In my time and age I have decided to take care of my mother. Though our history is iffy in the sense of what I knew was right and what I know to be wrong changes and has caused hardship, one thing I am certain is that this woman has always loved me. In her own manera she gave me the best of what she had.

     My life growing up was hardcore. The things I was subjected to like physical abuse was enormous. The beatings I received at her hands were crazy. As a kid I deserved a few of them and even then not to that extent. She was ruthless. An assassinator when you got out of line or did things not to her liking. I walked in total fear of this 4’11 lady. She did whatever it took to have her boys in check. Manners were instilled with hard fists, wet leather belts and plain old screams and insults.

    She worked all her life. That is all she knew, it was all she was very good at. Coming from the poor countryside of Puerto Rico she vowed that when she was on her own she would never need for anything. Her work ethic was crazy. My mother was sick with it when it came to producing product as a seamstress working piece by piece for pennies in a sweatshop.

     She wasn’t the type of mom that had great conversations with me. She pretty much had rules and regulations and they were to be followed to the tee. Education for her was a major thing. There was no excuses to why you couldn’t achieve your goals scholastically. She made sure we had clean clothes, a roof over our head and a hot belly. That was all one needed y van en coche! Since my earliest memories of her there was never an empty Christmas, there was never a holiday that there wasn’t pasteles y pernil at the table. She did all this by herself and I do mean by herself. She relied on no man.

     It would be years that I would walk around being angry. At first angry just to be angry, then realizing angry with her for the way things turned out. I was angry that I didn’t have the great Brady Bunch kind of family. Hearing how it was for other kids and realizing I didn’t have that just etched deeper into my skin the anger and resentment. After some real serious issues I had to deal with in my life that left me almost dead, acquiring some clean time and gaining a sense of self was I able to understand that my mother had no choice and really didn’t know better. She gave and gave all of herself the only way she knew. It was then that I realized that everything she did was for my siblings and I. It was then that I was able to let it go.

     I can’t blame her for what she walked with. She didn’t come from a time that you shared your family things. Shit it wasn’t till I started writing personal essay and memoir that I started to hear her story. I had to understand that the abuse she went through she never learned to let go. This process of getting better was never taught. She had to live and keep to herself those demons.

    We are in an age where you do speak, where you don’t have to settle, where there are choices to everything, (even though we may not like the options). I had to understand that the ones made to protect her and keep her safe and have her best interest at heart took her and abused her. They took everything she was supposed to be and everything that kept her alive and abused it, fucked it, beat it, abandoned it and most of all never nurtured it. I came to understand that her reasons for living was to run away from a place that left behind endless memories of torture. She had to make herself hard and rough. All this before she was 13 years of age. No one looked out for her and in turn trusted no one. She was endlessly taken advantage of in every form till she came to New York and made her own story.

     Knowing this I can no longer be angry at her. I cannot hold her to all the beatings I got. She didn’t know better. She didn’t understand that there was a better way. She didn’t know how to dream and that so many things can happen if she just believed. To her it was just work hard for your home, provide for your children and that is all. Life didn’t come with extras.

     I am not saying I don’t have great me memories because I do but those are my teenage years and I made those memories. Abuse was rampant for me as a kid. Emotional starvation was a regular thing and it wasn’t done intentionally. Again she didn’t know. She literally was oblivious.

     I take care of her now and wouldn’t have it any other way. I love her. I have learned that she did what her heart told her and she did it with a ferocity that makes girls into kings. Yes I said kings. But she never got rid of all that was inflicted on her and by the time her children grew up it was not a thing that she cared to deal with. For her it was too late and there was no sense in peeling a scab to make it a new scar.

     She has been with me a month and a half from this writing and one thing I can say is that she hasn’t lost her comedy. She laughs often and hard. She loves her music and still enjoys singing. There was a time when she wanted to pursue a career but again dreams were not allowed. When we play that music she goes to this happy place and sings her ass off reminiscing about when times were carefree and music held a substance of dreams.

In my time and age I have decided to take care of my mother. Though our history is iffy in the sense of what I knew was right and what I know to be wrong changes and has caused hardship, one thing I am certain is that this woman has always loved me. In her own manera she gave me the best of what she had.

     My life growing up was hardcore. The things I was subjected to like physical abuse was enormous. The beatings I received at her hands were crazy. As a kid I deserved a few of them and even then not to that extent. She was ruthless. An assassinator when you got out of line or did things not to her liking. I walked in total fear of this 4’11 lady. She did whatever it took to have her boys in check. Manners were instilled with hard fists, wet leather belts and plain old screams and insults.

    She worked all her life. That is all she knew, it was all she was very good at. Coming from the poor countryside of Puerto Rico she vowed that when she was on her own she would never need for anything. Her work ethic was crazy. My mother was sick with it when it came to producing product as a seamstress working piece by piece for pennies in a sweatshop.

     She wasn’t the type of mom that had great conversations with me. She pretty much had rules and regulations and they were to be followed to the tee. Education for her was a major thing. There was no excuses to why you couldn’t achieve your goals scholastically. She made sure we had clean clothes, a roof over our head and a hot belly. That was all one needed y van en coche! Since my earliest memories of her there was never an empty Christmas, there was never a holiday that there wasn’t pasteles y pernil at the table. She did all this by herself and I do mean by herself. She relied on no man.

     It would be years that I would walk around being angry. At first angry just to be angry, then realizing angry with her for the way things turned out. I was angry that I didn’t have the great Brady Bunch kind of family. Hearing how it was for other kids and realizing I didn’t have that just etched deeper into my skin the anger and resentment. After some real serious issues I had to deal with in my life that left me almost dead, acquiring some clean time and gaining a sense of self was I able to understand that my mother had no choice and really didn’t know better. She gave and gave all of herself the only way she knew. It was then that I realized that everything she did was for my siblings and I. It was then that I was able to let it go.

     I can’t blame her for what she walked with. She didn’t come from a time that you shared your family things. Shit it wasn’t till I started writing personal essay and memoir that I started to hear her story. I had to understand that the abuse she went through she never learned to let go. This process of getting better was never taught. She had to live and keep to herself those demons.

    We are in an age where you do speak, where you don’t have to settle, where there are choices to everything, (even though we may not like the options). I had to understand that the ones made to protect her and keep her safe and have her best interest at heart took her and abused her. They took everything she was supposed to be and everything that kept her alive and abused it, fucked it, beat it, abandoned it and most of all never nurtured it. I came to understand that her reasons for living was to run away from a place that left behind endless memories of torture. She had to make herself hard and rough. All this before she was 13 years of age. No one looked out for her and in turn trusted no one. She was endlessly taken advantage of in every form till she came to New York and made her own story.

     Knowing this I can no longer be angry at her. I cannot hold her to all the beatings I got. She didn’t know better. She didn’t understand that there was a better way. She didn’t know how to dream and that so many things can happen if she just believed. To her it was just work hard for your home, provide for your children and that is all. Life didn’t come with extras.

     I am not saying I don’t have great me memories because I do but those are my teenage years and I made those memories. Abuse was rampant for me as a kid. Emotional starvation was a regular thing and it wasn’t done intentionally. Again she didn’t know. She literally was oblivious.

     I take care of her now and wouldn’t have it any other way. I love her. I have learned that she did what her heart told her and she did it with a ferocity that makes girls into kings. Yes I said kings. But she never got rid of all that was inflicted on her and by the time her children grew up it was not a thing that she cared to deal with. For her it was too late and there was no sense in peeling a scab to make it a new scar.

     She has been with me a month and a half from this writing and one thing I can say is that she hasn’t lost her comedy. She laughs often and hard. She loves her music and still enjoys singing. There was a time when she wanted to pursue a career but again dreams were not allowed. When we play that music she goes to this happy place and sings her ass off reminiscing about when times were carefree and music held a substance of dreams.

Advertisements

One comment

  1. The One-Eyed Angel · May 11, 2016

    Wow. We do have mommy issues in common. I’ve forgiven my mother too. And after reading this, I realized that my mother thought her way was the only way too. She was a devout muslim and growing up gay in her house made me an easy target for a long time. I haven’t spoken to her in four years. I hope she’s okay. Thank you for sharing.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s