Perdita Felicien - My Mothers Daughter: A Memoir of Struggle and Triumph
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- Book:My Mothers Daughter: A Memoir of Struggle and Triumph
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- Year:2020
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Praise for My Mothers Daughter
We are not defined by when we fall; rather, its the journey of where we come from that holds the deepest definition of self. Perdita Felicien is so much more than a champion athlete. This phenomenal, human story shows a Canada many people will never know, the power of a mothers love for her daughter, and indefatigable resilience in the face of so much struggle. I could not put this book down.
Clara Hughes, six-time Olympic medalist and author of Open Heart, Open Mind
Perdita Felicien takes on the ambitious feat of chronicling an intergenerational story of resilience and succeeds with unflinching clarity. Her controlled and poised prose details raw and often messy emotions with intelligence and compassion, while the fierce honesty with which she writes emphasizes the magnitude of maternal love and the bonds of family. A memoir with a commanding voice, My Mothers Daughter is a love letter to mother-daughter relationships.
Zalika Reid-Benta, Scotiabank Giller Prize-longlisted author of Frying Plantain
Perdita Felicien first stole our hearts as a world champion, and now she takes us behind the scenes to the heartache of her tumultuous childhood and to the grit she needed to triumph over adversity. Her story is for everyone who dreams big. This book made me laugh and cry and cheer out loud. Its a winnerlike Perdita herself.
Sally Armstrong, journalist
A book about the most important team any of us plays onour familyby one of the greatest athletes Canada has ever produced. Perdita Felicien reminds us that the accomplishments you see out on the track, field, or rink are the result not just of talent and practice, but of someones love.
Cathal Kelly, author of Boy Wonders
Copyright 2020 Perdita Felicien
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisheror in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agencyis an infringement of the copyright law.
The names and other identifying details of some people have been changed to maintain their privacy.
Doubleday Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House Canada Limited
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Title: My mothers daughter / Perdita Felicien.
Names: Felicien, Perdita, 1980- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200158864 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200158937 | ISBN 9780385689960 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780385689977 (EPUB)
Subjects: LCSH: Felicien, Perdita, 1980- | LCSH: Track and field athletesCanadaBiography. | LCSH: Mothers and daughtersCanadaBiography. | LCSH: Single mothersCanadaBiography. | LCSH: Mother and child. | LCGFT: Biographies.
Classification: LCC GV1061.15.F45 A3 2020 | DDC 796.42/6092dc23
Cover design: Terri Nimmo
Cover images: (illustration) incomible; (border) alubalish; (with flag) Jeff Haynes / Staff, all Getty Images; family photos courtesy of the author.
Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
v5.4
a
For my mother, Cathy
For my daughter, Nova
One of the most valuable things a mother can give her daughter is her story as a woman.
IYANLA VANZANT
When I was a little girl I was acutely aware that my mothers life was hard. She never hid her tears from me, as she cried about Dads ill treatment of her or whatever predicament we found ourselves in. I also knew she never had much money. We walked everywhere, in any weather, or took the bus, while many of my friends parents had cars and could afford to pay for pizza days and school trips. I made it a point not to be added to her growing list of difficulties.
At times when I was growing up my mother would say to me, When I found out I was going to have you, you gave me hope. I would rub my tummy and talk to you through my tears. Shed offer no further explanation, and I was too young to ask.
Stepping away from ten years at the top of elite professional sport led me to reflect on my life. I knew all along there were missing pieces to my lifes puzzle. For the first time, I began to ask the questions that might make it all come together for me.
After many conversations with people from my past, hearing the oral history of my family, and doing my own research, I find my answers. But more than anything, within these pages I find my mothers courage, her humanity, and the scale of the love I stand on.
Olympic Games, Athens, Greece
August 2004
I know I am supposed to be here, this is more than a race to me.
I know she is watching the baby she chose not to throw away.
Maybe this will finally make her see that everything that happened before tonight was worth it. That she is worth it, that I am worth it, and so are all the other mothers and children like us.
The eight of us had only a few moments left to warm up over the hurdles before we would be introduced to the thousands in the Olympic Stadium. It was loud before the start of the 100 metres hurdles final. People were shouting, and flags from around the world were being waved in the air by hopeful fans. Everything happened in slow motion, as if I were in a trance. The officials putting down hurdles, then scurrying out of our way, teammates watching nearby from the stands with Canadian flags wrapped around their shoulders, the other runners grunting and slapping their thick quads into submissionor was it an act of intimidation? None of us finalists made eye contact. It was as though the others were just bodies floating about. But we could see the tension around the corners of our mouths; our faces mean, expressionless corks that prevented all our emotions from spilling out.
I walked back to my lane marker after practising a start and knew there was nothing left to do. I was ready. Every cell in my body felt electric, as if I could shock the life out of anything I touched. I pulled in a deep breath, held it for five thumping heartbeats, then let it rush out of me with any microscopic remnants of doubt. I enjoyed this feeling and this moment despite the magnitude of it. Id never felt anything so encompassing, so kinetic. I recognized it as that perfect edge. The one all of us athletes try to recreate hundreds of times in practice, in our dreams, in our journalsbut never can. Because nothing can replicate the biggest day of our lives. No imagining can ever be real enough.
The fuzzy haze I saw before big races blurred everything: the crowd, the outside lanes, Melissa the American to my left, and Irina the Russian to my right. Everything but my ten waist-high barriers, out in front, which were crisp and clear. The starter commanded us to take our marks, and the customary ritual began as we made our way into our blocks.
Think of all the work youve done, Perdita. You can do this.
We were two Americans, two Russians, one Jamaican, a Ukrainian, and two Canadians. The fastest and most fearless sprint hurdlers left standing in the world. I was the world champion and the youngest among us, unbeaten in a string of races leading up to the Olympics, including my heat and semifinal rounds in Athens. Even though I had welcomed the eyes of my entire country on me and understood I was the favourite, remarkably I had arrived at the start line carrying only the weight of my own expectations. If you want it, you cant be afraid to go for it is a mantra a hurdler must adopt before even starting her climb to the top of the world.
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