Miami Student

Issue date: 9/18/07 Section: OpEd Page

KATELYN HAWTHORNE/The Miami Student

My mother and I looked through a box of old photographs one weekend over the summer, dropped off by my aunt moving to Florida. A hodge-podge of photos, dating from the 1950s until my cousin's wedding in Atlanta in July. Strewn together, the photographs irregularly documented the lives of my mother's family, the Yoder's, and my own, the Skotzko's. They held no order, were of no particular theme and were just pieces of my mother's life.

There was one photograph of my mother that stood out in particular. A long, slim blond-haired young woman in a navy shirt. She was looking beyond the camera, smiling slightly. Her hair was gracefully surrounding her shoulders. She couldn't have been more than 18.

And her face, well, it was me.

I wanted to take the photo, store it in my dresser drawer, and have it for safekeeping forever. But I was too embarrassed at how much I loved seeing my mom like that-free, youthful and without a care. Not that she was old or worrisome now-very far from it actually-but it was nice seeing her at an age to which I could relate. I wanted to tell her that I too have sat with the wind blowing in my hair. I too have been with friends, family, laughing on a sunny afternoon.

And I too had a navy shirt, strikingly similar.

Were we really that much alike?

I flipped through more photos of my mom at weddings, at family parties, posing for the picture with my dad. She was lighthearted, so extremely happy. Her skin was usually tan and her style one of a classic, early 80s. Nothing over the top, but chic enough to sport the popular shoulder pads or the cropped pants.

But she looked like me. Her face shape, her hair coloring: It was me. My mom and I have always looked similar-you couldn't erase the fact that we were mother and daughter-but it was always a strong similarity, not much more. Yet you could almost interchange us in these photos. Make my hair a bit longer, a bit darker. Have me take off about 10 lbs. And add some big bangs and a baggy sweatshirt.

Odd. Quite odd.

When do we start becoming our parents? Does it start with a simple gesture, our views on the world or simply the way a comment is spoken? I have often wondered how much of my mother, how much of my father and how much of, well, just plain and simple me I hold. I know I have my mother's appearance, that photograph was proof enough. But how do I find out where the rest of me came from?

Continued...

Page 1 of 2 next >

Article Tools