The Power of a Mother's Hug

(In Celebration of Mother's Day, 2022)

My mother loved hugs. Absolutely cherished them. Gave them every chance she could.

But it wasn’t until near the end of her life that I truly understood why. I finally asked her about the nearly 100 year old photograph below. Yes, it has somewhat of a ghostly look, as well it should.

I wish I could talk to Mom now. If I could, I might say to her the following words:

{When you were small, you suffered great cruelty and injustice.

You loved your doll so much.

But your mean uncle when in one of his drunken stupors took it from you. He said you were hugging your beloved doll too much, spending too much time with it.  He threw it away. "It's gone forever", he told you.

I suppose others simply thought you’d misplaced your doll, or perhaps had grown tired of it. You suffered on in silence for years, never telling on your uncle, and never asking for another doll.

No wonder you cherished and hugged your own children so much once you had them.

My sisters and I became that doll, constantly loved and cherished and hugged by you.}

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I taught nearly two thousand men over a twenty-four-year period at the Bristol Jail. Many of them had poor or nonexistent relationships with their parents, which I came to view as one of the primary “predictors” for becoming incarcerated later on in life. It became apparent to me how amazingly blessed we are when we have good parents (no, there are no “perfect” ones).

I was sadly astounded by how many men I taught at the jail who had never even known one or more of their biological parents.

One man told me it was his lifelong longing, “to feel a hug from my mother.” (His mother had died of a drug overdose when he was two.) This dear soul was later found frozen to death one bitterly cold winter’s morn over behind the old Bristol Steel building along the railroad tracks. I was told that he was found dead on his back with his arms locked, stretching upward toward the sky. I have no doubt in my mind that, at his last breath in this world, he was reaching upward for a hug from his mother.

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Perhaps the greatest Mother's Day tribute I have ever witnessed came to me while I was teaching at the Bristol Jail.

The tribute came from a man whose mother had given him away at birth. She died not long thereafter, so this man never even knew his mother at all.

It was about seven in the evening on Mothers Day. My inmate/students and I were all gathered together in the tiny jail library. We crowded together around an even tinier table. Before we began class, I asked the men to share some stories about their mothers.

One of my inmate/students began fussing about his mom, saying how she'd been a druggie and had fifty different men, so he never knew who his dad was. "She was not a good mom," he said.

The toughest, baddest guy there stood up and said, "Mr. Talley, is it okay if I say a word or two?"