Twenty-five years ago this week I met the woman I knew only as Big Mama. I didn’t know her very well, and she has been gone now for more than a decade. She is someone, though, I still think of often.
Big Mama was the matriarch of my extremely large, extended in-law family. I met her the winter after my husband, Timo, and I were married when her son Ed died unexpectedly. Before we made the trip to Ohio for the funeral, my husband gave me a few pointers on meeting Big Mama. The condensed version went something like this:
“Big Mama won’t like you. You’re white and gay, so that’s two strikes against you. Two big strikes Big Mama will never be OK with. You can’t change that so don’t even try, you’ll only make her mad. And nobody wants to make Big Mama mad.” Timo told me Big Mama wouldn’t be mean or rude to me, “she’ll just keep feeding you and finding a place for you to sit. That’s her way of telling you to sit down and shut up until you leave.” Timo even prepared me for when it came time for us to leave. “When we go,” he said, “Big Mama won’t tell you goodbye. She probably won’t say anything to you. She’ll walk you to the door and then lock it loudly behind you once you’re gone.”
Big Mama was a petite woman, but she was very well-endowed, and had an attitude to match. Honestly, she scared me just a bit. So, during the coldest week of the year, and under the worst circumstances, we set out to meet Big Mama. My only goal was to survive.
The afternoon of the day before the funeral, all the family gathered at Big Mama’s house. I was introduced to her, and right on cue, she handed me a plate of food and showed me a chair in the dining room. I got the message and did what was expected. I sat down and shut up.
The funeral was in the afternoon of the second day. That evening most of the family again gathered at Big Mama’s house. As Timo continued to reunite with cousins he hadn’t seen in years, I sat with the few I already knew. When it was time to eat, I looked for Timo, but with so many people in the house, I couldn’t locate him. I went into the kitchen to fix myself a plate. When I walked into the dining room, the only empty chair in the room was the one next to Big Mama. I saw it. I pretended I didn’t.
“Patrik. You don’t need to stand.”
There was no mistaking Big Mama’s voice when you heard it. For such a petite woman she sure had a big, commanding voice. So, when she told me to sit, I did the only thing I could. I said a quick “Act of Contrition”, which every Catholic boy knows to say before facing certain doom. Then I walked over and sat next to Big Mama.
We ate in silence for several minutes. Just as I thought perhaps, I may survive this meal unscathed, Big Mama decided to break the ice. “So where do you work?” I think I said, “Norwest Mortgage” while silently praying, “Please God, an earthquake, a hurricane, a flood, something.” It may have been the other way around, though, I can’t be certain.
Big Mama asked me a few more questions. I managed to stumble through some answers. Thankfully, after a few minutes though, she started doing more of the talking. She talked about where she was born, how many siblings she had, and other general information about her childhood. She told me she spent some time in Jamaica when she was young. She started to tell me some story about her time in Jamaica when one of Timo’s cousins decided I had suffered enough and came over to rescue me.
I was relieved. I passed the Big Mama test. While she probably didn’t like me much, I felt confident I would get through the rest of the weekend without being poisoned or anything. I smiled at Timo’s cousin to let her know I was indeed ready to be rescued.
“Big Mama, you let this nice man alone now. He doesn’t want to hear your snake and voodoo stories.”
I saw a look come across Big Mama’s face that took me by surprise. The look held a mixture of hurt, anger, embarrassment, and more. It was the look of someone who was being dismissed as if what they had to say wasn’t important. It was a look that let me know she had been dismissed for too long.
Big Mama looked at Timo’s cousin with that pained expression on her face. Then she looked at me. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. My brain froze.
The next thing I heard was a familiar voice. It was my own. “Actually, Big Mama, I would like to hear that story. Go ahead, I’m listening.”
Big Mama didn’t just tell stories. No, Big Mama told stories within stories that were wrapped inside stories and sandwiched in between stories. That night I heard the entire encyclopedia that constituted the snake and voodoo stories.
Big Mama grew tired, and Timo and I headed back to our hotel room. He asked if Big Mama and I had a good conversation. I told him we did.
The next morning, before we started the road trip from Akron back to Des Moines, IA we stopped at Big Mama’s house. A lot of the family was there again, so we stayed for a little while. When it was time for us to leave, Big Mama walked us to the door just as Timo said she would. When we reached the door, Big Mama turned toward me and said, “Thank you for coming Honey.” As she gave me a hug, she said, “You come back and see me again sometime. You are welcome at Big Mama’s house anytime.” She patted my husband on the back and said, “Drive carefully, Timo.” Then she gave me another hug, and we left.
I only saw Big Mama a few times after that weekend. We were separated by several states, so our interactions were a bit limited, at least in number anyway. When I would see her, I always started our conversation by asking, “How are you Big Mama?” After she answered I would follow that with “What does Big Mama want to talk about today?” Then I would sit, and I would listen to whatever story Big Mama had to tell.
Big Mama always had a story to tell. Sometimes the stories changed over time, sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes the stories made sense; sometimes I think the stories only made sense to Big Mama. I didn’t care. When I would sit with Big Mama, I wasn’t there to hear the stories. Big Mama had something to say. I was just there to listen
