Chapter 1: Fragments of My Mom

There are still so many things that I will never know about my mom.

My mom frequented the library and always had a book in her hands. She read every new Stephen King release, and adored all kinds of horror, thrillers, crime dramas, and sci-fi.

Ironically, despite being a daily presence in my early life, like one of her favorite genres, she remains a mystery to me.

I sometimes wonder how she’d feel about being a character in this story and what she might say about my reflection of her life. I wonder if she’d be proud that so many questions about her life, her choices, and her reasoning still linger, despite the fact it's been over a decade since she's left this world.

What I know of my mom’s childhood is fragments of an unspoken history.

Growing up, I was expected to help my mom in the kitchen with cooking and cleaning. My brothers were expected to help my dad with the yardwork, cars, and other house maintenance. While my dad was outside terrorizing my brothers, I was inside away from the fray. And from that safe space, I got to hear some of my mom’s story.

Years later, I found just how precious that time was, as I realized that neither of my brothers even knew our maternal grandparents’ names. The little that I know is because of school reports or time spent with my mom. Even then, she did not speak much, but this is what I can recall that is relevant for my story.

A family with an alcoholic is a family with trauma unhealed.

My mom grew up in a small town outside Shreveport, Louisiana. Her mother, my grandmother Nina, was a talented seamstress who often made outfits for my mom. My grandfather, Joe Sr., from what I gathered, was a day laborer for the railroad and spent much of his days away from home traveling to jobsites.

My maternal grandma and grandpa were both dead, long before I was born. However, my mom did keep a picture of them on her desk in memorial. Notably, the pictures were both individual headshots, in hinged frame. I never saw a photo of them together. Not surprising as what I was told of Grandma Nina and Grandpa's Joe Sr.'s relationship was far from endearing. I recall one recounting of Grandma Nina throwing Grandpa Joe Sr. clothes out the front door of the house and threatening to burn them. There were also regular heated arguments, and tales of fist fights in the front yard. The cause of these issues is lost to time, but I suspect that Grandpa loved his liquor and might have also loved attention from other ladies. There was never a romantic love story here from my mom’s point of view. I don’t even know how my grandparents met, why they married, or what kept them together.  It seemed like my grandparents were likely two folks who must have had highs (10 kids!) and deep, dark, perilous lows.

Sometime between my mom's tweens and early teens, Grandpa Joe Sr. injured himself on the job and could no longer work. This event likely turned up the heat on fights at home, as an injured narcissist is no one’s best friend. Although, I can’t prove my grandpa was a narcissist based on what I do know about my family lineage, it is a fair assumption that there were strong narcissistic traits in both grandparents.

What I know for sure is that my grandpa loved his alcohol. Sometime before my mom finished high school, Grandpa Joe Sr. drank himself to an early grave. The story goes that he died from liver failure due to alcoholism. My mom left home shortly after she graduated a semester early from high school. I’m not sure why she was eager to leave, but I doubt she had the best relationship with her own mom. Grandma Nina passed away, sometime in my mom’s 30s. I could never get clarity, but I believe it might have been a heart issue. I know my dad was around then, because he told me that at family reunions, my mom would not even go greet her mom. I don’t even know if she went to her mom’s funeral.

What really happened is lost to time but what remains is that it was far from a glamourous or loving home life. I don’t recall my mom ever saying that she loved her parents, it seemed more like honor than love.

The family recipes are still missing.

Mom made sure that I knew how to cook, because in her words, her mom never allowed her in the kitchen. She learned how to cook with recipes from books, and there was never any “family” recipes passed down from Grandma Nina. Every recipe my mom cooked was something she found on her own. When I heard classmates talk about family secret recipes passed down from generation-to-generation, I found this to be strange. I couldn’t understand why I clearly had grandparents, but there were no family traditions or dishes.

I recall a time that I asked my mom this very question- ‘why didn’t have any family recipes?’ My mom said grandma was worried about her learning to cook and stealing “her man.” Now as a child I couldn’t understand what that could possibly mean, but I did understand there were no recipes. But why? What man was to be stolen? What was a truth, a lie, a misunderstanding?

Unanswered questions would be a common theme with my mom. Did she not have an answer, or did she like obscuring the truth? I was never quite sure which was true.

We both share a common theme of almost drowning.

As a baby I had no hair, but by around 3, I had a full head of long ‘nappy’ hair. My mom would wash, blow dry, and style my hair, and it would take hours. This became a weekly weekend routine, up until the year before I left for college, when we decided that it was time that I started to learn so I wouldn’t be completely hopeless when I was on my own. For as long as I can remember, I hated getting water on my face during these weekly hair washings. My mom would empathize and eventually she told me why.

She told me of going to a beach with her siblings as a young child. She was old enough to remember treading too far and almost being swept away by the tides. There was a bit of terror before an older sibling jumped in the water to save her. Not sure where her parents were, likely not around at all as she was left to her older siblings for care. After that, she never loved diving underwater. I can't ever be sure of why, but something in that memory made me believe that it was a reminder of being forgotten, of being left behind and ignored. Perhaps, it was because I felt much of the same as a child. She also told me that I almost drowned as a toddler while my parents were at a friend's party. I have no memory of this, but perhaps my body never forgot. Thankfully, some unsung hero pulled me out the pool after I fell in, but from the way my mom told it, it was neither her nor my father that had these faithful eyes on me.

My mom was the second youngest of 10 siblings, and by the time she was in her late teens, most of her siblings had already moved away, married, and had families of their own. I believe that she felt abandoned by her older siblings and left behind in a perilous household. Perhaps this feeling was what allowed her to be so vulnerable and lost in the world. I know it was true for me too.

After she left home, there are years lost in between.

What I do know is my mom, like many of her siblings, left home as soon as she could. She graduated from high school early at 17 and soon after headed to California to live with an older sister who had married and moved there. Her early years in California remain hazy and unclear. There is a huge span of a half-decade and then some that I am unsure of.

I recall she showed me her transcripts at one point, so I know she went to community college and completed some courses in accounting and typing, but ultimately never finished. I also know she worked as a bank teller and eventually was a well-respected banker with several sales and customer service awards. She kept the awards as mementos, and I remember them collecting dust on a shelf in our computer room.

She was fond of comic books and was a fan of X-Men and anime, long before any of these were trendy. She wanted to be a police detective, and I learned much later that she interviewed, but failed as she was caught in a lie about her health.

I also know she spent time a lot of time with her nieces – children of her older sister that were closer to her in age (keep in mind my mom was the second youngest of 10). In between work I gather that my mom spent time having fun with colleagues and friends. I heard tales of late nights out dancing and ending up on a Soul Train episode.

And then somewhere in her maybe late 20s, early 30s, my mom ended up at a party in San Diego, where she met my father.

I cannot say for certain, but I suspect a life event with my mom's older sister likely sparked a change in her priorities. And after she was with my father, most of her family ultimately became distant by force or necessity. Many of my first cousins were closer to mom’s age, by the time that my mom had my brothers and I, many of those cousins were already grown with children of their own.

What I do know for certain is something happened, and my mom traded her family for my father.