She Lives Inside of Me

Daughters are a culmination of all the women before them. All of the good, and the bad, smushed together to form a new woman capable of amazing things, learning from the lessons of their mother and the mothers before them.

I have so much of my mom in me. Growing up, people who knew us said I was her mini-me, her shadow. As I have grown, I see it increasingly, but in the weirdest ways.

In the way I sign my emails– I remember her always putting “with a smile,” at the end of all her emails, no matter who to. As an adult, I put smiley faces in all my emails, no matter if it is for business or just casual.

In my living habits– anytime I hear someone not turn a doorknob when they close the door it makes me jump a little. I use the same chip clips she has always used; the same bottle brush for my dishes, instead of a normal sponge.

My speech even carries so much of her presence– I never picked up on the Florida panhandle southern accent, but I still have words that I say which always leave people surprised, even though I always thought it was normal. A buggy at the grocery store, a sweeper to vacuum my house, supper instead of dinner. The way I say pecan and crayon.

Lately, I have been thinking about my great-grandma a lot– although I got the pleasure of having her in my life until my early teenage years, I find myself sad sometimes that she will never get to know me as an adult.

Then I remember that so much of her lives inside of me.

My great grandma, whom my siblings and I called Sugar, was like the ultimate badass– my mom would always have to tell her to stop cursing around us when we were young but she did not give a shit (lol). We would go over to her house and find her climbing on a chair to reach her pan on the top shelf at 95 years old.

I admire her so much and the life she built for herself– all 99 years of it. I find myself thinking of her and the garden that she kept and spent all her time in right up until her passing, while I’m working on my little garden on my apartment balcony. I remember being in her kitchen helping her cut collards and peel potatoes that she had harvested from her garden. I can’t wait to have a garden like hers one day.

Just a little while ago, I wrote a piece for this same blog about Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar,” with a focus on her fig tree analogy. I sent this piece to my mom after it was published and she said it made her think of the fig tree that my great-grandma had in the front yard of her home in Pensacola. I then told her, this was one of the reasons that I felt so connected to Plath’s piece in the first place.

I have recently picked up crocheting, for the first time since I was a little girl. The other day, I was working on my first blanket and looked over at the colorful crocheted blanket that my great-grandmother had made for our family, which I took with me to college. I wonder if my things will be passed through generations like hers.

My mom always tells me that many of her traits skipped the generations right down to me. So many things that Sugar tried to teach my mom never stuck– but as I have grown, time has shown that I have a natural talent for those same activities.

So anytime I miss her, I remember whether it was intentional or not, she shaped me. So much of her lives inside of me.

Strike out,

Writer: Reanna Haase

Edited by: Delaney Gunnell and Olivia Wagner

Orlando

Reanna Haase is the Blog Director for Strike Magazine Orlando. When she is not writing for Strike, you can probably find her out in nature or journaling. She is the mom to her cat, Stevie (like Nicks) and her leopard gecko, Harry (like Potter). Follow her writing journey @byreannahaase on Instagram or reach her at reannahaase@gmail.com

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