Other Mothers

Looking through the gallery of the dojang I take a seat and fixed my eyes on my son. Justin bowed and stepped onto the mat. He had perfected his poomsae and was nervously excited to complete his belt test in hopes of being promoted from a yellow to orange belt after months of practice. Proud parents flowed into the room in anticipation of the event. A tide of chatter rose above a sea of phones that was primed to capture each child’s accomplishment. These parents, who shared in the excitement, but not the nervousness knew what the children didn’t; you’re not invited to test if the instructors feel you aren’t ready to advance. E.g., it was practically a foregone conclusion that every child here would pass their belt test.    

In perfect formation, as if it were a violent ballet, they demonstrated their kicks, blocks, and punches throughout the scored event, as their leaders guided them, and their master looked on. Color belts of all ages and levels moved through their drills adding enthusiastic keups at the end. Another mother walked in and sat in the empty seat beside me. We were both wearing green spaghetti strap summer dresses with sandals. Mine, linen, hers, gosling. Great minds, I mused to myself, silently approving of her fashion choice.  

As the event went on, various children who excelled were singled out from each drill to demonstrate a move in front of their peers and the audience. Justin was called to perform a slide round kick. From taking his position in his guard stance, his front foot shuffled quickly forward while his back came up and around in one smooth swift motion, connecting with the target. Thwack, the satisfying slap reverberated through the room. He has come a long way from the once timid boy with little sense of self who, in starting taekwondo at the tender age of seven, could barely connect his hands or feet to the targets, follow the moves, or lead with a sense of conviction in the routines he practiced. 

My mind wanders back to the practice five years ago when the instructor, ever the connective, supportive, and encouraging mentor asked at the end of class, “Who wants to tell me something good that happened today?” Justin proudly raised his hand and informed his class that that very day had been his official adoption day. Now, the onlookers clapped as he bowed and took his seat. As is so often the case in martial arts, the sense of pride is seen not merely in the advancement mimicking the highly structured moves, but in the confidence one builds from the inside out. 

After the next series of punches the instructor called “Elliott” to stand up to demonstrate.  I snapped my neck up to see who this Elliott was, as I always do upon hearing the name. It was a girl. My daughter, Elliott died thirteen years ago at the age of three from Tay-Sachs disease, an ultra-rare terminal genetic illness.  I allow my mind to drift for a split-second, conjuring false memories in real time and entertain the thought of who she would be today, at the age of sixteen. Would she be here testing for her next belt as well?  Would she be the taekwondo powerhouse her brother is becoming?  I gave both of my daughters traditionally male name as a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy of power and strength in life. It still stings when I think of the fact that Elliott never had the chance to grow up to be a girl who got to tell the world her name.

I had to know who this Elliott’s mother was so I could speak to her.  The need was visceral. I scanned the crowed and attempted to take note of who might have their camera zoomed in on her as she expertly executed her strong middle block. By this time, Green Dress had been standing against the wall to get a better shot of her own child for some time, and when I glanced at her phone screen it was zoomed in on Elliott.  Once Elliott sat back down, she took her seat next to me again, beaming with pride.  

“Is your daughter’s name Elliott?” I asked her.  

“Yes,” she beamed.

“That’s a really cool name for a girl,” I told her, choking out the words but leaving my connection to the name unspoken because she doesn’t need to bear this emotion with me in this moment.

“Thanks,” she said. I’m a teacher, and I wanted to give her a strong name that would stand out.

Great Minds

Sitting next to the other Elliott’s mother I’m undone. I breathe in slowly and blink away the tears pooling in my lower eyelids before they can spill over onto my cheeks, desperately trying to keep my composure at this upbeat, happy event. On the mat, the children are beginning their individual poomsae routines. As I watch, I wondered more than just who Elliott would be if she were here, but who I would be if I were an ‘other mother’. Would I still be Green Dress, too? Probably. Would I be here at taekwondo? Who knows? Would Justin even be part of our family? What other forks in the road, or life-altering events would have come our way? It’s impossible to know.

It’s easy to sit back and fantasize in a world where all is right, and everyone is happy.  It’s a fantasy, after all. That’s the point of it – to make your imagined world better than your current reality.  Would that truly be the case? We’ll never know. In this scenario, the road not traveled is a fork you can never return to. That road was closed when we reached it and has since been washed away in a storm. The river of our lives rose beyond its banks and changed course altering our journey forever. That road no longer exists, though it doesn’t stop me from wondering where it would have led us. 

Justin is called up again and begins to move through his routine. Respect is the cornerstone of taekwondo. He repeats his “yes sirs” with every step while the master calls them in order.  “Hana, dul, seht…” Completing the series, “joonbi” the master calls out. Justin returns to first position. “Kamsahamnida.” “Thank you, sir,” he replies, and bows. A flutter of relief washes across his face in a smile as he flicks his eyes my direction, then takes his seat. I shoot him a thumb’s up. A job well done. 

By the time the final demonstration begins the children are mix of adrenaline fueled and exhausted, but it’s finally the event they’ve all been waiting for. It’s time to break boards. Smaller children often struggle with where to position their heel, and to muster enough force to kick through the wooden plank. Ever nurturing, the instructors allow multiple attempts, reminding them where to aim and with which part of their foot to ensure success.

When in life we find it difficult to know which direction we are headed, or when the road we want to take is closed off to us, I envy the children here with their concrete set of instructions for what to do next. Their supportive guides helping them take the next right step. There are never multiple options that lead to breaking the board.  You must strike it exactly in the center and with enough force to push through it. Justin is called. Light on his toes he bounces back and forth on the balls of his feet in anticipation, shifting his weight from the front to back foot until he hears, “whenever you’re ready.” He turns and looks over his shoulder, pivots on his front foot, and brings the back around as he smashes the board in half. Crack the wood splinters and shouts to a round of applause. He bows to his instructor who hands him his two-piece trophy and he takes his seat for a final time. 

When we’re lucky, we know where to road will lead. For a yellow belt, it’s to orange. These crystal-clear paths are often the most elusive in life. If not for taekwondo, would Justin have begun to develop the strong sense of self he’s cultivated over these last five years? In another world, there’s an other Justin out there.  One who didn’t take up the sport at all. One who wasn’t adopted by us. One who may still be stuck in the dreaded foster care system. In another world there’s an other Elliott who’s a star volleyball player, an expert horse rider, the most talented artist, a beautiful singer. Are there as many options for other worlds as there are planes in time and space? Presumably, but I’ll never cross those planes.  I’m not the other mother. I am the one who lost her Elliott to Tay-Sachs disease. I am the one who mourns the could have beens alongside celebrating the current accomplishments. Today, as always, I am a mother of loss, but I’m also the mother of an orange belt. As I collect my son, and hug him tight, we leave Green Dress along with the other Elliott and walk out of the dojang to get some ice cream. 

-Becky A. Benson

Becky A. Benson's work has appeared in print, online, and various television and podcast outlets. Becky holds a degree in psychology, is an advocate member of the Access to Equitable Carrier Screening Coalition, Certified Peer Support Specialist through the Child Neurology Foundation, and works for the National Tay-Sachs and Allied Diseases Association as the organization’s Family Support and Engagement Manager. Find her at beckyabenson.com.