we could clearly see she was a woman, we had absolutely no idea whether she was a lady.

All of this ran through my head in the five seconds it took to fill in the answer.

But then I had to stop, because apparently I was having a feeling. And as someone still learning to identify those in real time, this felt noteworthy. It wasn’t anxious or sad - it was a little melancholy - I think I was feeling homesick.

In my home, language was tightly regulated. Pronunciation mattered. Grammar mattered. Words mattered. I suspect this matters in most households, but in ours, correctness alone wasn’t quite enough. It also needed to be precise in a very particular way.

My mother grew up in middle Georgia, with the kind of accent that never quite announced itself. Not Southern in the obvious sense - her voice landed softly, but not demurely.

I, on the other hand, grew up in New Orleans, which has its own very specific brand of enunciation - and my mother was diligent in her pursuit to make sure I did not absorb too much of it. Having a conversation with her could feel like opening a letter from your parents, only to find the note you had just sent them last week was all marked up in red ink.

And yet... this memory makes me feel oddly warm. I loved that part of her. Or maybe because it drove me crazy, I love it. It was one of her quirks.

That’s the thing about quirks. We tend to think of quirky people as eccentric - someone delightfully odd in vintage spectacles with an alarmingly number of birds. But we’re all quirky. The odd little rules. The things we insist upon. The beliefs we carry with surprising conviction. They all come from somewhere.

And I think, for my mother, much of it came from wanting to be seen in a particular light. She valued impeccable manners. Presentation. A certain social polish. Maybe even proximity to a world that felt elevated.

And she wanted that for me. It showed in the choices she made for me. And in some of our fiercest disagreements. I fell in line as best I could. I borrowed opinions I hadn’t fully examined. I repeated what I heard at the dinner table in conversations with friends. I tried very hard to be the daughter she wanted me to be.

And then, in my late twenties, she died. And I took up the mantle. I wore it willingly. I loved when people told me I was just like my mother. My wedding was exactly how she would have wanted it - engraved invitations, held at her childhood home, wedding gifts displayed in the front living room. I honestly don’t know whether that was what I wanted or simply all I knew.

Then I had children. And, naturally, I began passing along the same values I had absorbed. Raising them the only way I knew. Until something began to shift.

Slowly. Quietly. But unmistakably.

I began to evolve. I began to feel uncomfortable. I began to change things up.

Enter Eva.

 

 

Eva is the sister who gives you the permission you didn’t realize you needed. Permission to do things your way. Permission to even figure out what your way is. She helped me understand that my values aren’t wrong because they aren’t my mother’s. They’re just different.

I will always carry a little of my mother’s lace.

But instead of being draped in it, I carry a bit of it in my pocket.

Eva never asked me to abandon my inheritance or turn away from my roots. She simply asked whether it fit. Maybe try something different on. Maybe take a little off. See how it feels.

Because becoming myself doesn’t happen all at once. It happens one small, slightly uncomfortable choice at a time.