When we first said, “Hello,” she wrapped her arms around me, holding me tight. Hers was the first embrace I ever knew, protecting me from threats I could not yet know or name.
She was my Mom.
Guendolynia Primatine Davis, nee Massenberg was born on December 7, 1954, in Brooklyn, New York. Raised by a single mother, with a father that was the very definition of, “absentee,” she was related to an unknowable number of half-siblings.
She once met one, on the bus, on the way to visit her father. The young man was on the way to visit his own father. It wasn’t until they got off the bus at the same stop, to go to the same bar, that they realized they were visiting the same man.
She described herself as a bit of a juvenile delinquent. She smoked, she drank, and she often got into fights. She was such a practiced hand at it, that she would later explain to me that having a bulging ring in a fight hurts the puncher as much as the punched. A smart street fighter turns those bulging rings inward.
She grew up in a rough area. She and her mother were often able to watch street brawls between gang members from the window of their apartment. On one occasion, she told us, she saw someone get his eye stomped out. She later heard that his assailants were courteous enough to dump him off at the ER.
Another vivid account was of someone attempting to break in. Her mother, being somewhat crazy, woke her up, excited.
“Someone’s breaking in!” she said, clearly worked up. As Mom watched, an arm reached into the window, terrifying her. Was her mother scared? Nope. Did she call the police? Nope. She grabbed him, trying to pull him in, and shouting something to the effect of, “I got something for your ass!”
The would-be burglar managed to escape, and ran for his life.
Though, thankfully, she was miles beyond anything her own mother could have achieved, we would see many reflections of the fighting spirit she inherited. It was in the black eye she once handed to a friend of hers during a heated argument. It was there when a neighbor woman, in the midst of a psychotic break, burst into our house. Mom chased her out, eventually tossing her around like a poker chip. She would instill this fighting spirit in us, teaching us to draw a line that no one may cross.
As I mentioned, her mother had some issues, which were reflected in her parenting. Despite this, and as a teenager, Mom helped her study to become a nurse. Since Mom was volunteering as a candy striper, she was familiar with some of the things her mother had to learn to pass the tests.
Eventually, Mom’s home life being terrible, she struck out on her own while still legally a minor. She rented a room she often described as her, “two by four,” subsisting on the small check she got working at a cafeteria. Small as it was, she was proud to be living on her own for the first time.
She later took a job at a bank, where she met, and fell in love with my dad. On recounting the events, she would later tell us that she recognized, in him, qualities that she would want in her kids. That being the case, she did tell him that having kids was her priority, he was welcome to stay or go.
He chose to stay.
After I was born, he went into the Marines. When it came time to choose a station, he asked where she wanted to go. She said, “As far from here as possible.”
Taking her literally, they moved from Brooklyn, New York, to Twentynine Palms, California, where my sister was born. That’s where my memories begin in earnest. There are flashes of Brooklyn, but my childhood really began in the desert, on base.
She gave me a childhood I had no right to have. Without an example of how to raise a child, with no road map on how to treat one, she somehow made normal for me the kind of love she didn’t experience herself growing up. She got right what so many parents get wrong, even when they themselves have good upbringings. Upbringings so far from her experience.
All of the worst things anyone could imagine happening to a child, happened to her. Those that should have been her protectors failed her in every way. Not just failures of parenting, or even of protection. It was apathy that was worst of all. It was apathy that led to the rest of the failures.
They even failed at the easy things. Mistakes can be forgiven when errors are made. It’s not always obvious when, or for whom, to take a stand. But when it is clear, such a stand is not just necessary, it should be easy. But they failed her.
She had every right to fail me. She had every right to fail my sister. But, without directions, a compass, or anyone to guide her, she raised us in a way that would be easy to take for granted. Children with similar upbringings often do. But we knew the challenges she faced. We could never take her for granted.
I would never discount the love another child could have for his or her mother, but the love we had for ours, I believe, came from a different place. One that understood how hard it could have been for her to love us. But it wasn’t hard for her at all. It was easy. She loved us that much.
To this day, I don’t know how she did it. I’m not even sure I understand why she did it. Had I grown up as she did, it would have been easy for me to withdraw from the world and hate everybody. Instead, she expanded her own world. Willingly saddling herself, for the rest of her life, with the responsibility of making our lives something she had never experienced.
She always said, “Each generation is supposed to be better than the last.” It wasn’t just lip service. She made sure to make it happen, and would tolerate nothing less. She supported us, encouraged us, protected us, and taught us, all with the intent of helping us not just succeed, but to excel. To thrive. And when we failed, she’d pick us up, dust us off, tell us what we got wrong, and send us back in there to get it right. And we grew.
Through high school, college classes, this or that crush, and myriad jobs, we grew. The support and the lessons continued on into adulthood. She would never stop being Mom.
Then, when I was in the academy, she had contacts on the Department that set her up as a VIP guest for my graduation. She didn’t tell me she had done that, so when she snuck into the inspection party, it was a complete surprise to me. I’m standing there, gun at slide lock, eyes forward, with no clue what I was in for.
And then, Mom was there.
I can’t even think of that moment without tearing up. There she was, surrounded by chiefs and officials, beaming up at me. I’d never seen her so proud. She’d known that moment was coming since a long time before I did. Not just the inspection party, she knew I’d be a cop even when I was telling everybody that would never happen. And she was proud. She was just as proud when I made detective.
It was too soon after that, that we got the diagnosis.
We hoped, and we prayed. My sister took her to every appointment. But we knew our time was limited. Deep down, growing up, I think we’d always known.
There’s nothing easy about so challenging a time. She told us that, for her, the worst part was not her pain, but ours. I told her that our pain was the consequence of the privilege we had of loving her so much. We hurt, because she was so wonderful. Not everyone gets to experience such meaningful pain.
I didn’t tell her this, as I couldn’t articulate it at the time, but I would later thank God for the pain. I’m scorched earth when someone goes too far. Even while living, a person can be dead to me. It’s probably a character flaw, on my part, that some deaths could leave me with a sense of relief. The truth is, I would not hurt had I not loved her so.
And she was so wonderful in spite of her upbringing. She was so wonderful through her own drive, and her own faith in God. She’d often told us that she’d promised Him, that if He helped her raise good kids, she would someday give them back to Him. At the end, she felt her work was done.
She made sure that we understood that. The last words I remember her saying to us were, “You were always good kids.”
On January 9, 2018, the strongest woman in the world died.
And when we last said, “Goodbye,” I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight. Mine was the last embrace she ever knew, protecting her from threats I could not yet know or name.
She was my Mom.