Yesterday, I was thinking about a journal entry while I worked, and it occurred to me that in all this time, I've talked a zillion times about relationships I've had, etc., but I've never talked about mothers... My own mother, sure, but never anybody else's mother. As if they hadn't been of any importance to my life -- which, of course, is nowhere near true.
So, I'm at work, and I'm just about to leave, when I get this great, inspired idea for an entry, and I decide to walk to Jürgen's house. What the hell: his place is closer to my workplace, and I was sort of short with him last time I saw him. What the hell; figured I'd try to be a semi-nice human being to him to make up for it. So I get to Jürgen's house... and his dad pulls up...
Jürgen's dad is a nice guy. Doesn't smile much and laughs, like, twice a year, but he's a nice guy. Still, I've met the guy twice in my life, and I did NOT want to sit around, shooting the shit with a guy I don't KNOW, who never laughs. But once he drove up, and once we both realized Jürgen was going to be late, I couldn't exactly LEAVE... That would be SO impolite, to leave somebody sitting on the doorstep because you're too cold, or too bored, to wait any longer. As it turned out, I sat with Jürgen's dad on the steps for TWO FUCKING HOURS, trying to make small talk that would at least be of SOME interest. Damn, I wanted to go home. I was very close to just picking up my bag and running. As if it isn't uncomfortable enough, sitting with a kind of stranger who doesn't laugh... this was Jürgen's DAD... When Jürgen showed up, I dashed into the house and proceeded to polish off the remains of a bottle of wine. And I whispered to Jürgen's room-mate: "Dude, I am SO not drunk enough for this!"
So... I think it's a sign. I'm supposed to talk about families in my journal today.
...Have a bottle handy. You might need it. Hell, *I* will probably need it.
The first parents I met, aside from my own, my grapndparents, and scattered uninteresting friends of my parents', were Jill's. Jill lived on the hill behind my house; we rode the bus together and invented a secret language of code words for curses, body parts, and sexual functions. We also re-wrote the song "She Drives Me Crazy" into "She Drives SO Crazy" -- a song about our bus-driver, who regularly hit mailboxes. Jill was a cool chick. I was sad when she learned to drive and I never saw her again.
Anyway, Jill invited me over to her house for dinner one evening when we were eleven or twelve. I liked going to Jill's house, most of the time, because her family had MTV, and Jill and I could watch the "Wicked Game" video over and over, pondering the mysteries of love and naked (post-pubescent) women. But dinner? FAMILY dinner?
Her mother's name was Robin, and I think her father's name was Steve. Her mother was a soft, intelligent, pretty woman with short black hair and that "J.C. Penney mom" look about her. Her dad had a strong downstate-NY accent, and he scared the fucken SHIT out of me. I don't remember what he looked like, only that he was TALL, and he was SCARY. The night that Jill invited me for dinner, Robin cooked spaghetti, and piled about four BOXES' worth of spaghetti onto my plate, plus sauce and parmesan cheese. I about shit myself, but I started eating anyway. Finally, when I'd polished off about half of it, and was feeling bloated and on the verge of overstuffed death, Steve turned to me and asked, "what's the matter with you? You don't like it?" I almost ran home right then and there. I probably would have if Jill hadn't been sitting next to me, kind of grinning, as if her father wasn't the tallest, scariest man in the world. I don't remember the rest of the night. I think I stammered that I was full and then just sat in humiliated silence for the rest of the meal. But I never did go back to Jill's house, ever.
Erich's mom and I hated each other. It went back to some sort of feud between my family and hers, as I understand, but she took it out on me. (Of course, the feud was never TOO important... it started out when my mother and grandmother were regularly attending quilting guild meetings, and Mary, Erich's mom, was always there showing off her "progressive" quilting. The "progressive" quilts sometimes had glow-in-the-dark plastic nuns sewn onto them. Mary was a freak. My mom and grandma didn't quite know what to make of the nuns. They also didn't know what to make of Mary's "my-quilt-is-better-than-YOUR-quilt-because-I'm-an-ARTIST!" attitude. My mom and grandma HATED Mary. Mary hated them, too: after all, they were mere peons compared with an ARTIST.
So nobody was happy when I started dating Erich, Mary's son. Mary, far from being a "J.C. Penney mom," was a white-haired woman who looked older than her age, and regularly wore loose-fitting fat-lady dresses. She was probably thinner, and younger, than she looked. I think she took joy in looking pained. Gahd knows her son did. She had this look about her: the look of a woman who had given up, who had been beaten down her whole life. It was a martyred look: a look of "I've struggled my whole life to raise you kids and I'm an old lady and I'm tired and look at the treatment you give me!" I hope Erich never has offspring. I know he'd give them the same kind of shit.
Now, Mary's presence was enough to make one feel small and guilty. She had the effect of a priest on a Catholic who has spent the past few hours banging his girlfriend. Mary WAS one of her stupid plastic nuns. She also genuinely HAD given up on her children in some ways. I don't know when she'd stopped cooking dinner for her family, or expecting Erich to drive himself anywhere he wanted to go, but by the time we were dating, at sixteen years old, Erich was responsible for feeding himself, getting himself around town, and enforcing his own rules and regulations. Of course, Erich had to adhere to a million different rules, but was left to his own devices most of the time. From my point of view, it was kind of fucked up. Yeah, yeah, a sixteen-year-old should be responsible enough to cook his own meals sometimes -- maybe even often. But you can't give him hell about asking for a ride one morning when the car won't start; not and expect any respect. I think it was Mary's suffering face that made everybody respect her, despite the fact that she was a cold, mean old witch.
(...And believe me, she KNOWS I'm saying this about her... Mary hated me, and I hated Mary, and neither one of us ever bothered hiding it...)
The climax to the feud occurred in June of 1997. A friend of Mary's had a son who was graduating, and Erich was required to attend the party. Since Erich was spending the afternoon with me, I was also invited. Neither of us knew the kid who was graduating. Erich bribed me to go by telling me there would be free food. (Uh... yeah, and maybe that's a big deal to somebody whose parents DON'T ever cook for them...) So, I picked up my stuff, and prepared to hop into the car, when Mary stopped me. "Don't tell me you're going dressed like THAT..."
I was wearing a green tank top and a pair of leather pants. The leather pants may have been... well, leather pants, but they covered everything, and they didn't make me look like a motorcyclist, or a tramp. Hell, my own mom was with me when I BOUGHT those stupid pants, and allowed me to wear them to high school. Mary had NO reason to bitch. Ohhh, but bitch she did! She bitched and bitched and told me I looked like a tramp, and that no son of hers was going to be seen with me in PUBLIC wearing such an outfit. So, she brought me up to her room (upon the walls of which hung four or five of the "art" quilts... Real freaky shit...), and had me try on three of her own dresses. The first two were eighty sizes too big for me, but the third fit... sort of... It made me look like an Office Girl. And it was STILL too big. It came down to the bottom of my shins, when it was really just a knee-length thing, and the top kept slipping off my shoulders. Erich spent much of the night trying to please his mother by ensuring that the dress did not slip down far enough to expose my breasts. It was a huge task. That was a fucking horrible dress. PLUS! Everybody at the stupid party -- for the kid we didn't even KNOW -- was wearing jeans and dirty, ripped-up t'shirts! It wasn't a fucken cocktail party, f'gahd's sake! It was a comfortably trashy family having a comfortably trashy family gathering for their graduating son. They had a keg in the backyard. I would STILL have looked high-brow if I'd worn the damned leather pants.
After that night, Mary refused to speak to me. She told Erich she didn't want me in her house. She said she didn't want him spending all his time with a little slut like me. It was like everything from the stupid quilt-guild feud just burst inside Mary. It was like the leather pants had just sent her over the edge. She didn't want to have me included in ANYTHING that had anything to do with her. She stopped short of telling Erich he was forbidden to see me, but I did, from that day forward, stay in the car when Erich went to his house to change or pick something up.
...The funny part about it was that Erich's dad thought I was great. He was an engineer, and a fucking genius about physics and things. We talked about black holes, and why gasoline smells, and how to erect a bridge, and so forth. Erich's dad didn't give a damn about leather pants or plastic nuns. I hope, for his sake, he eventually finds the guts to dump that hellcat of a wife and find himself somebody halfway nice. He really deserved better than Mary. Hell, we ALL deserved better than Mary.
Then there was Greg's family. It's funny; I spent SO much time at their house, ate SO many dinners with them, had CHRISTMAS with them... and I still remember almost nothing about them, not even their names. The one really vivid incident I remember was the night Greg's family cat died. It was an old cat, and just kicked the old-age bucket, but the damned thing kept having these post-death spasms. It was fucking gross. You could tell from half a mile away that the damned cat was dead. It was STIFF! But Greg and his parents weren't the brightest crayons in the box. They argued for probably an hour, in tense, unhappy tones, about whether the cat was alive or dead, and what could be done to "save" it. Just one week earlier, my biology class had dissected frogs and by this time I was well aware of what jerks and twiches a dead thing might make. I tried over and over to explain, but Greg's family just wanted the damned cat to be alive. They were going to give it CPR when Greg's dad finally pronounced it dead. After a fucking HOUR of the cat lying on the floor, STIFF and COLD, they got it through their heads that the cat was dead.
Funny, how I remember the dead cat, but I don't remember Christmas.
Rachel's mom was a Christian, and a mighty Christian was she... Whereas Mary considered HERSELF God, Rachel's mom (whom I'll call Angelica, because I can't remember her name...) considered herself sort of... well, I think Angelica thought she was fourth or fifth in the heavenly hierarchy. It was God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, some saints, and then Angelica. Angelica, and her mother (who lived with the family), both answered the phone "Jesus is Lord." That is, they didn't say "HELLO" into the telephone, they said, "Jesus is LORD." Yes, I'm serious. The best part about THAT was that Rachel's telephone number was one digit off from a pizza-delivery place, and people would call, intending to order a large pepperoni and a diet coke, and would get "Jesus is Lord" on the other end. Freaky.
Nobody called Rachel much.
And sure as hell, nobody EVER knocked on her door.
Angelica, who had borne innumerable children (I think there were six kids, including Rachel... But they were always running around, and they were always sticky, so I never tried to stop them, line them up, and count them...), was a small woman with a thin, frightened face. She always looked angry, but she also always looked afraid. She was Piper Laurie's character in the movie of "Carrie." I can't tell you how many times I feared that Angelica would tell me -- or Rachel, or both -- to go to the closet and pray. Angelica always looked a little pained, too, but I actually believed that she was unhappy. After all, she was afraid of Satan -- ALL the time she was afraid of Satan. Plus, she had a buttload of kids who were always sticky and running around, and who KNEW what wraths those kids would incur upon themselves. Angelica FREAKED when she caught Rachel smoking. I don't know if Angelica ever caught Rachel at any of the OTHER "sins" she was constantly committing. For Rachel's sake, I hope not. Hell, for Angelica's sake, I hope not. She would have wept if she'd found her daughter consorting with pagans, doing rituals to goddesses, and having sex on rooftops with alleged vampires. Rachel was, I imagine, kind of Angelica's worst nightmare: a sort of Rosemary's baby, a sort of Damian, a sort of Carrie. A daughter who smoked was one thing: a daughter like Rachel was unthinkably sinful.
At seventeen, I could not appreciate Angelica's difficulties. And certainly, neither could Rachel, who was always getting grounded for one thing or another. So, one afternoon, Rachel and I decided to make out in her basement. What would Angelica have done if she'd found her daughter kissing another female? Neither of us knew. That was half of the fun. At LEAST half of the fun.
Rachel and Angelica are getting along better than ever. I don't know how THAT is, but I'm infinitely glad, for both of them. Eventually, I got scared to go back to that house, and after that day in the basement, (which Angelica never, ever knew about), I never saw Angelica again.
Mike's mom smells like applesauce. She called me "Mi hija." Mike's mom is sweet. I liked her a lot. I liked Mike's whole family. They were so perfect. Grandma called me "mi hija" too. Evidently, all the women in the family were these superior cooks. Even the cheeseburgers that Grandpa grilled were enough to make me want to cry, they were so good. I didn't understand much of what Grandpa said, because I don't speak Spanish, but I got the gist of his jokes, and laughed at the right times. A sweet, funny, happy bunch of people, with aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents who loved each other and got together every few weeks for dinner. Hell, some of my aunts and uncles I haven't seen since the last family funeral, back in 1995. Imagine a family who likes each other so much that they intentionally get together once a week or so? Heh! Yeah, me either. Mike's family rocks. I always felt like I was going to accidentally poison the whole lot of them. I tried to be very quiet and not say too much about drag queens, David Lynch, suicide, or making out with Rachel in her basement.
Peter's mom liked me. Peter's mom looked kind of like a barfly, but underneath it, she was a wonderful woman. She had a job and a bunch of kids to feed and keep out of trouble, so she always looked rushed and a little tired, but sometimes she made time for family, and several times, I was invited: Christmas was most notable, because people I'd never met before bought ME Christmas presents because they knew I'd be there, and figured anybody who Peter would dare introduce to his big, weird family, had to be okay. Now, Peter's family was kind of the polar opposite of Mike's family. Mike's family was the Brady Bunch, only bigger, and with darker hair. Peter's family apparently had plenty of freaks and black sheep -- this aunt was a drunk, that brother was in prison... -- but they STILL mostly all liked each other. The "family song" was "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." Nobody exactly knew why, but when they heard it, they'd all get up and sing along... Peter's family was fucked-up, and weird, and I got the feeling that Peter was more than a little embarassed, a few times, but DAMN I liked those people! Even Kenny, Peter's brother and aspiring criminal. Even Peter. Well, mostly.
I never met Norman's mom. (I'll call her Betty.) She died long before Norman and I met. But I like her anyway. Betty, from my understanding, was what one might call, "one tough bitch." Now, despite the fact that I never got the opportunity to meet Betty, I still always got the feeling that I wanted her to like me. Weird, enh? It's bad enough, loving somebody and hoping their mom likes you, but loving somebody and hoping their dead mom likes you? But see, I think Betty was, in life, aware of everything. The sort of mom with eyes in the back of her head. I suppose I don't really know very much about her, but what I DO know is pretty incredible. Ten years after moving to Seattle, she was a judge -- the first woman ever to hold the position she did -- and a mother of two boys who I can only imagine were hell-raisers... (Norman is STILL a hell-raiser, and I'm sincerely betting his brother's got some of it left in him, too...) I mean, you can't tell me that this woman did not have eyes in the back of her head. Can you understand why, despite the obvious factor of Betty's death, I was still kind of intimidated by Norman's mom?
The thing about moms -- and dads, and siblings, and so forth, but ESPECIALLY moms -- is that, if one human being can ever really belong to another human being in ANY way, people belong to their mothers, to their families. All relationships, between all people, are inherently possessive; that's why we say "this is MY friend," or "you are MY sister." It's kind of an offensive concept, if one REALLY thinks about it: belonging to anybody who knows you. In French, body parts aren't possessed: "J'ai mal à la tête" means, literally, "I have a sickness in the head." Not MY head, but THE head. It would be nice if I could introduce each other that way: "This is the friend, Jimmy. Jimmy, meet the friend Sammy." However, if there is any human being in the world who can tell me what to do, it's my mom. She doesn't have to use this guilt-shit on me, doesn't have to remind me of duty to family, doesn't have to bribe me. She's just my mom, and there's this power in that. Mothers are maybe the most powerful people in the world. If a cop told me to walk a straight line, and my mom told me not to do it because I'd fall over a cliff, I'd do what my mom said, even if it meant angering a dude with a gun. Certainly it isn't true that all mothers are GOOD mothers, or even that they all care about their children, but, for the most part, I really believe that most mothers DO love their kids, and would do damn near anything to keep them happy and safe. Yeah, yeah, that's pretty optimistic, and my mom the social worker would likely disagree, but work with me here.
So, forgive me, but I like to be on good terms with the mothers of my friends and lovers. It IS important, what they think of me. If I love somebody whose mom doesn't like me, a.) she's going to make my life a holy terror in order to keep her child away from me, and b.) who the hell am *I* to fight a mother for the attention and affection of her kid? Hey, I never carried anybody inside MY body for nine months, and gave birth to them. *I* have never changed diapers or driven anybody to school. I'm sure as hell not going to argue about somebody's happiness and well-being with that person's MOTHER, who is practically biologically obligated to ensure his or her well-being and happiness for a number of years.
Besides, moms can be really, really great. Aaron's mom, for instance, makes me laugh about something EVERY time I see her. Mike's folks showed me some new recipes and took me to California. Moms are great people. Well, a lot of times. Even Mary had her good points.
So, I've always really wanted Betty to like me. I've often felt watched, judged, in Norman's presence. Likely, it's been my neurotic imagination, but it doesn't really matter: same effect.
About a year ago, I happened upon a house Betty used to live in. I took a picture of it, because I just LIKED that house. It looked like all the other houses around it, but I liked THAT house, out of all the other houses in Seattle. Norman described that house to me later, and I'm positive it was the one they'd lived in. The picture didn't come out. But after that, I had a feeling of peace, as though Betty herself had led me to that house (and I really have NO other explanation as to how I managed to travel 25 miles, without a car, on my first day ever in Seattle, and "accidentally" find about 50% of the things I'd wanted to find...), maybe to express some sort of solidarity, or to give me some sort of a test, or maybe just to show me that house... If it was a test, I'm pretty sure I passed it. If it was a freaky coincidence and my imagination, I'm still pleased. I think if Betty is watching me sometimes, she likes me. Norman promised me once that she would, if she'd met me, and I believe it now. I like her too.
It was terrifying, meeting Jürgen's parents for the first time. Honestly, they still terrify me.
Portland was this sacred town where I could not go, the first two times Jürgen visited there after we'd met. He said it was too soon for me to meet his parents. Of course, he also didn't want me to meet his girlfriend, (who, for the sake of things, I'll call Catherine...) but that's another story.
I'm cool with just about anybody meeting my mom and Penny. I mean, my mom and Penny don't like ALL my friends, or all of my brothers' friends, but they're still hospitable, and happy, and funny, and welcoming. Everybody loves them. And often, they've invited friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, etc., over to their house for dinners, videos, gossip, and dirty jokes. Hell, once, my mom and Penny showed up on Norman's doorstep asking if he and I wanted to double-date and go to a gay-bar for some beer and dancing. They rock like that. Had I JUST met Jürgen on the bus, I wouldn't have hesitated at the thought of introducing him to my mom. She's cool like that: very down-to-earth. And I don't think she ever takes any of my friends or lovers TOO seriously. As in, she's not going to expect grandkids every time she sees me with a boy, and she's not preparing to throw me a lesbian commitment ceremony every time she sees me with a girl. So I don't understand somebody who tells me it's "too soon" to meet their parents. Why, after all?
In fact, it was probably really only "too soon" for me to meet Jürgen's Portland-girlfriend. However, I didn't KNOW that when I first met Jürgen's folks. I was afraid to even go in the door of his house. I felt every dirt molecule on my clothes swell up. I felt like they were going to sit me down and ask me about what my parents did for a living. I felt like they were going to ask me what church I went to. I'd always felt out of place with Mike's family; they were picture-perfect, and I wasn't, and before I even met Jürgen's parents, I felt sure they were going to hate me.
See, I'm not really a mom's dream for her kid, you know? Sometimes, (as with my friend Rachel's mother), I was the equivalent of running away with the circus. My mom's a lesbian, my dad threw me out of the house in favor of a worm of a girlfriend, I'm more likely to build a pagan altar than say a rosary, I smoke cigarettes, I want to grow up to be a fucken WRITER, and my first (real) novel is about vampires, sex, and the end of the world. If *I* were somebody's mom, I wouldn't let them hang out with me! Naturally, I felt like I had all of these things typed up, in neat block print, on my forehead, when I met Jürgen's parents.
(With Betty, I'm quite sure she wouldn't be too shocked at any of my quirks... Hell, her son's a musician and a philosopher; I think she'll be okay with me not attending church on a regular basis...)
Jürgen's parents were cordial. They were hospitable. His mom made waffles with fresh fruit, and sat down to watch me eat. (That's a sure sign you're being evaluated; moms love to watch kids eat. If you don't eat enough to satisfy them, they conclude that you're anorexic, or that you're a bitch for not liking their cooking... Having learned this long ago, with Jill's family, I ate about a zillion waffles...) They didn't ask anything about my parents, or how old I am, or church, or school, or whatever... But I still felt like their son was some kind of royal prince, and I was a gross little peasant girl. When I met Jürgen's parents, it had become more important for me to please THEM than it was to please him.
I failed anyway. I know, I know, they're a lot more conservative than MY parents, and so naturally, they weren't going to be delighted if Jürgen and I slept in the same bed under their roof. They set up a spare bedroom and the family camper, so we could sleep in separate beds. And I KNOW a lot of families might do that; if it's their moral value, then great. But their setting up two beds felt, to me, like a disapproval, like they were calling me IMMORAL. Because I DID kind of want to sleep with Jürgen, after all -- it's nice to be in bed with somebody you know and care about when you wake up in a strange house where you're already feeling pretty uncomfortable. Mike's family set up separate beds for us, too, but Mike was 18. Jürgen is 32. Family values or not, I felt I'd failed. And I felt even worse when Jürgen insisted it would be okay if we did sleep together in the camper. The next morning, emerging from the camper after David, I would have rather died than look Jürgen's mom in the eye.
A few days ago, I was cooking dinner for Jürgen and myself -- it's no fun to cook just for yourself -- when the subject of age came up. I don't remember why. But Jürgen said, "I'm not Humbert Humbert, you know. You're younger than me, but you're not exactly jailbait. I mean, my mom thinks you are, but..."
"What did she say?"
(Jürgen realizes he's said something stupid and his next statement comes out as a sad confession...) "She, uh... well... she thinks you're too young for me."
"Did she say that?"
"Yeah. I don't know if it was supposed to get back to me."
"Jürgen, everything moms say about their kids is supposed to get back to them. Who did she tell that she thinks I'm too young for you?"
(Jürgen realizes he's in WAY too deep, and appears to feel quite tortured...) "Catherine..."
If dinner hadn't been ready, I think I might have turned off the stove and gone off someplace to cry, just leaving everything where it was. I cannot imagine my own mother calling up Norman to say, for example, that she thinks Jürgen is too old for me. (Well, she definitely wouldn't say that to Norman, who is older than Jürgen, but whatever...) These things are BOUND to spread like wildfire, and I refuse to believe that Jürgen's mom didn't plan for him to hear it: that I'm too young for her son. And you know what? I think it's really fucking MEAN to call up the second-most recent girlfriend and impart viewpoints on the latest girl. Even if Jürgen hadn't ever found out his mom had been talking to Catherine and pointing out my flaws, it's no business of Catherine's anyway.
I feel like Jürgen's mom hates me. Either that or she's simply a rampant gossip, but she didn't REALLY strike me as that type. I feel like she was just being mean. I told Jürgen this: that I thought the other women in his life all hated me. (And why wouldn't they!? Two are still in love with him and he won't break up with them, and his mom most assuredly thinks I'm a tramp for sleeping in the camper...) Jürgen assured me that his mom likes me: "she just likes Catherine better."
I said I would not go back to Portland with him, not ever. I can't face his mom. I can't face Catherine's town. This town that's full of Catherine. I bet Catherine is pink-and-grey, just like Portland. Regardless, she's better than me. She's liked better than me. She's approved of, and I'm the tramp who slept in the camper with Jürgen. I never want to go back. I never want to see Portland again. Just as I used to sit in Erich's car, in the driveway, to avoid seeing his mother, I am staying here, on MY turf, in MY town, doing MY thing, and not getting in anyone else's way. I told Jürgen to tell Catherine, and his mother, that everything is completely over and done with as far as I'm concerned. I will NOT fight with a mom and a year-and-a-half-long girlfriend for Jürgen's affections. Even if it means I can't even be friends with Jürgen anymore, that's fine; I just don't want to unintentionally alienate myself from any more people because of him. And frankly, this thing with Jürgen's mom makes me feel uglier, smaller, and stupider than even Mary could. At least Mary was honest with me.
Last night, I spent two hours, alone, standing in Jürgen's driveway, with Jürgen's dad, who never laughs. I'd just dropped by to say hello. I didn't know Dad would be dropping by too. I was prepared to share a snack, or a video, or a brief synopsis of our respective days, with Jürgen. I was NOT expecting two hours' worth of chit-chat with a man I barely know, whose wife doesn't like me, and whose son is socially fucking retarded enough to TELL me his mother talks shit about me with his last girlfriend. I wanted to run away. I wanted to run and run and run. I wanted to run into traffic and be smushed by a bus. I actually started to cry, I was so anxious and tense. It was very dark out, so Jürgen's dad couldn't have noticed. I stared in silence, for awhile, at a cluster of stars that kind of looks like a Braille "N." I couldn't think of anything except running, and running, and being smushed by a bus. Oh, and drinking. Drinking a LOT, very quickly.
But this point came, as I stared at the cosmic "N," when, despite feeling horrible and dirty and clammy and bad, this slow peace gradually started to come over me. I thought about moms. I thought about cooking with Mike's mom, and helping to organize kids with Peter's mom. I thought about Norman grinding it with Penny on the dance floor of a gay bar, and MY mom and I standing there sort of giggling. I thought about Aaron's mom and I talking about the possibility of spaceships. (Aaron's mom and I like each other... Aaron's folks are fucken RAD...) I thought about Jane's mom, who made a whole "northwest" dinner in honor of my visit to Seattle. I thought about David's mom, even though I only met her once, because she seemed nice, and actually spoke to me like a fellow human being. And I thought about Betty, whom I AM pretty sure is watching me sometimes, and even smiling at me. In pictures, her smile is, like Norman's, an open, bright one.
I didn't run away. I sat there and made small talk with Jürgen's dad. I don't give a shit what he thinks of me. I don't give a shit what Jürgen's mom thinks of me. I don't give a RAT'S ASS what anybody thinks of me except the people I care about. I don't owe it to anybody to court their mothers. If a person is my friend, or my boyfriend, or whatever, that's THEIR business, and not that of their mother. And besides, a good number of mothers of my friends DO like me. If ever I DID require that kind of approval, I have a half dozen examples of moms who would welcome me into their house, feed me a good meal, and trust me not to destroy the life of their kid; moms who would call me "mi hija" if they spoke any Spanish. Maybe someday I will go back to Portland. I'll stay at a hostel, or with friends of MINE. Maybe someday, I'll go to Portland and not give a rat's ass that I don't belong anywhere near there and do not fit in, and would be a toxic addition to Jürgen's family if I ever saw them again.
MY mom likes me.
THAT is good enough. I'm good enough.
~Helena*
"Mother do you think she's good enough for me? Mother do you think she's dangerous to me? Mother, will she tear your little boy apart? Mother, will she break my heart?" --Pink Floyd, "Mother."