Don't Let The Stain Set.

The last Mothers Day of my late mother's life was a good one, a rare thing for us. She wasn't in remission, but she was showing great progress. She'd been given 3 months after her initial diagnosis, but at that point she'd reached the one year mark. We gathered at a little cottage I'd helped her secure and ate a delicious meal with just myself, her sister, my then 4 year old, and my cousin. Four women, one child, three generations, and a lot of shared pain and trauma.

After we finished our luncheon, we did what all southern women do and we gathered in the kitchen to put food away, wash up, and fan ourselves with our aprons. The heat and humidity of Alabama springtime can be insufferable. My 4 year old danced around us, flitting from one side of the kitchen to the other, carrying napkins to the washing machine or Pyrex bowls to the refrigerator, while holding a much-too-large glass of bright red juice.

Eventually, the inevitable happened. A small, "uh oh" paused the kitchen commotion of shit-talking and dish-washing, as all four of us adult women whirled around to see fruit punch Kool-aid splashed down the front of my now-teenager's frock and all over the floor.

My mother had been a hard mother. She was solid and rough. Her love came with backhanded compliments and the occasional bruise. But she was a soft grandmother. Softer to her only grand baby than she'd ever been to anyone else. "OH, that's okay, baby! Come here. Tamra, you know how to clean this up?" I shrugged and replied, "I reckon soap and hot water, or put it in the washer?" She shook her head in astonishment. "NEVER hot water. Look, watch me."

She gingerly removed the gingham dress from my small child and walked to the kitchen sink. "You need cold water. Hot water will set the stain. Most times you don't even need soap." My mother ran the cold side of the faucet and soaked the stain, rubbing the fabric against itself. She worked it carefully, but thoroughly while I watched and her grandbaby stood in the middle of the kitchen in their skivvies. Within minutes the stain was out and the frock was hung out on a clothesline off the back porch.

I remember that day fondly. Our final Mothers Day together. I remember what we ate, what we wore, and how sacred it was to share a meal with the three women who were most influential in my life. I remember being so grateful my child was experiencing this day alongside me, and I remember hoping we would have more good days just like that.

Within 6 months my mother had passed on, but her impact, both good and bad, lives on. I now know how to get red juice out before it becomes a stain. I know when to recognize that ignoring a problem or taking the easy way out won't solve it. And I know that sharing a meal, looking at someone eye-to-eye, and chancing vulnerability is the best way to move through past hurts and disappointment. My mother taught me these lessons and so many more. And I am forever so grateful for it.

Cold water doesn't feel as good as hot water. And it certainly takes more effort that just hiding it in a washing machine and hoping someone else will do the labor of making it better. But, it won't get the stain out. It will only set it, and permanently mar the visage of an outfit or organization.

The time to get the stains out is here. The time to air them out like a little gingham smock on a clothesline is here. Washing the stains that haunt our Democracy and communities will be uncomfortable, but ignoring the problem won't make it go away. Too many stains have been allowed to set, for far too long.

Endeavor to be washers and exposers. Because the truth is like cold water on a bright red stain. And as the saying goes, it will set us free.