Mommy was ruthless! She was a tiny woman but ruled her house with an iron fist. It was easy to get fucked up in my house because mommy gave no breaks and took no shit, not just from her kids but by anyone. Once she handed out the beating it was followed with a- “And don’t go telling people that I beat your ass. Lo que pasa aquí no se habla!” She was a huge practitioner on loose lips sink ships! She never believed in talking family business no matter how tragic in public. Well #1 she thought nobody gave a shit. #2 all people wanted to be is nosey and gossip. #3 it really wasn’t anyone’s fucking busy. So regardless how private she was people still asked about me to her. Why my hands were so loose? Do you notice Rosa how he talks? You don’t notice that he likes to play with dolls? Have you seen how he walks? Mommy never spoke to me about it largely because it wasn’t a subject that mom spoke about, at least publicly.
I can remember the times that the mothers on the block would tell mom that I will grow up to be gay and she would give them the serious side eye and tell them to mind their fucking business. She wasn’t happy but she didn’t scold me in front of them. This is not to say that it was easy for her to accept but that’s another essay.
It was those moments, those times of trying to digest my lifestyle that I became unmothered. She was a great provider but emotionally she checked out. How I wished she asked questions, found time to see what I was about. I believe it would’ve saved me years of self-deprecation and self- sabotaging.
I wouldn’t have taken so much time trying to find myself in the arms of so many who were as disattached as my mother. As fate would have it I still searched for that acceptance in those all too familiar arms and eyes of no expression. Each reach that I made with my body was just a spark of hope that they would embrace me and tell me all will be well. Or that they accept and love me for exactly how I am.
It wasn’t till my late 20’s that I started to find me. After the fact of letting go of the drugs and roaming the streets. Every time hoping to find myself in the eccentric random people I met along my drug induced state. Breaking night running away from feeling myself, feeling the part, feeling the loss that I carried since birth but also when I could remember.
I can say it isn’t till now in my late 40’s that I get it. I understand not only her but myself. You can’t give me what you don’t own. Mommy never got it! I cannot expect something that was never given. Mommy was abused and came from a time that you didn’t even think of mentioning those things let alone share them with someone. So many ugly things happened to her before she was 9. Having to not only be subjected but not allowed to even process it. It hardened her which had to be done out of survival for her own mental well being. She stuffed it so deep that denial became a regular relative. She sealed off those situations in a abyss void of emotional value. So deeply that she herself doesn’t know how it affected her. How it stopped her from becoming the best version of herself. I can’t and don’t blame her. I’ve learned to forgive her. Yes I don’t forget what I went through but I get the reason. To many is not justifiable but it doesn’t make a difference to me. In understanding her and forgiving her I have found an immense sense of freedom like no other.?