If you know me remotely well, you know I have hang-ups about my mother. For a long time, even still really, I feel out of sorts. I'm the black kid who doesn't have that undying love for his mama. I wasn't the black kid who was ready to throw hands if you made a mama joke. Don't get me wrong though, for a long time, I was fiercely loyal to my mother. If school administrators asked questions, I'd deny or lie. If my grandmother or father asked questions, I'd deny or lie. No matter how severe or how minute, I would not let up. But since the day I moved out of my mother's house in Princeton to move with my father in DC, I knew my life for about a five-year stretch was shit. Pure shit. And yes, I blame her. I don't hold it against her, but I do blame her for a lot of it.
My mom, as I am told at least, was a woman of insecurity. It's hard to believe though. She was highly intelligent, well-read, bilingual (and she's not Latin, so that's saying something), and really good looking. I can remember moments throughout my childhood, conversations with my mom about anything from what it meant to be black to why I thought Peg Bundy was hot. For most of my life, she was a warm woman. She was pretty fun to be around, but I can't really say I remember doing much with her. My dad was that parent, the one who said let's go to the park and all. Nonetheless, she had no reason to be insecure at all. She probably sold herself well short. I suppose I have a bit of that myself. Anyway, I can honestly say I don't remember much about my mom prior to my parents' separation. But I can definitely say now, that's when everything changes.
If my mom did have insecurities, confidence issues, low self-esteem, whatever you want to call it, then I can only imagine how it must feel for her to find out her husband and college sweetheart was gay. When I was in third grade, I couldn't understand that. In fact, my dad and maternal grandmother will tell you I didn't know my dad was gay until well into eighth or ninth grade. And even more odd, my dad says he told me shortly after the separation. I suppose I repressed it. But back to the point. Low self-esteem and a gay husband, that can't be easy to handle for a black woman's psyche. I'm not excusing, but I am understanding.
We can continue to extrapolate this too. Most people will say I look like whichever of my parents they meet first. Although I do see where I got some of my mother's DNA, when I look in the mirror, all I see is my dad's family. So now let's go back to our equation. Low self-esteem. Gay husband. Child who looks just like your gay husband, the husband that ultimately deceived you and made you completely vulnerable. When I add all of that in my head, I see why it was such a perfect storm of bad parenting from my mom.
None of this is to say I had the worst childhood ever. I didn't. I had a home. I sometimes had food. I had clothes one way or another. I usually had lunch money. My mom even found a way to put me in summer camp twice. I cannot say she locked me in a closet and fed me bread crumbs while telling me God hates me or whatever insane people do to their kids. While it wasn't the worst childhood, it certainly wasn't the best or even good. Hell, even average. I'd have to say it was below average. My personality will forever be scarred by some of the things that happened while in my mother's care.
Take for instance, in my last days in Baltimore, where I was raised, my mom was near her worst. She may have had a job, or she may not have. Can't say for sure. She had a couple of sugar daddies, two max, for whom she could do something strange for some change and keep the rent paid. I guess by this point both of them were gone and mom was completely tapped financially. I can remember going to our refrigerator and seeing nothing but Arm and Hammer on the shelves, and then a door full of condiments. It was during this time where I went two whole days without eating anything. Mind you, I'm in sixth grade. Deep in puberty, growing boy. I should be eating a whole buffet. Nothing. I think I got so bad that I had low energy and displayed a slight shaking motion all over. What's a woman to do? I guess she called her dear friend because she came over with a chicken quarter just for me. Small white plate, covered in foil. She gave me a hug, helped me eat and let me know my mom loved me and was just going through hard times right now but everything will be fine. Back then, I thought what the hell is going on that we have nothing? Not a single morsel of food? Thinking about it now, I can only imagine how much pride she had to swallow to call a friend and tell her that her only child is shaking and needs something, anything to eat.
The bulk of my bad memories though come from the four years we lived in Princeton. It's funny. My time in Princeton is so dear to my heart because I believe it was the most fun I've ever had in life, but I also believe it's why I'm so cynical and distant.
Food was always a huge issue. Another time where we didn't have much in the kitchen, I can remember a man my mother was seeing came by to bring me a dinner plate. He did well for himself. He owned a corner store in town, had a home, had food, good enough for me. I wanted my mother to get serious about him desperately. Not for herself but for me. I liked eating. No dice though. But I can remember that dinner too: white oval plate, some decent cut of steak, roasted potatoes, broccoli. That was eating.
Most times we had no food, I'd go out to my best friend's house. He was a good kid. We were both geeks, nerdy as hell, but because it was Princeton, we could kinda feel like bad asses. We did all kinds of stupid shit like stealing his girlfriend's mother's car and driving around town or going on the highway in search of the Jersey Devil. How dumb were we? A 13 year old and a 12 year old in a car at 2 AM, getting on the interstate to find a mythical creature in the Pine Barrens. I don't know how well you know New Jersey, but Mercer County is nowhere near the Pine Barrens. But he was my homeboy for real. When my mother would beat my ass over... shit I still really don't know, I'd run away, hop on a bike and ride to his house and just stay. He never asked questions, he never made fun. He'd open his home to me, and that was that.
I can even remember one night his mother made us dinner. Now I'm sure she had a clue that my home life left much to be desired, but she never let on to it. She was really a good person. Anyway, she made us dinner, and I demolished it. I had never had it before, but I loved it. I ate like a king. Probably the next day or maybe later in the week, my dad called and I'd always give him a rundown of shit in my life. Enough to say hey, something's wrong, but not too much to say hey, mom sucks. I told him I had dinner at my friend's house and how great it was. Curious, he asked what I ate. I told him. Chicken backs. I guess those two words were huge red flags. If I'm eating chicken backs at a friend's house and raving about how great it was, then I must seriously not be getting fed at home.
Along this very same line, I can remember one time I got fed up. No food as always, but now she had this super deadbeat boyfriend whom she "loved". He was such a dick. No job, no car, nothing going for him. He was just big and bald and could make my mom come. Oh and he had the in on cocaine. My mom definitely had an affinity for coke. And in New Jersey, it just grew to be a bigger addiction. But anyway, I had left to visit my Dad in DC for the weekend as I often did. I came back home on Amtrak. My grandmother picked me up and drove me to Princeton from Trenton and then took herself back to Trenton. I guess my mother's car was on the fritz. I walked in, put my bag down, said hi to the douchebag, and gave moms a hug. That's when it happened. She asked me to do the dishes. I hadn't been home since Friday. We had no food. What dishes?! I go to the kitchen and it was all in my face. They had cake, they had steaks, they had sodas, they had chips, popcorn, all kinds of shit. And left it for me to clean. I'd been there all week and we had nothing. What's going on? I told her it wasn't fair. She yanked the extension cord out the wall, beat my ass from one side of the house to the other. After I was done crying, I licked my wounds and did the dishes.
I did get my revenge though. One night, my mother made chicken wings for all of us and they had a few and took a nap. There were probably 12-15 wings still. While they were sleeping, I ate every single fucking wing on that plate. And drank all the juice. Then they woke up. He snitched on me. Out came the extension cord and again, from one end of the house to the other.
If it wasn't food, it was something else. Back when the northeast had that bad blizzard in the early-mid 90s, I was the only kid who had to get the few groceries we ever had. Feet of snow outside, my mother decides she just wants to lay on the couch in her robe. Fuck the fact that she had a car, she didn't care. Nigga, go get your Huffy and try to traverse feet of snow and ice and don't forget a fucking thing at the store or you're going back. Oh but before you go back, do expect the extension cord, and do expect to go from wall to wall.
I couldn't understand it. All of my friends' mothers, they may discipline their sons with force, but none of them were getting demolished like I did. I would go to school with welts on my hands and arms from trying to catch the cord or block it. I had teachers, guidance counselors, other people's parents ask if there was any trouble at home. I'd always say no, I got this bruise from whatever lame excuse or I got that welt from whatever other lame excuse. I know they didn't believe it but state law handcuffed them. They did however stick me in a programme for what I now guess was disadvantaged youth. Every Tuesday during lunch, I'd go to Gents. A few boys my age, a male role model, all of us were black I think, and we'd get a hoagie from Hoagie Haven, the best hoagie spot in New Jersey. For a kid who often didn't have lunch nor lunch money, that hoagie was like fucking ambrosia. I would have went to hear a dissertation on mating rituals of African cockroaches back then just for that hoagie. But after Gents, the guy would always inquire about whatever bruises or welts I had and if things were fine at home. I never told. I wish I had.
Four years is a long time to go without eating regularly but regularly getting your ass kicked from one end of the house to the other. And I wish I was exaggerating. And boy, she always would work me into a corner. I can still see me in my room, moving furniture around to prevent me from being backed into a corner where she could unleash her anger, her hatred, her hurt. Thinking about all of it now, she wasn't beating me. She was beating my dad. I just looked and acted like him. The ferocity and viciousness though, to me, that suggests her beatings were a coping mechanism. Plus she was always hopped up on cocaine. I stood no chance.
Hell one time she even waited for me to come out of the shower just to beat me. I can remember opening the bathroom door with my towel on, her yanking me out of there and the extension cord just crashing across my chest and back. And of course, I got pinned in a corner. And in all the commotion, my towel came off. And right there, a tremendous strike across the groin. My charge? I didn't take the trash out. That was my crime. I would scream and scream endlessly. No neighbour ever helped. No one called any hotline. All I wanted was for one of us to die. And that's very true. I'd often think of numerous ways I could kill her and maybe get away with it.
Thank god for that friend. I could run the streets with him all day and get away when I really needed him or anyone. There was this one instance where I left my textbook in my locker. I couldn't do my homework and though normally she didn't care about my schooling, that night she chose to care. It was after 7:30 no doubt, so the school was definitely locked. She told me to get the fuck out of the house now and go get that book and when I came home, expect to get my ass whooped. I hopped on my Huffy, rode down the street to Princeton High, and every single door was locked. I got back on my bike, face streaming with tears, fearing punishment. I rode home and before I got off the bike, I rode over to my friend's house and stayed the night and the next. It was the weekend, thank god. I didn't actually have to go home. Divine intervention, I guess.
When I finally moved with my dad, I talked to my mom less and less. The way I moved is kinda shady, but that's for a later episode. I guess my absence made her heart grow fonder. Shame. It only made mine grow colder. I can only remember seeing her twice after leaving New Jersey and I left in 1997. The last time I saw her was the summer of 2005 and it was my last year in college. On the drive from Tallahassee to DC, my dad and I stopped by to see her in South Carolina. It was great seeing her. I have a picture hanging on my wall from that day. I look at it and think, "Wow, I have one moment where I look really happy to be with my mom." Granted it only took eight years to cool everything down, but that moment existed and it's documented.
Three years later, I vowed to never speak to her again. In November of 2006, I was dating a girl who reminded me a lot of my mom. I eventually decided to say let's be adults and fix this. I called her on Thanksgiving day from my then-girlfriend's parents' home. I had written her a letter too. I only said, look, you're the adult and it's a shame that I have to come to you to get you to fix this. Just say you're sorry. We don't need to recount the stories, the incidents, none of it. Just let me know you are legitimately sorry and we can fix this. She did, and finally I felt like we were going to be okay.
By the end of December 2006, she was coming up to suburban Baltimore and being relatively close, she wanted to see me. Now, we had just be come friends again. Seeing her though, eh, I don't know. I had told her that my weekends I have a routine and plans set but let me know by Thursday and I'll make something happen. Thursday came, Friday came, and by Saturday, she's calling me. Now my girlfriend was in town visiting me, and we're getting ready to go out. My mom calls my dad, tells him that I'm being an asshole and whatever else. I get on the phone and she says, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" I must have lost it because I cursed her out for the next ten minutes and then hung up the phone. I couldn't stop. It was word vomit. It was raw emotion, stored anger. My dad came in and told me he was worried about me and if I'm becoming jaded or cold because I just wasn't the same about my family as I used to be. I didn't care about that shit. It's New Years and my girlfriend is waiting. I never felt better than that day.
By Thanksgiving 2009, she died. I didn't go to her funeral. I really didn't have a way, but if I did, I still wouldn't have. I don't regret that either. I don't regret not talking to her. Some things just have to be done. My vulnerabilities, my emotional scarring, a lot of them come from her. My family would always tell me to talk to my mom, I only get one mother, one day she won't be there. I told them basically to fuck themselves because they don't know the extent of my pain. Looks like I won that one.
Weirdly though, in her death, I found appreciation for her. Not that I think she was a good mom suddenly, or that I even miss her. But now that she's dead, I can balance her evilness with the few nuggets of mother's love I remember. Like when I was in fifth grade and somehow she got me brand new shoes for Christmas. I had come to never expect anything from her during Christmas. We had no food. Why would I have a gift? But I remember coming home from my dad's and she went to the tree and came up with a present. Brand new white Pumas. Kids back then weren't wearing Pumas, so I knew I'd be laughed at and become the butt of jokes, but I didn't care. My mother, my fucking mother, got me shoes. They could have been the ugliest shoes ever and I still would have been elated. I wore the fuck out of those Pumas.
The woman also paid for my pledge fees. I wouldn't be a Sigma right now if she didn't come through with the money. I can remember when we first moved to Princeton from New Orleans, and all we had was two plastic lawn chairs and a TV. She went out on a run, came back with a tub of Breyer's Vanilla, and we sat in those chairs and watched reruns of Evening Shade and Major Dad. I can remember one time where we had no food but I found a bag of rice and a tomato and an onion. I don't know what I cooked or how, but somehow I made it taste good. I placed it on a plate, poured some juice, took it into my mom's bedroom and presented it to her. The smile on her face, the genuine joy that her son, also starving, took time to try and do something about it and make her feel loved too. I see it like it just happened.
My mother wasn't an evil woman. She was a scorned woman. I just happened to be the one who suffered from her fury. My relationships with women have been and will always be fucked up and twisted because of the nature of our own, but I can't rest on that. One thing my mother never did was work on herself. She wallowed in her misery. Thankfully, I'm too heady and try to analyze and pick out the things that make me tick and adjust them. Like take for instance, my dad always asks why I'm not closer to my family. I always say to me, my friends are more like family than family. But if you think about it, when my mother was going ape shit, I turned to my friend for solace and a place to hide. Over time, I learned to turn to a friend and push away family.
I do sometimes wish I had talked to her one last time though. Not for me though, no. For her. I feel sorry for her to have to die knowing that her only child refused to talk to her. But hey, shit happens.
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