Hope or Hopeless
Update on My sister's status.
Or excerpt to my eventual autobiography.
Driving around on a sunny and brisk Sunday afternoon, trying to get as much done possible in preparation for the Thanksgiving feast i plan to cook up for my mother, my oldest niece Tess, my old coworker and friend Malcom and possibly one more co worker whom is far from home this season.
I have a bag of Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica i have been trying to drop off at my mothers place. Today seems like a good day and she lives near the newly found Cambodian Artisan boulangerie, that is bakery, lol that i love the cherry croissants from.
My mothers phone is persistently busy, either off the hook or babbling away.
I stop by her little ground floor apartment that i rarely visit due to the heavy smoke in the air that instantly clings to my hair, clothes and skin. The walls yellow hue are a clear indication what my mothers lungs must look like.
Every time i see my mother she looks more and more aged.
She has a big smile on her face as she hangs up the phone and Say's " I gotta go, My daughter is here" in her faded Bostonian accent.
She hugs me, welcomes me in, and i instantly look for little Tex, the Chihuahua min pin mix that she loves more than life. He's a little warm lump under her bed covers where he prefers to stay.
We sit and talk a little, and she unloads pretty quickly about Carissa's status since her hospital stay.
She say's " Tanya I'm not gonna lie to you" and proceeds to tell me that the day she got out, Nov 20th, on her birthday, given $25 for her youngest daughters school pictures and $15 for cigarettes that my mother had given her. she went home and was supposed to toss out those sleeping pills that she overdosed on. When Tess, My teenage niece tried to toss them out she got a more than a fight back. She also went and brought crack again with the $40 my mother gave her. Then i am told that she has been physically abusing her daughter on a few occasions, Punching her and pretty much treating her some skank you have a bar fight with.
I wasn't completely surprised at all about that crack, However i was when i was told how she was physically handling her daughter.
My Mother said she was leaving messages on her machine saying " you can't ignore me on my birthday"
How sad is this, Really SAD
For some strange reason my mother pulls out 2 little notes from her dresser. She is a list maker.
She is also a recovering addict, Pharmaceuticals were my mothers choice of poison, or rather most women of the 70's, Suppose that is why they all idolized Valley Of the Dolls in some strange way of relating.
Percocet were my mothers downfall. she has been in an NA group for about 2-3 years now.
So on these notes that she had made were list of things that she remembered about me from the age of 9 months, and of all the things that i had in my childhood that were normal that she wanted my nice to know existed. She wanted Tess to know exactly what i was doing or into at her age. I think part of it was letting Tess know that she at least didn't screw one child up.
Whenever my mother talks of the past, I either get annoyed or tune her out or in this case wind up in tears over memories that really hurt. Hurt to this day and make me cry as i think them.
My mother apologizes constantly for her short comings and her lack of ability to raise her kids right.
I know that my mother tried her best for the childhood she her self had, but it doesn't take the sting away from my childhood memories that cause me pain, i would rather tuck them away and forget them.
This visit makes it clear to me that i will never be rid of the memories, No matter how much i dodge discussions about them, no matter how many therapy session i have had in the past to put it out there. I think it's best i just write about it, since they don't seem to be fading. and the impact is just as strong today as it was in the 70's.
Something my mother said about my sister that shoved some bad memories back into my gut was.
Tess thinks her mother is selling herself for crack again, How does she know this. She is seeing a plethora of potato chips in the cabinet again, AGAIN?
When she was prostituting for drugs the last time there was a man whom was some sort of vendor for snacks, and when the chips appear in quantities again it's a clue to what is going on while the kids are at school.
Am i surprised, Not at all.
But i say to my mother, "This is just like the Entenmanns cakes".
She say's what do you mean?
I say one of your "Tricks" always left behind a few of the Entenmanns brand pound cakes upon his visits. Meaning this is one of my mothers steady customers when she was a prostitute out of the home while we too were at school.
My mother didn't sell herself for drugs, she sold herself to pay the rent and feed us. She had no education and no family to depend on and 2 children, and married a man whom pretty much was like a pimp.
Back to the Cakes.
somehow another apology emerged from my mother, as i brushed past that memory saying, All i really wanted was a normal family, one that cooked dinner at dinner time, and one that got me dressed in clean clothes for school. I reminded her how other people picked up for her shortcomings like feeding me and clothing me. My best friends mother, whom also hustled would make sure i had clean clothes on even if it meant wearing her daughters clothes.
I would gravitate towards children that had rules and proper dinner hours, in hopes that they would invite me to stay over. Sometimes they did. In hopes to have a taste of what a real family like on TV was supposed to feel like.
That led to conversations about times my mother would need a break from her husband, and would pack the deep freezer full with frozen foods and leave Carissa and I for a few weeks at a time, No word to where she was, not even her girlfriend would tell us her whereabouts, she would just say "I don't know".
Now to an adult it sounds bad, but to a 7-8 year old it is a major tragedy. I don't know where my mother is, she could be dead, i may never see her again. and all i have to console me is my sister, whom by the way is mean to me on most days, not really the day's that my mother was MIA but most of all the other days.
I would cry myself to sleep, wanting her to return so badly, worrying about stupid shit like, Who will teach me how to write a check when i am ready if my mother is not around. Seems odd i know. I was very close to my mother as a child.
Every year i would blow out my birthday cake candles i wouldn't wish for toys, I would wish that my mother never dies. and I write it like that because that is the way a 7 year old thought it.
I leave my mothers house smelling of tobacco tar and in tears. And come to the conclusion i will never be rid of these horrible memories.
I don't begrudge her for them, She had a way worse childhood than myself, or my sister and her children have ever had.
She did her best. but that doesn't mean it still doesn't sting.
I look forward to cooking for thanksgiving, and I do have a lot to be thankful about. I have a lot that I am grateful for.
I think my childhood makes it so that
I have very little patience and empathy for people that get lost and caught up in the whirlwind and whine about trivial shit. I guess it's important that i have these memories, It must be what keeps me grounded.
Update on My sister's status.
Or excerpt to my eventual autobiography.
Driving around on a sunny and brisk Sunday afternoon, trying to get as much done possible in preparation for the Thanksgiving feast i plan to cook up for my mother, my oldest niece Tess, my old coworker and friend Malcom and possibly one more co worker whom is far from home this season.
I have a bag of Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica i have been trying to drop off at my mothers place. Today seems like a good day and she lives near the newly found Cambodian Artisan boulangerie, that is bakery, lol that i love the cherry croissants from.
My mothers phone is persistently busy, either off the hook or babbling away.
I stop by her little ground floor apartment that i rarely visit due to the heavy smoke in the air that instantly clings to my hair, clothes and skin. The walls yellow hue are a clear indication what my mothers lungs must look like.
Every time i see my mother she looks more and more aged.
She has a big smile on her face as she hangs up the phone and Say's " I gotta go, My daughter is here" in her faded Bostonian accent.
She hugs me, welcomes me in, and i instantly look for little Tex, the Chihuahua min pin mix that she loves more than life. He's a little warm lump under her bed covers where he prefers to stay.
We sit and talk a little, and she unloads pretty quickly about Carissa's status since her hospital stay.
She say's " Tanya I'm not gonna lie to you" and proceeds to tell me that the day she got out, Nov 20th, on her birthday, given $25 for her youngest daughters school pictures and $15 for cigarettes that my mother had given her. she went home and was supposed to toss out those sleeping pills that she overdosed on. When Tess, My teenage niece tried to toss them out she got a more than a fight back. She also went and brought crack again with the $40 my mother gave her. Then i am told that she has been physically abusing her daughter on a few occasions, Punching her and pretty much treating her some skank you have a bar fight with.
I wasn't completely surprised at all about that crack, However i was when i was told how she was physically handling her daughter.
My Mother said she was leaving messages on her machine saying " you can't ignore me on my birthday"
How sad is this, Really SAD
For some strange reason my mother pulls out 2 little notes from her dresser. She is a list maker.
She is also a recovering addict, Pharmaceuticals were my mothers choice of poison, or rather most women of the 70's, Suppose that is why they all idolized Valley Of the Dolls in some strange way of relating.
Percocet were my mothers downfall. she has been in an NA group for about 2-3 years now.
So on these notes that she had made were list of things that she remembered about me from the age of 9 months, and of all the things that i had in my childhood that were normal that she wanted my nice to know existed. She wanted Tess to know exactly what i was doing or into at her age. I think part of it was letting Tess know that she at least didn't screw one child up.
Whenever my mother talks of the past, I either get annoyed or tune her out or in this case wind up in tears over memories that really hurt. Hurt to this day and make me cry as i think them.
My mother apologizes constantly for her short comings and her lack of ability to raise her kids right.
I know that my mother tried her best for the childhood she her self had, but it doesn't take the sting away from my childhood memories that cause me pain, i would rather tuck them away and forget them.
This visit makes it clear to me that i will never be rid of the memories, No matter how much i dodge discussions about them, no matter how many therapy session i have had in the past to put it out there. I think it's best i just write about it, since they don't seem to be fading. and the impact is just as strong today as it was in the 70's.
Something my mother said about my sister that shoved some bad memories back into my gut was.
Tess thinks her mother is selling herself for crack again, How does she know this. She is seeing a plethora of potato chips in the cabinet again, AGAIN?
When she was prostituting for drugs the last time there was a man whom was some sort of vendor for snacks, and when the chips appear in quantities again it's a clue to what is going on while the kids are at school.
Am i surprised, Not at all.
But i say to my mother, "This is just like the Entenmanns cakes".
She say's what do you mean?
I say one of your "Tricks" always left behind a few of the Entenmanns brand pound cakes upon his visits. Meaning this is one of my mothers steady customers when she was a prostitute out of the home while we too were at school.
My mother didn't sell herself for drugs, she sold herself to pay the rent and feed us. She had no education and no family to depend on and 2 children, and married a man whom pretty much was like a pimp.
Back to the Cakes.
somehow another apology emerged from my mother, as i brushed past that memory saying, All i really wanted was a normal family, one that cooked dinner at dinner time, and one that got me dressed in clean clothes for school. I reminded her how other people picked up for her shortcomings like feeding me and clothing me. My best friends mother, whom also hustled would make sure i had clean clothes on even if it meant wearing her daughters clothes.
I would gravitate towards children that had rules and proper dinner hours, in hopes that they would invite me to stay over. Sometimes they did. In hopes to have a taste of what a real family like on TV was supposed to feel like.
That led to conversations about times my mother would need a break from her husband, and would pack the deep freezer full with frozen foods and leave Carissa and I for a few weeks at a time, No word to where she was, not even her girlfriend would tell us her whereabouts, she would just say "I don't know".
Now to an adult it sounds bad, but to a 7-8 year old it is a major tragedy. I don't know where my mother is, she could be dead, i may never see her again. and all i have to console me is my sister, whom by the way is mean to me on most days, not really the day's that my mother was MIA but most of all the other days.
I would cry myself to sleep, wanting her to return so badly, worrying about stupid shit like, Who will teach me how to write a check when i am ready if my mother is not around. Seems odd i know. I was very close to my mother as a child.
Every year i would blow out my birthday cake candles i wouldn't wish for toys, I would wish that my mother never dies. and I write it like that because that is the way a 7 year old thought it.
I leave my mothers house smelling of tobacco tar and in tears. And come to the conclusion i will never be rid of these horrible memories.
I don't begrudge her for them, She had a way worse childhood than myself, or my sister and her children have ever had.
She did her best. but that doesn't mean it still doesn't sting.
I look forward to cooking for thanksgiving, and I do have a lot to be thankful about. I have a lot that I am grateful for.
I think my childhood makes it so that
I have very little patience and empathy for people that get lost and caught up in the whirlwind and whine about trivial shit. I guess it's important that i have these memories, It must be what keeps me grounded.
VIEW 21 of 21 COMMENTS
Your candor is much appreciated.
t