I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

My mother once walked into my bedroom that I shared with my brother.

Through gritted teeth, she slowly said,

You live like dogs in here.

And walked away, pure revulsion on her face.

I was an adolescent boy.

She was right. Our school clothes blanketed the floor

and piles, dirty socks everywhere. My brother's purple rain and my Dr. Julius Irving posters

flapped away from the wall. Matchbox cars and GI JoeI. Joe figures littered the doorway. Scattered cassette tapes

and empty plates sat atop old homework next to half-full cans of coke. Flies walked their edges.

She often chided us, but for some reason that day, she pierced me. She used a voice

that was all rebuke, that said, you are infecting me at my deepest core with your lack of hygiene.

My mother was a gentle soul, a woman with a smile that lit up

any space. When she became angry, she transformed. Her whole sweet demeanor became a haunting

plague of disgusted looks. That day, I cleaned my room. I stacked, washed clothes,

and organized school books. The next morning, and every morning since, after putting my feet

on the floor, I make my bed. Today's poem shows how we impossibly carry our parents' voices well into our adulthood,

a measure by which to shape our lives independent of their nurturance and instructions.

Mother's Rules by Yalee Sawida Kamara.

For my mother, Agatha Kamara.

1. If you see me praying in the living room, never sit in front of me. You are not God. Two, when we go to a restaurant

and I don't know any foods on the menu, never order me a meal that is spelled with silent letters.

...