i got up this morning with no particular plan. go check out poor honey's used furniture in east oakland, maybe skit over to alameda. i checked my phone and got a message from a woman named beverly about ma. i thought, well she's probably taken a turn.
about eight months ago ma had been diagnosed with bladder cancer and after that she was on chemo, then after that on pain meds. the last time i spoke to my sister, she was supposed to transition to hospice in the next several months, but that all came suddenly to a halt.
' i'm so sorry,' beverly said. ' but your mom passed away last night.'
'what?! oh no!!!! ma!!'
everything's coming to a grinding halt.
beverly said she and another neighbor were there with her and anointed her oil. what that a catholic thing?, i thought. probably. this ritual is mentioned in psalms, which i came across in ma's notes. she said some other things, but i was struck, suspended. you see, i hadn't talked to ma in at least a year. we had issues, busted things between us. our disagreements would become meltdowns no matter how chill i was or if i walked away. screaming through closed doors. over the years i made numerous edits, tried every strategy to maintain our relationship; no more holiday trips, fewer visits, fewer phone calls, fewer still. i tried patience, compassion, and pleading and nothing worked. she would lament about the past, about my grandfather, or my father, or how hard it was raising my sister and i alone. ' in my family you make your bed you lie in it.' she said once. this is italian for suck it up and suffer. talk to the priest, talk to god. carry on even in your misery.
so she did just that. she stayed in california with two black kids, adrift, and went to work. she did the best she could with little support and a modest income. she lost one job because she had mixed kids and her boss was a racist (she told me about this years later). after she left pop, she moved us into a tiny flat in the mission, across the hall from a psychotic hippie. he nearly burned the place down during a heroin induced satanic ritual. i have a hard time hearing anything by uriah heep since then.
that was that. a friend of ma's in berkeley was moving to hawaii and offered to have to take over her lease. in 1977 we packed up and left the city for what was to me another world. i was a city kid, a hood kid. i was going to school in the bayview and we lived in the upper mission past what was army st. back then. i started 5th grade at longfellow and. i wasn't used to all the white kids. most of the kids at burnett were black, latino, or filipino. sure ma was white, but white kids were the brady bunch.
we adapted and soldiered on. we moved from one flat on grant st. to another past channing in 1978-79. that was our neighborhood for the next 17 years. by the early 1980s i discovered punk which drove ma bonkers. my style was not aligned with her 1950s-60s sensibility. it's not like that for a girl! to her the music was unadulterated garbage. i grew up listening to in her words, real music like the beatles, joan baez, and janis joplin. the motherfucking eagles. punk was my salvation from my parents at the time.
'turn that down! what are they even saying?'
'uh...time enough for us to die?'
' what does that even mean?.'
ma rolled with it though and i appreciated her for that. she realized i had zero aspirations to be a cosby kid or anybody's prom queen. i was a rude girl. we had one big row around 1986 when i decided to get my nose pierced.
' don't you dare!' she said. ' i'll feel like i'm sitting across the table with an african.'
i paused, ' but ma i am african.' a friend pierced my nose in the bathroom of a punk house with an ice cube. i was nothing if not a defiant adolescent.
growing up in the east bay, i had a fear, an apprehension of my black life coming for me. the displaced, the drama, the side chick with a buster, the broke down cars, and broke down souls. i had relatives and friends going through it and knew what all that looked like. i had a schizophrenic father who had abused ma and neglected his kids. i wasn't going to start out the gate doomed. america wasn't gonna get me. i never talked to ma about the hardcore black things, but these are real and they exist. songs of the dispossessed, negro spirituals. black people are innately hardcore because we are descendants of the hardcore. our experience and condition in america is tough at all times. ma came from a generation and background that was 'pull yourself up by the bootstraps.' an italian sensibility that was rooted in hard work and that hard work reaped reward. slaves worked hard and reaped no reward; only profound suffering and death. how could she know that the same rules just don't apply to black folks? i learned early on that i had to fight in order to accomplish anything. no matter how well i spoke, worldly or sophisticated i may become, i am still a direct descendant of slave carriage born in america.
ma knew she couldn't understand, but she tried. she paid attention. she gave me clippings of interviews with nzotake shange and articles about lorraine hansberry, both of whom inspired me. i was also into science fiction, dystopian horrorcore, epic novels about love, ghosts, and war. the scarlet letter, red badge of courage, amityville horror, the jungle, 1984. it wasn't until my early 20s that i went deeper into black writers and black thought. by then i was living in new york, where i fell in love with black people and hip hop. there were more black punks at shows than i'd ever seen back home in berkeley. a brave, new world.
poor death
i had recently read an interesting, beautifully written article by ruth margalit in the new yorker about the death of her mother. i had been preparing for the inevitability of it, the finality of it. ma's prognosis wasn't good and she had just turned 79. then it came out in therapy : i want to be there to say goodbye, to let her know i loved her even if we hadn't spoken in awhile. in recent years i had to estrange myself from the madness. the last time we were all together, around christmas 2012, my sister and ma had become so enmeshed with another - a co-dependent relationship where there was always a jockeying for power between them. it was terribly sad and unhealthy. it made me lament for when we were kids with ma. those days were at times hard, but our relationship to one another was better. i suppose because we were the mother and her kids and not the damaged adults (to one degree or another) we'd all become.
ma grew up in duchess county, a few hours north of new york city. dover was a small town which had been largely settled by italians and several wasp families. one visit in my 20s i met the kellers, a family that grew corn for kellogg's corn flakes. the kellers had a portrait of themselves done sometime in the 1970s, hanging in the foyer of their home. when we were kids, we visited when nonno (my grandfather) was still alive. he and ma always spoke italian to one another. i remember the scent of homemade ravioli and marinara in the house. once we took an excursion to an apple orchard outside of town. it was charmingly northeastern to me. were we in a buick? i remember sitting next to my sister in the back seat of a big car, ma driving, and nonno beside her in his fedora hat. he liked red wine with a 2 minute boiled egg in the morning and smoked cigars. angelo was from another world and smelled like soap.
sister to sister
after that chat with the beverly lady, i called my sister.
'so, i guess we have to figure out what to do about ma.'
' well, i know more than you do...,' she said.
what a callous thing to say. she started talking over me and i over her. 'fuck this!!!" i shouted. ' goddammit!!" click. crickets. just like that we cancel one another out. my sister and i are wired differently. i can run my mouth, but i've de-programmed myself to be more present and listen, even if i start to get bored with redundant statements and innocuous details. i never dealt with the stresses of life effectively because i had no one to model that for me growing up. it's been an arduous process of trial and error.
listening is love, a friend said to me once. so i listen as my sister processes things out; the unknown, the speculative, variables, the plan A, B, and C. i sat in the car talking to the coroner for an hour. she said.
okay. i'm not sure what that meant. that she was dealing with it? she was getting right to it?
after awhile i got my shit together and called her back. she derailed at first something about telling her therapist i don't listen. baffling. she would say the same about ma. one would think no one ever listens to her based on the frequency of that complaint. i wasn't going to quibble. i never hear her say, i don't know when she in fact doesn't. sometimes we don't know - what to say or do or how to handle a thing. we're human.
' do you want me to meet you out there and help? you can't do everything on your own. that's not healthy.'
she paused, ' yes. i think it would be helpful if you were there.'
' okay, cool.'
booda talks in a lot of metaphysical platitudes (my authentic self, my truth, et al). i say fuck that (indigitation) and what the fuck (exasperated) a lot.
the busted things
in the end, ma died of a broken heart. she was always very guarded, a keeper of secrets. she had a breakdown when i was 12 and my sister was about 11. she went off to hospital for a few weeks then. this was a very hard time of uncertainty. we were children barely able to care for ourselves. a neighbor called child services to check on us, but i felt at the time like that was a betrayal. that's when i got really scared. a few friends checked in from time to time, but we were mostly on our own. eventually she came home, but she never talked about it. she would only make references in the years since, ' i cracked up.' or ' ...when i lost my marbles.' she never expanded on it or opened up. during that time, pop never called to check on us or showed up. i think he was back home in michigan at the time, living with grandma and going through the social services system until she put him out.
saturday
text: just checking in. do you want to skype later today or tomorrow?
text: tomorrow
text: are you okay? your text was strange.
she called me back.
' what did you mean my text was strange? how exactly? what did i text?'
' uh...i just wanted to see how you're doing.'
' well, the place was horrible when i got here. there was piles of stuff everywhere. beverly, you know her neighbor that found her body, said ma didn't want any help cleaning. she insisted on doing it herself, but she couldn't - she was on meds and used a walker. i'm exhausted - i haven't stopped since i got here. i just took a break for 10 minutes.' she spoke quickly and without a breath.
' i was talking to beverly, ' she continued. ' and i told her about the conversation with zia, how cold she was and she said. oh yeah, there's something i should tell you,' she said. ' ma told the zias that i said it was inconvenient for me to come out here sooner than i planned. that i couldn't afford it. i was shocked...i was ready to...',
' booda, that was a lie....,' i said. then i felt the anger come up and out. ' what the fuck? dammit, ma!!' tears. 'i'm so sorry about that.' i said finally.
' but wait....what i don't understand is why the zias believed her?''
' babe, i don't think you see how deep the rabbit hole goes here. you had her move out because you sold your house. that was strike one. then you decide to come back to california and leave alone in her old age out there - strike two.'
'but i was there for her for so many years. i took care of her...i...'
' you have be at ease with knowing that you did that. in the end it didn't matter. ma had mental and emotional issues. narcissists create their own reality and their own narrative. you're either an ally or an enemy. she was a keeper of secrets and i'm sure did not paint an honest picture of herself - the gambling, the meltdowns - to her sisters.'
' well, you were very attacking when you visited that time. if you understand a narcissistic personality then you shouldn't have done that.'
'yes, i damn well should have. i would do it again. you were in bad shape living with her and dealing with her issues. she was yelling and screaming, making threats, and calling me names - of course i was going to defend myself. no one was going to treat me that way, not even ma. every time you and i went out on our excursions you vented about her. '
'no. you were the one who brought her up, not me.'
' alright. fine.'
' i...i can't i can't talk about this anymore. i'm exhausted. '
text: girl! are you free? my sister is driving me bonkers.
text: ' yes, call me.'
regine (swiss-german accent) : girl, i know this is fucked up but you have to go through it. this is how families are. obviously your sister is confused and dealing with a lot of shit. don't get worked up about it. it doesn't matter now, the past.
'it just breaks my heart that ma was lying and creating this drama with the zias.'
' well, but your mother's heart broke a long time ago. she was mentally ill, girl. yeah sure, therapy and working shit out you wanted - she couldn't do it, lisa. she tried to keep it together and she couldn't do it anymore. life beat her down, but you know she loved you both, no matter vhat. you see?'
' fuck.'
i don't think i'm handling this well at all. it's this big vast black hole of grief, anger, and drama. denver is going to be a drag, but i said i would help and i keep my word.
i thought it would be nice to have the memorial back in NY with family, but my sister is resistant to the idea. all kinds of excuses. i think she's afraid of being rejected there; feels more in control in denver. i see her in my mind talking to beverly and somewhat of a dupe; not getting how damaged ma was, even in death, when she hears a disturbing truth outside of her reality :
i hear her saying : but i did so much to support and help her over the years. lisa did nothing but fight with her. i was the good daughter. i did everything right...how can the zias treat me like this?
email:
booda, i'm so sorry about all of this. i have a weird mix of anger and anguish. i mean, i knew i would be a pariah by not having spoken to her. i expected this, but you don't deserve it. you were very kind and supportive of her over the years. please know i appreciate all that you did.
ma was deeply, irreparably damaged. this happened a long time ago and became amplified over the years. it's quite sad and tragic, but it's the truth. i am so very sorry. just know that you were very dear and good to her. you don't have to explain yourself to anyone.
xo
*e*
she chilled a bit after i sent that. she asked me to write an obituary for ma so i sat down this morning and wrote it. in the end, it was quite lovely and in a way cathartic in dealing with all this.
before i sent it, i asked booda not to make any changes to it. she balked :
' but i wanted to add to it, ' she said. ' it was my idea to put in an obituary.'
' let me do this, booda. you can do whatever you want for a memorial. i'll support whatever you decide.'
' it's not about compensation, but whatever. i'll write my own thing and share it with whoever i want. just say you're sorry.'
' i'm sorry.' (sigh...fuuuuck).
why just can't she be cool about it? i thought.
' beverly said the zias are mad at all of us.'
i didn't respond to that because...wait for it..i didn't give a fuck. what did any of that even matter now? that statement told me booda was more focused on being singled out in some way, of being wronged, rather than the bigger context of the damage ma had done in her narcissism and anguish. i suppose she was having a hard time reconciling her heartbreak and disappointment over it.
post
'oh, you were about 2 and nina was just a baby. when was that? 1969, i think. that's when we lived on shrader street. they were playing in golden gate park. i thought they were great. well, things got kinda dicey and the hippies started rioting. i was holding nina and this kid helped me carry you out on his shoulders.'
jefferson airplane, white rabbit
' nonno and nonna took me on a cruise to italy to visit the family. i was about 19. i met this guy vinny on the ship. he was born in sicilia and worked as a numbers runner for the mob. very handsome and sharply dressed. he wore this beautiful gold pinky ring. he was going from sicilia to egypt and asked if i would meet him in cairo. could you imagine? i wanted to go, but nonno absolutely forbade that idea. che pazzo! he said. in my day you obeyed your parents. period.' xo
o sole mio (enrico caruso)
' when i was a kid i remember the first time i ever saw a black child. i thought she was the most beautiful little girl i'd ever seen. i told nonna i wanted one when i grew up. it sure worked out that way, didn't it? my rainbow bambinas.' ' ma that is so friggin corny. ' oh, basta.'
miriam makeba - pata pata
post
ma was a huge fan of his. i had to come to grips with the fact that ma liked country music. as a kid to me it was hee-haw status (laugh). kristofferson, kenny rogers, john denver, merle hagard - all those cats. my pop as well liked the film deliverance and its soundtrack, so there was that. i was exposed to a lot of music between my folks. i'm a walking encyclopedia of it, really. italian folk and opera, jazz, soul and funk, calypso, african, r&b, blues, rock n roll, country. it's a beautiful thing coming from two cultures.' xo
kenny rogers - the gambler
girl, what?
' i'm very aware. i've studied metaphysics and psychology.' booda said.
(dude. not really. if you'd been clear you would not have been a co-dependent to ma).
'the zias always used to call and chit chat. love ya, hon! '
'when did that stop? when you sold the house and ma moved out?'
' wait...it did stop around that time.'
' well, you went against the narrative. ma didn't want you to sell the house and move out, and ma certainly didn't want you to leave her alone out there. '
' but i can't make my own decisions?'
' it had nothing to do with what you wanted, love.'
thursday (denver)
i've worked steadily since i got here. bagging clothes for donation, emptying cupboards, boxes and bins of collected and forgotten things. i made a mix tape of songs that remind me of her - italian songs, corny romantic pop, rock, and country. booda had done so much and she was overwhelmed with details. she was leaving mid-morning to deal with closing her accounts. i went to give her her bag and keys.
' lisa put it down. i can get my own stuff.'
'i'm just trying to help.'
'why are you pushing me out the door?'
' that's what you think i'm doing?....dude.' i shuffled away.
text: e, i'm sorry i snapped. i'm just really mad at ma. i love you.
text: i understand. you two were very close. this is all so fucked up. love you, too.
i noticed she started referring her to as 'ma' again which she hasn't done in years. she always gave some metaphysical woo woo of practicing detachment for calling her 'mother' or 'norma'. i never liked either. it sounded condescending and disrespectful. after we took a load of things for donation we talked about the memorial her neighbors had planned.
i think it's a lovely gesture i said. ' but i can't do it. i want to grieve with family, not strangers. this is about family. i don't want to go.'
this gave booda pause. i could see she's confused, stressed out, and being polite (as ma raised us to be). she was into it; researching projectors, and discussing details and cake with beverly and the building manager.
i think the last straw for me was being approached by a woman named emma earlier today
' are you norma's daughter lisa?'
'i am.'
' oh! i'm so sorry your mom passed. this must be hard for you not having talked to her. hey whatever happens behind closed doors, right? god bless you.'
(excuse me? who the fuck are you? what do you even know about me and ma?)
'thank you.' i said.
booda nattered on about social security something and the remainder of her medical bill, which could easily be forgiven or charged off.
three words, i said no - four! i don't give a fuck. try it. it's liberating
right, but what i'm saying is.....
(that cheeky aside just flew right on by my girl there).
some moments have been touching. remembering ma's phrases and corny dance moves, finding a sterling corno for booda.
what's it called? she asked
a corno. it's an old italian pagan symbol. i've worn one for years.
i noticed that. what do you mean 'pagan'?
' yes, as in the time before christ. it protects you from evil.'
she put it on.
there you go! 'i said, now you look like a proper italian woman. wear it with pride.'
booda was stressed out. we're sisters, but her issues can be difficult to navigate. she talked incessantly, even about personal family stuff to ma's neighbors and friends. please dial it down, i said. these people aren't family. she said nothing; went in ma's room and slammed the door.
dinner with miss beverly was terribly awkward, i didn't have much of an appetite, but had to eat something. i told a ma story, nina had to beat it with more detail.
thanks for telling the same story, i said.
then she was getting a bit too personal and i shook my head no. stop.
what i was going to say was...!!! she huffed. she finished her anecdote, but not before chucking a piece of bread down on her plate. she looked undone sitting there, hunched over, and ready to go off, but still stuffing her face. in an odd way she reminded me of ma in that moment; of being on the verge of a meltdown. i resolved to shut up after that.
some moments with her were odd. when going through ma's things there was one photo we came across. 'i want this one and i really don't want you to have it.' she said.
(uh...okay.)
another comment when talking about the possibility of reserving a lyft or uber to the airport.
can you give me the 30 bucks for it? she asked, in an almost pleading tone. it was weird. i ignored that and moved on to something else.
then friday, she retracted that entirely. get your own car or shuttle! i'm not getting you a lyft or giving you a ride. you did it to me!
booda, i picked you up from the airport. you had to figure out your your own way back. i did that because you have dependency issues. i said. i'm not an asshole.
she piped down after that. what is up with her and the petty tit for tat? after all these years she still seems to keep score on this and that like a child. did she stop developing somewhere when we were kids?
' ma left me as the beneficiary of her accounts. i chose to give you half. '
(girl, what?)
this morning she was on one about probate and ma's remaining medical bill. sign your check over to me and mail it to my house. whatever is left over i'll send back to you. thank you for attending to this legal matter. she has such a strange hang-up and tone around money.
another incident happened when i was looking at one of ma's passports from the early 60s. booda was chatting away to miss beverly who had stopped by.
don't steal it, booda said. i'm watching you.
(again. girl, what?)
we're planning to visit over thanksgiving. honestly i was a bit reticent, but i'm worried about her and think it will be good for us to spend some time, but i'm not having any crazy. i told her before i left that she can reach out any time, but i'm not doing dependency or replacing her relationship to ma.
in a moment of vulnerability in the car we went to the store. she referred to her 'ho-hum' life.
' i haven't done anything or been anywhere.' she said.
' booda, your life is your life. if you want to do something - decide to do it. you often put your own obstacles up - bills, expenses, whatever. you could spend your whole life being tethered to that way of thinking. '
after visiting her in LA last christmas, she mentioned that my ' presence was good for her.' my hope is that she figures out how to be good to herself. i always say she's a sweetheart, a good woman person and thoughtful.
i got home saturday and took BART into the east bay. i was on the verge of tears most of the time. i had to transfer at macarthur, but decided to walk and be heartbroken in my head. i got as far as ashby but then cramps overtook me. my girl julie came and picked me up. such an awesome friend she is.
i spent the rest of the day and into the night with horrible cramps, unable to eat. i took two pain meds and slept off and on until early sunday. i barfed a few times, but nothing came up. i hadn't eaten a thing since a banana on the flight. (i call this stress starving). intermittently, i cried uncontrollably. i have never felt such overwhelming sadness in my life.
monday
still working it out if i can mange being at work tomorrow. the term is over so i expect it to be very quiet, which is what i need right now.
i've resolved to hang in there with booda as best i can. she's damaged and confused. she loved ma dearly and she herself needed to be loved, to be parented when we were kids. i had mentioned to her once that we had been neglected, but not by ma. we were neglected by the circumstance we were in with ma. it was overwhelming for her raising two kids on her own, trying to hold it down after leaving an abusive relationship.
i looked at old pictures of us as kids, photos i hadn't seen in many years. how cramped that apartment on grant st. was. as a kid you adapt, i guess. i couldn't deal with pictures of me at middle school age. i was so fat and awkward. it was years before i came into my bones and smile. i must have blossomed somewhere - maybe after leaving home? after getting away and getting my life.
i wonder if we were always doomed to a life of suffering and poverty? to trauma and poor ma's grave misfortune? why? i don't get it. i remember those times fleeing from my dad to stay with friends and once to a catholic shelter south of market. i remember seeing the animated snow queen there and eating porridge one morning. i looked out the window of our small cramped room to the rainy street below. in my childish mind i treated it all like an adventure, a day off from school. i can't imagine how desperate ma was at the time.
tuesday
back at work. it's nice to be around my colleagues here. everyone has been so kind. booda is being an ass about detail in the memorial video. everything is a competition with her and her insecurity issues. the grandparents came to the US in 1931. piccola is not spelled picolla. she chose not to mention joe, who ma was married to for at least 6 years and moved cross-country with him from NY to SF?
WTFM...so she wants to write her own version of ma's story, of the truth? she asks for feedback and when i give it (facts!), she becomes defensive. she said she made edits, but i'm not watching that video again. the truth just is.
i'm sitting on that check for now. there's a finality to depositing it, i guess. the end of the end.
booda has not mentioned probate or ma's remaining bills. no news is good news, i suppose. i'm going to leave it alone. my sense is that all of her wig-out on not knowing what the process entailed, the possible abstract expense - had her worked up. particularly the fear of being stuck with any financial responsilbility. those irrational causal questions keep coming up in my mind : were we cursed in some way; doomed to lives of struggle. why did pop turn abusive and mentally unhinged? why was nina always spinning round and round looking for a parent? dabbling obsessively from one thing to next until she burned out? becoming so dependent? why did ma fall apart? why did she start gambling compulsively and become so abusive and narcissistic in recent years? why have i gone through such struggles with men, poverty, and at one time even homelessness? my life is chill now and i feel quite content, but why have i had to solider through such a wilderness to get here?
(i wonder, do i sound alright? is the expression on my face giving me away? maybe death makes people uncomfortable. like it's a disease that one can catch).
thursday
i was having a weird dream last night involving the zias. i woke up nauseous and shortly thereafter threw up. stress? hormones? boh. i finally went back to bed and slept in a bit. i think the whole situation, her death, the zias, booda's state of mind, and behavior - it's all such a shitshow. i wish we'd been more solvent, that ma hadn't come undone with the gambling and rages, that she and booda didn't have such an unhealthy co-dependent relationship, that pop had done more to help ma out when we were kids, that i myself wasn't so damaged from all that drama growing up, but i'm healthier now and i'm here.
friday 5/27
i am irreparably, profoundly changed since ma's death; suspended, altered, but i can't figure out how yet. there's a void of sadness and confusion.
why couldn't i take it anymore and finally distance myself? i suppose it was for my own survival. families can be complex systems and dysfunctional families can become toxic and chaotic, even if love is there. well into my 40s i realized that every interaction with my parents was a trainwreck. i would either shut down or fight back. i had found the only solution for me was to live. stil, in the end with regard to ma, i feel like i betrayed her.
i was telling a friend recently, one can spend their whole life in the mix of madness; wasting energy and sanity. i chose to look up and out into the world. it started with leaving berkeley and moving to NYC. it continued with traveling around the country, lone road trips through the west and south, and traveling abroad. i learned how to get lost. going into the unknown has saved me. i experienced awe and wonder, sometimes even danger. it is to me to be wide awake.
ma's death has only strengthened my resolve to leave the states. to be anonymous somewhere else; to speak another language, to reconstruct my existence. i'm stable in my life here, but not inspired. each time public space is put up for sale or rent, or i see nothing but black and brown faces in service jobs. it only stokes my indignation and my frustration. america is a lie that will kill me if i stay.
text: ...what do they mean attitude in my text? i'm stumped. i was asking for clarification to a question. people suck sometimes.
think, tap...delete. she texted me something apparently about someone else. i don't want to know, i don't care to know. she's got to work things out (with others, within herself), one step at a time, love.
chain smoking. calm, but confused. why did she have to go before pop? why was she in such pain and anguish in recent years? why is my immediate family wrought with mental illness?
mekela called today to see how i was doing. meh. quiet, sad, and contemplative, but not the bawling mess i was. she said to focus on the good things - the happy memories of childhood, of being loved, of ma not giving up on us no matter how hard it got. the camping trips to shasta and tahoe and pizza at woolworth's on saturday.
i've been watching film adaptations of dysfunctional families. i pulled up august : osage county about a family in oklahoma. an abusive drug-addicted mother and alcoholic father who drowns himself. battle of wills between mother and daughter. fun stuff.
i'm more drawn to my friends who've lost a parent. they seem to understand. i've decided to get lost for a few weeks in july. i thought of cuba but it's a myriad of hoops to travel there legally. you can volunteer with a program and pay the program's fee, have a full itinerary of activities and cultural programs. you can't just go and get lost.
so i looked into haiti, which was my scheme several years ago. i was driven by love of lois mallou-jones work and her time there in the 1940s. ubi girl from tai is one of my favorite pieces of hers. haiti it is! cheap and unusual. i need to sit on a veranda and look out onto the sea, to get lost in the citadelle laferriere . to figure out how to be in the world now. left with sadness, and wreckage
thursday
it's stressful trying to make things happen. my head spins on details to travel, but i have to do it. moving money around, getting the rent paid, airbnb guests, bills, paying booda for some of ma's expenses. ack! i know rationally this is american life, but it sucks not being able to just sit on money and not spend. i know booda is stressing because she had so much stored at ma's place that she had to ship home and probably didn't expect to do that suddenly.
why didn't she think to have the rent reduced for the month? she was spun out on things and didn't think about it i guess. neither did i? no. it never occurred to me in the midst of grief. we were both a mess.
monday
fucked up dream trying to escape denver with my cat (an orange tabby that looked like baji, a cat we had as kids) big balloon machine mechanisms part chitty chitty bang bang, part nick cave performance artist. , UPS trucks and 747s, a flight attendant in a striped jump suit (she looked like naomi watts), fighting with booda, a video montage of a dude i was seeing several years ago. why him? maybe because he was sweet and caring unlike the few busters who followed. he gave me a copy of gimme something better about the bay area punk scene from the 1970s - 90s.
friday
my friend and colleague kyle (my secret gay love) shared this with me : romans 5:3-5
Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.
i guess....
saturday
it's been a month since she passed. i've been listening to a lot of vintage reggae and dub; the upsetters and king tubby and the like. it's soothing and chill to me. i'm slowly learning to accept ma's death, to walk with it. in the end, we loved one another dearly. i can see that in my art she kept for many years, letters written during my new york days, postcards from my travel abroad. it was touching to know she still had these things. so i go on, differently. i'm not very social these days; more quiet and introspective. i look forward to going to haiti. i imagine i'll find a skiff somewhere and float along and think about my time with her, all the love, and support i had as a kid. the cuddles. i realize now in retrospect my sister and i did have that growing up and for that i am grateful to ma.
take me to the river, drop me in the water.
friday
i got home today and depression hit me like a wave. i was overwhelmingly sad about ma passing, stressed about my health, the chaos the world is in, and the hardships i've been through with family
and life. i sat and thought about my childhood and adolescence; moments and memories with ma. after her breakdown, i remember having a holiday dinner with her, kenny, and nina. ma seemed so vulnerable and fragile at the time. kenny was very kind to her. i think nina and i tried to cook that evening so ma could take it easy.
i zig zag to thoughts of booda and her sad life. all those years living with either pop or ma into her adulthood, never having a relationship, her obsesssive approach to things until she burns out. when i was last in denver that christmas, myself adrift after giving up my place, i didn't know what to expect really. they are family and i had no place else to go. i was making things up as i went along.
but i couldn't stay around ma and booda. it was a crazy and sad scene in that house. as i reflect now (and i mentioned this in therapy) i've been more willing to go into the unknown than be in the same house with my immediate family. i can cope better with myself alone. i think that was a motivator in moving to NYC all those years ago.
sometimes i feel angry at ma; the damaged she caused with the lies and embellishments to the zias. the insanity of creating derision and antagonizing our own family. like being her mixed kids wasn't odd out enough. it's tragic, really.
after finding that note and realizing the pain of her depth and despair, i forgive her. i'm working on forgiving myself because i didn't call even after booda told me she was sick. i just couldn't do it anymore; the fights, the meltdowns, the gambling. i was burned out from years of dysfunction and drama. i wasn't going to enable her madness or her addiction.
it was heartbreaking to know she was still gambling, as recently as a few months ago. in the end, she kept that, but lost her own daughter. the last time i saw ma, after the farm internship, before i was heading back to cali, we were sitting at the table in nina's kitchen. ma kept fidgeting with at face; drawing her finger across and underneath her eyes. it was a nervous tick. she looked tired and distraught; like a person not at peace. i was kind and chill and tried to make conversation.
' do you have a computer?' she asked.
' no,' i said. ' i just use my phone for now, but i'll get one when i get back home.'
i don't remember what else we talked about. maybe she asked why i don't stay in colorado (maybe her way of asking me not to leave or stay closer). i had to get on the road that day. i hugged her goodbye. i don't remember if we said we loved each other then. we must have. i wonder now after i left if she cried? because our time together wasn't as i had hoped, except that day we went out for lunch. maybe she felt bad about the meltdowns and fighting; the state of mind she was in that had created such a fracture in our relationship. she just couldn't say the words, i suppose.
i know that in my heart for years i tried to hang in there with her; begged her to get help and that we could do therapy together. we'd been through a lot; the dark days with pop and all that shit.
i noticed as i was sorting through her things with booda she kept that letter i asked pop to write her, to be honest, to ask for forgiveness, to thank her for keeping us together. she kept that letter; even though when i asked her about it she said, ' that's all water under the bridge.' and wouldn't discuss him or the letter further. apparently it meant something somewhere in her heart.
december
well, months have passed. i experience moments, thoughts from time to time. i was going through old letters and cards she kept today. i found one where i pleaded with ma to get help; that she seemed embedded in complaint and distress. i don't remember when i sent that to her. it seems she kept things she couldn't respond to or engage an invitation at reconciliation. i came across a photo of the two of us taken in napa around 2007. then i thought of the two of us long before then; the young italian woman with her little black baby girl in a stroller in san francisco.
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