I Don't Know How To Say It, Mom

I Don’t Know How To Say It, Mom

So I’ll Try My Best

For years, the silence and ignorance forced upon me had tormented my mind and body, to which can only be attributed to those who gave me the cognitive skills to lose sleep as I grew older and non the wiser. As a circumstance, mom, I can only say that my life has been a roller coaster with no end to the ride.

My mother, mom, as I called you, for short. That was my appropriate form to label you. To give you the respect you deserved.

Yet, I was a toddler, ignorant. Innocently preserved for the world’s conventions. Born to yearn the intent and understanding of how the world works. And who best to learn from than the first teacher, my mom. Unfortunately, not a single drop of experience quickened throughout my veins, as a “family unit” does when they are together.

You see, mom, I never knew why my parents, the binding force of the family, and who were supposed to be together, forever… separated.

The indication, as society taught me, was that dad was at fault. And so that is what I did, I hid the hatred for him. I succumbed to my whims and played the part of son to the father.

• It became prevalent to me that something was wrong with our family; however, in the back of my mind, I still felt like everything was okay. I could not discern the specific details because my youth did not allow me to see the truth.

Instinctively, one would say, that the truth should have been present and learned, as a part of growing up. This is what many call “common sense.” However, people, in general, need some sort of guidance to allow their wisdom, whether in large or small quantities of it, to grow.

That was not the case for me.

I was put under a dark-stained glass cup. Family would try to see me but could not because the glass was not transparent.

And as far as communication, what communication? Nobody spoke to me.

I remember the long flowing hair, black as the space between the stars, soft and bushy, and missed, even to this day. There was a certain smell to it, that culminated on to my sister, whenever we would hug one another. I saw you in her.

As unfortunate as it was, the only solution was for you to leave with my baby sister and left us boys, my older brother and me, alone with our father.

Did I think twice about it?

Of course not. Sesame Street played on the television. Fat Albert always came right after. Father always brought us candy. There were good times to make us forget.

In truth, inward, my heart would skip beats for every argument you and dad got into. The funny thing was that I was never afraid of the confrontations. At least, I didn’t show it, or admit my feelings to anyone: With time my heart considerably slowed to the rhythm of a dying dog.

I started to become an empty shell and felt like I just took up space on this planet. There was for me no place to express my emotions. Outward, my composure changed. My smile would turn to stone, as I cared less about what occurred around me. I stuck to friends from the streets, now that you were not around.

I had missed out on the motherly affections, such as warm hugs and kisses. I heard that the embrace of a mother, was of comfort, distinction, and most importantly, protection: The impulse to run into your arms whenever there was a threat nearby. However, there was no mother present.

Time past and your face faded into memory. I now possessed the power to conquer happiness with misery. And I truly became a master.

My impassive demeanor rubbed dad the wrong way. I guessed, because he never spoke to me, he felt like this was how I was meant to be. And even so, he never once explained the situation behind the divorce.

“Just remember that she is your mother.” This was all he ever told me.

As time passed on, I interpreted this sentence to mean:

“Just” know that I have a mom.

“Remember” she is always there.

“That” is the only way to remember her.

“She” can never hurt you unless you let her.

“Is” there no other way to know a mother’s worth?

“Your” survival depends on living without her.

This is what a “mother” should be.

For some strange reason, mom, your hair was all I could remember. The years had erased my memories of you, what little I had. I had forgotten what you looked like. I guess, the past, became redundant. If it sounds cruel, mother, I am sorry. But it is how it happened.

Puberty did not help either. I’m assuming the process of puberty becomes a challenge for other individuals. I can only speculate. It was completely tragic and disgusting for me. There was no where to look for answers.

Mom. I was young when I lost my virginity. You would never believe how young I was.

Mom. I bullied those who did not deserve it. I guess I followed the examples that I was given when I was bullied.

Mom. I hurt people. People who did not deserve to be hurt.

Mom. I stole. I vandalized. I broke into homes. I picked fights. I yelled at teachers. I punched holes in walls. Far too many of them. I explored sexuality very differently than what a “normal” person would have gone through. I cut myself. I stood on bridges and railroad tracks overlooking rivers, contemplating whether or not it would have been a quick death, or would the water have taken its time with me?

Anyway, I did not have the guidance necessary to become a critical, helpful, and productive person in society. I didn’t even challenge the norms. I simply whisked by them.

I mean, why not? I had no one to challenge my decisions. No one to say “that is not the proper way to act. That is not what you should say. That is not what you should do…”

It grew on me that my feelings for you became numb. I felt nothing.

Oblivious.

I did not even pretend to be oblivious, even when you slapped father behind the benches while we watched the softball game, at the time when we were still a “family”.

Your hatred for him superseded mine. Nobody told me why?

But I did not know you; therefore, I did not know myself.

I had to see you. To know you. To know myself.

When I grew my first mustache, and noticed the long strand of armpit hair, and my first chest hair, I made the decision that, in order for me to know you, as a person, a human being, a mother, I had to hop on an airplane and stay with you, until my mind could create great new memories to share with the world.

However, life played another cruel joke. Your time came, to face God, and I was never to see you again.

My vision quest ended before it even began. Only did I get to see your hair one more time in the downgraded coffin “family” purchased for you.

Now the real journey began.

Diligently I moved in with your older sister. My aunt.

Perhaps the inclination would have been to know you through your side of the family. Alas, it did not work. They too harbored some silence among themselves, and I was left to decipher the mundane intricacies of the world.

I set off on my own and did not even know what rent was. I worked two jobs, only to find out there was more in this world than just rent. Who knew things such as gas, electric, or phone bills existed?

Once again, time showed me how much I meant to others.

I had no friends. No family. Nothing that would indicate I ever existed.

I honestly believed that I just took up space. All the while, I never forgot the beginning of the story, the divorce. Why?

It was a lifelong process. At least, that’s how it seemed.

I thought perhaps time would heal my wounds. That was not so.

Three decades later, I had finally learned the truth. And all along it was staring at me. And loved me, as a brother. A wave of emotions swelled up inside of me. Unimaginable, that whenever the thought of it traversed my mind, I always cried.

He was born when you and dad separated. He was the reason why you parted ways.

Should I forgive you?

I don’t have the right!

You came before me.

You bore me.

You let me see the light.

Just as you betrayed the vows of marriage, I, as well, betrayed the sanctity of union. I, too, hurt someone who truly loved me. And worst, I did not beg for forgiveness. I couldn’t. I did not see the point in it.

Perhaps, I thought, the cold heart runs through me. Given to me by you. As no possible solution to defrost the icy veins could ever exist… Maybe this is what you passed on to me… Maybe this was my destiny… Maybe this was to be my future.

Therefore, do I have the right to be your judge?

No.

It was never my place to stand in judgment.

For every day after, whenever I faced the reflection in the mirror, it turned from a heathen and a liar, to a beautiful, misconstrued human being. Did you and I see each other in this manner? It’s kind of difficult to answer that question, since I never had a frame of reference.

I would turn my head and look out of the corners of my eyes to those who spoke about their mothers. I would praise them when I would not face them.

I would act chivalrous and defend the honor of any woman who was a mother, while my mind coursed through the history of your absence and betrayal to our “family”.

You see mom. As bitter as I turned out to be, I never forgot you. I always felt you in my heart. And it was through this experience that I became, not too brag about it too much, the best father any child could have.

I believe that it was your strength, your divine inspiration, in absentia, that I went from a weak-minded, gullible individual, to the powerful and direct human and beloved father, that I am today.

Through my experiences, and as guilty as this may sound, your beloved absence and my indirect observations, helped guide me to be a different person. Someone who knew what had to be done when it did not happen as I grew up.

If you were but to glimpse at the work that I have done with my children, your grandchildren, you would be proud of me.

The treasure to be called “mother” are the riches I carry to be the best father.

It is you, mom, who should forgive me.

Because I live in you, as you live in me.

Always in my heart…Always in my soul.