Mother's New Wings

The last time I dreamt of my mother was a few days ago. She was dancing on a stage with three other women whom I didn't recognize. In the dream I remembered thinking I never knew she could move this way. The time before that I dreamt of her holding me, embracing me on an evening when I felt like I was the loneliest, unhappiest woman in the world. When I woke up from this dream I felt invigorated, hopeful, refreshed. I have since began embracing my new relationship with my mother. Though she is bodiless, I feel her energy. She wanders inside the spaces of my art and more than ever I love her - what she was and what she is now. Where in life I had closed doors on her in my heart and mind, those places are now fully open. I do not merely love the memory of her. I love the freedom inside of where she lives without the weight of what life and circumstances eventually did to her body. Her new presence inspires me to find the newfound freedom she has while I am in the prime of my life. The freedom we all seek to be our complete unfettered selves. It is a way I have found to honor the legacy of my ancestors.

I was a dreamer long before I claimed the identity of an artist. I was fortunate enough to be born into a family that encouraged me to achieve my brightest dreams. From the time that I was a small child I was taught by my parents that anything was possible. Learning at a young age that anything is possible meant that I was somewhat prepared for both greatness and devastation.

Though I long to feel the reality of my mother's physical arms wrapped around me just one more time to make me feel loved, forgiven and safe, I cherish those arms that embraced me in my dreams a couple of months ago far more. It has always been her spirit I've wanted to cling to the most. Her sense of humor, her imagination, her beauty, her wisdom, her grace. And while, just over a year later, I am still sad and at times angry that she, in the way I remember her, is no longer here, I think of her as she was a few days ago, dancing with such liberty with other women on a stage, and I recall the eternal reality of movement in any time, form or space, from one place to another.

Tiffany Osedra Miller (aka Bassagirl)
Mother's Day, 2009

UNFORGETTABLE

My Mother died a year ago, today.

IGENA GLORIA MILLER October 24, 1933 - March 29, 2008.

AVE IGENA









WIND-SWEPT WOMAN
(In memory of my Dear, Sweet Mother, Igena)

Your soul continues its travels
without the weight it bore here, yesterday
because that wind has blown you on home, now
though we always thought you'd stay.

No grown folks ever told us
we could never hold the breeze
the wind is the best and worst lover
who now leaves us begging on our knees.

So long, Wind-Swept Woman,
with laughter and wisdom
forever stretched across your gorgeous face
Your legacy, now eternal
Your essence, every place.

Ashe, Ashe,

Tiffany Osedra Miller



Yes, my Mother did rock those hair pieces and wigs!

May she continue to rest in peace.

Ave Gloria

THIS BLOG IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR SWEET MOTHER,

IGENA GLORIA MILLER

St. John's, Antigua, October 24, 1933 - Bronx, NY, March 30, 2008

BASSA BASSA

is something my Mother used to say.
I do not know what it really means.
I only know what it means to me.
The first artist I met was my Mother.
I am one of the masterpieces she left behind.
And although I intend to wreak creative havoc
To both fill and understand the void in me that she left
I hope she will continue to rest in peace.

Dear Reader, Welcome to BASSA BASSA ARTS!
I am trying to find my voice again after a long period of grief. Over the past two years I have watched my mother suffer a great deal, then die. Since my Mother’s passing, I have been trying to redefine what it is I have come to the world to say.
My Mother was an immensely private person and raised me to be that way, so I hesitate to even write about this, but as an artist trying to create from a place of integrity, I feel that it is important and healing for me to be open about my grief. My Mother's life and death will forever inform my self-expression. Her story like so many of our stories is the complicated story of the immigrant, black woman, health care worker, mother, wife, daughter, auntie, human being. I am so sad that those of you who read this will never get a chance to meet her because she was so bawdy, enigmatic, controversial and hilarious. I used to say this to her when she was being funny: 'Mommy you really need to take that show on the road' and I guess 7 months after her death - on today, her 75th birthday, when it hits me real hard that she is gone and not coming back- I can say that she did.
Here is the Tribute I wrote for her and read at her funeral. The title comes from a letter I found among her belongings after she passed. It was addressed to her mother, Wilhemina, dated sometime in the late 70's, informing her that she was returning home to Antigua, with my brother, father and I, to see her and jump up at Carnival. My mother opened the letter with, "To My Dear Sweet Mother, Wilhemina." Here is how I open mine:
To My Dear Sweet Mother, Igena
To My Dear Sweet Mother, Igena
As you continue the dream of your life in the richness of death
I hear you telling jokes throughout the heavens,
safe like a babe in the arms of Jesus,
comforted by departed loved ones and angels
Who watch you illuminate the paradise you have longed for
with the energy from your smile.

I hear you singing Calypso and beating the steel pan with your brother Eugene,
I see you running and jumping into the forever of your father, Arthur’s arms
Who tells you that he, really, had never ever let you go.
I smell you cooking saltfish with your Mother, Wilhemina and Sister, Dorothy
And when I close my eyes I could just see you
embracing, forever, your Uncle, Job
For like him, you have kept your faith and are therefore more than well again,
You are what you were the entire length of your life
“Gene the Queen,” my elegant, sassy, bawdy, sensitive, passionate mother
A woman with more levels than the Taj Majal,
The open sea, with all of its purple depths.

To my Dear Sweet Mother, Igena,
You are now the ancestor we dream of
When we want to remember how to put the real ‘glam’ back into ‘glamour,’
Then add charm and sophistication to appear larger than life.
But you were always more than just an image to me.
You told me, as a child, that no matter what I wanted to do with my life you would
Always love me, and you did.
And with the ardent spirit of the immigrant, you embraced the true meaning of ‘America’ when you told me that I had the power to be anything I wanted to be in the world,
And with these words, said with such heart-rending love,
you unfettered a little black girl’s imagination.

To My Dear Sweet Mother, Igena
You are not gone from me, Mommy,
You are in everything I have, say, will or won’t do
You have simply nestled like a butterfly with its purple, blue and red celestial body
throughout every one of my cells,
to rest now, rest, rest, rest, finally in peace
Recline, forever on the warm, full mattress of your daughter’s heart
Knowing that it is more than an honor to me, to have sprung
from the calm, turbulent, magnetic, majestic, insides of you.
Love, Tiffany

Ashe, Ashe

Life and death should always include some kind of celebration, even though both my Mother did not live long enough to see the first black President.

Happy Birthday, Mommy!