M. Ketsia Theodore-Pharel | The Mother Graph

We know about the mother tongue; it is in us as deep as DNA. Writer Jack Edwards asked, “What is a nation without a mother tongue?” The question is incomplete. What is the nation without our mother graph? I propose a new term: Mother graph. Like mother’s tongue, it has been around us since infancy. From the journals our mothers kept of our growing up, the notes to our teachers, lunch box love notes, recipes, her writing dates and memories on the back of photographs, social media posts of our best and worst moments, and for many with mothers like me, fiction and non-fiction stories told orally or written down. If we are honest, our mother’s signature was the first one we forged. How much did the mother graph influence my oldest daughter, playwright, Phanesia Pharel? I checked my arrogance and then allowed the question to roll around in my head as I sat in the WP theater, off Broadway, watching my daughter’s play.

On that cold February 28^th, 2026, I sat next to my longtime friend and legendary writer, Edwidge Danticat. That moment was a gift in time as a writing mom. My friend, a writing mom herself, understood this and came to share that pivotal moment with me.  As the play unfolded, I thought about another pivotal moment. Edwidge and her husband were the first people who learned about my house burning down and us losing everything. On December 14, 2013, our dream home in Homestead, Florida burned down. Late that night, after checking in at the Ramada Inn about 7 miles from our property, I debated whether to attend Danticat’s daughter’s birthday party the next day. Leila’s original gift burnt in the fire. The morning after the fire, I purchased a new outfit and a new gift. I arrived at the Miami Children’s museum where the birthday party was held. I was an emotional wreck. At some point, I confessed how I was really feeling and what had happened the night before. As weeks and months turned into torturous years of a nasty litigation with Heritage Insurance company, I shared my writing with Edwidge. She encouraged me to use my pen to expose what would be a twelve-year, debilitating fight against the insurance company, racism, and xenophobia.

My children were 1, 3, and 14 on the day we lost all material possessions in that fire. This past February 28th, I watched my daughter’s play and later as I read the New York Times review about her play, the story of Joseph came to mind. In the Bible, Joseph was thrown into a hole and later sold into slavery by the people who should have protected him. However, God turned his enslavement into a blessing not only for him, but his family. When Miami Dade County Judge, who should have protected us, ruled against us and in favor of Heritage insurance company, my children, husband, and I were thrown into a hole and then sold into poverty. Watching the play, I was reminded that what man means for evil, God will turn into good.

The Miami Herald and the local newspapers rejected Op-eds and articles about what was happening to us, so I started a blog. My children are my first editorial ears. The blog reached enough people for Heritage insurance company to pressure my attorney to ask me to stop writing. I wouldn’t and the attorney withdrew from the case. I kept writing the blog and eventually got another lawyer. The blog chronicled our descent into abject poverty. My daughter was a sophomore when our house burned down, yet she graduated salutatorian. There were nights of sleeping in our car. Most nights we went to McDonalds so she could have access to Wi-Fi and complete her assignments. There were nights when we went from the library to Dunkin’ Donuts, and then to MacDonalds so we could have electricity and access to a bathroom. My husband drove for several ride-sharing companies while I worked three jobs. I taught at the high school, worked as an independent contractor for Girl Scouts, and was adjunct instructor at a private college so we could earn enough for a lawyer, rent, and the mortgage payment on the burned property.

Two years after the fire when Phanesia graduated and was headed to Barnard College, I wrote her a note. It would have been easy to pressure my daughter not to follow her dream of being a playwright. However, other than my faith and the love of my family, writing has been my sustenance. In my letter, I told her to write. This is the only love letter I wrote to her during that time. My only regret about that time of my life is that I didn’t write my children more love letters. I can only borrow a line from Robert Hayden, “What did I know, what did I know…” of the scribbles, of the lunch notes, of the brief emails, of the daily writings of a mother. Write on—the austerity of the mother graph demands it.

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Image: Nika Akin Pixabay remixed