She Was Born a Girl

She Was Born a Girl

by Joann C. Massmann

Let’s get something straight from the beginning . . . In today’s world, “I Was Born a Girl” is a title that might conjure up some gender-confusion issues, but that’s not the case. My mother is now 97 years old and sadly lives with dementia. Before her mind completely disintegrates, I want to share her story of growing up in rural Illinois during a time when girls were not valued, except for those jobs that sustained the boys and the men in the family and the farm.

My mother was the third child born in 1924 to a hardworking farmer and his wife in southern Illinois. Altogether there were four children, three boys and one girl. From the beginning, the boys were doted on and valued for their contributions to the farm and its upkeep. My mother learned early on that she had a job to do, as well, and if it wasn’t completed satisfactorily, there was a stern look coming from her strict German mother.

When my uncle, the youngest son, was just a small boy, my grandmother accidentally stepped on a rusty nail and got blood poisoning. My mother was petrified, as was her father, that they would lose the matriarch of the family. She was deathly ill and could not perform her usual duties, much less take care of a toddler. My mother had to step in and that’s just what she did. My grandmother was sick for a very long time, and my mother became a surrogate mother to her younger brother; plus, she cooked all the meals, cleaned the old farmhouse, and darned the constant holes in the worn-out socks and denim jeans of her father and her brothers. It was hard work for an adult, and it was even harder work for a young teenage girl.

Eventually, my grandmother recovered, however, with never a word of gratitude or appreciation for all that my mother had handled. Unusual? Not so much. After all, my mother was only doing what was expected of her as a girl. Everyone had to contribute to the success of the farm, and she paid her dues, as did her brothers.

I asked my mother recently if she ever remembered her mother or father telling her that they loved her. Even with dementia, her mind was clear enough to recall that those words were never spoken, nor were there ever any signs of affection. That just wasn’t done. Maybe that’s not how it was in every family on every farm at that place and time, but it was the world in which my mother lived and survived.

My mother loved school, and even to this day when the cobwebs have vanished momentarily in her mind, she remembers having a good memory and is surprised that is no longer the case. She remembers excelling in reading, writing, and arithmetic, and how it gave her such a feeling of accomplishment. She dreamed of going on to high school and college and becoming a teacher. She asks me today, “I would have made a good teacher, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Mom, you would have made a great teacher. Look how well you taught both of your kids.”

Mom had to walk for miles and miles back and forth down an old dirt road to get to school, and whether it was raining or the blistering sun beat down on her, she went happily along, unlike her brothers. The only time she remembered her father picking her up in a horse-drawn wagon was when it snowed, and it was too hard to walk home. She made that trip every day, though, because she loved learning and the hope of continuing her education, but that didn’t happen. When she completed eighth grade, she was expected to stay at home and help her mother in the house. Her parents didn’t have the time or money to send her all the way to high school, much less college. Her dreams were dashed, and even at 97, she still talks about that great disappointment in her life. It breaks my heart when she reminisces and recalls she never had the opportunity to live out her dream.

My mother learned at an early age that she had to escape, that there had to be a better life. She often visited her grandparents’ home where there was love and affection, especially from her beloved grandmother. There, as a young child, she could sit upon the lap of her Grandma Sophie and receive much love and attention. Her grandfather, rather stern himself, would tell my mother to get off her grandmother’s lap. “It’s hurting her legs,” he would say.

Grandma Sophie, however, would simply say, “Oh, it’s all right. Just leave her alone. She’s not hurting me.” My mother adored her grandmother and speaks sweetly of her to this day.

Ever so patient, my mother waited for the opportunity to leave the farm, and it finally came in the form of a job as a nanny to one very rich little boy. Maurice was his name, and he lived in a big, beautiful home with servants, and my mother became his nanny. She was just a teenage girl, but she loved that little boy, and his wealthy parents were kind and patient with my mother. They were good to her. And, in turn, my mother observed and absorbed all that she could, and to this day, there are many things she has done and has taught me, all from her experiences working for that wonderful family. When my brother was born, she seriously wanted to name him Maurice, but my father stepped in, and to this day, my brother is ever grateful.

As the years rolled on, my mother decided it was time to leave the farm altogether and explore the world. She had had enough, and with the help of a girlfriend, she ventured to the big city of St. Louis during World War II and found employment at a factory. There, she eventually met my father, and the rest, so they say, is history.

How our past shapes us, though! My mother never had the chance to further her education, but her two children have. I became the teacher she always dreamed of becoming. In the years of getting to know my mother as an adult and my best friend, I considered her to be a strong person who overcame many obstacles, but, yet, her insecurities were ever-present. She felt “less” somehow because she hadn’t gone beyond eighth grade, and although in a joking fashion, my father often reminded her of her rural background, and that weighed heavy on her heart.

It wasn’t until I became married myself, that my mother shared with me that of all the love and attention she poured on her own children, and of all the special moments and sweet treats she created for her children whom she adored, that her own mother never baked her a birthday cake. Her birthday was never recognized as a special day. I’ll never forget the very moment she shared that information with me. The look on her face was astonishing; as if she never thought about it until that very moment, and it hit her like a ton of bricks. I was speechless and then determined that from that year forward, I would always have some special dessert for her on her birthday. She’ll be 98 in December, and you can bet that she’ll have a grand birthday cake!

My mother, as I’ve said, is my best friend. She is my inspiration and, to this day, even with the combination of dementia and old age, she remains my greatest advocate. If I’m having a bad day, or there’s an illness or some injustice happening within the life of either my brother or myself, she instantly adapts a presence of mind that includes sincerest empathy and a prayer to God for help and peace and healing. She’s one amazing lady, and I’m proud and blessed to call her my mother.