Mom in Monaco

Today is my mother’s eightieth birthday. What’s more amazing than the sheer number of years she’s lived are the drastic events my mom’s lived through—World War II for instance. When she speaks of the black bread and food rationing during those years, I am astounded.

My mother’s an incredible woman. She was born of Portuguese parents in Georgetown, Guyana and grew up in that city. She knew tragedy early in life. At the age of nine, her two eldest brothers drowned on the same day. Her parents were poor immigrants and struggled to keep her in school, yet she graduated high school. She met my father at the tender age of eighteen, and they were married less than a year later.

That doesn’t sound significant, but my mother married a mixed-race man in 1955 (against her parent’s wishes). In those days, the population of the Caribbean, Guyana included, was strictly segregated—albeit voluntarily.

She went on to give birth to one girl (me) and three sons. Today she is chairwoman of a Caribbean conglomerate, and, at the age of eighty, still goes to work each and every single day. She has eight grandchildren (who she totally dotes on), three nieces, and one nephew.

When my father died 23 years ago, my mom was the glue that held the family together. In the Caribbean, it was unheard of for a ‘woman’ to take the reins of a large company, and many expected that the business my parents founded would fall into bankruptcy. No way. My mother refused to let that happen. She’s stubborn like bull and told the bankers holding our loans to go where the sun don’t shine.

You may have gathered that I’m proud of her. You bet.

Mom and I didn’t have much of a relationship until after my dad died (I was daddy’s little girl—totally). But, then my mother and I did a twenty-eight day road trip through Monaco, France, and Spain, and we bonded. I love you mom and wish you many, many more birthdays.

All my love always,

Jianne