Forty years later it is still hard to say no. I think its a matter of conditioning. Not the gym conditioning or even that hard core boot camp kind of brainwashing that has you saying yes sir, no sir. This is a known but often overlooked flavor of conditioning. No matter how much I want to snap, if my mother tells me to do something it remains near impossible to deny her will.
This isn’t about being a mama’s boy or having zero backbone. No, this is the strange mystical power of the black mama. The strength is legendary, chronicled in novel and film. As she cranks her neck from side to side, each shift of flesh and vertebrae casts out waves of attitude and dominance. The set of the jaw and lips puckered in near disgust reflect the horror that is to follow a no. Saying no isn’t just a momentary flash of pleasure and righteousness. It is an invitation to years of guilt, needling, and derision. Yes isn’t just only easier but expected.
I can’t remember one athlete story where it was about Dad. All of them–all the african american males who came from nothing talk about making it right for mom and they still follow her marching orders. That sort of power cannot be ignored.
I’m sure mothers of other races have a power. Jon Stewart speaks often about the raw sine wave guilt his mom and those of her ilk can generate. Black moms have something else; something undefinable that sets them apart and creates a lasting spell of guilt and control that can impact the world around them.
The trick for me is to figure out how to break the spell.