My first memories of my mother collide between two moments. They both exist in the first home I can remember, a two-story, three bedroom townhouse in Silver Spring, Maryland where we relocated after leaving New York City in 1987. I spent my toddler years there, ages 2-4. I have several vignette moments of that time, tucked deep into my memory. My Pre-K Catholic school with nuns disguised as teachers, rides home with my dad trying to teach me how to snap my fingers, whistle or blow bubbles with my gum. I can see my room, my toys. I can still feel moist funk from rolling down a hill into dog poop. These moments are all there, collected in the most sacred part of my memory. Yet, I only have two vivid memories of my mother from that time. It was as if she was my fantom inside a faint, lucid dream. Why is that?
In her early 30’s, her job required her to work away from home a few times a month leaving my dad and I at home until she returned. I don’t remember her coming or going. I don’t remember any tearful goodbyes and I don’t remember missing her – ever. I only remember one particular night when my dad, in his sick yet playful humor, was chasing me around with a dreadful Freddie Krueger mask which was part of his Halloween costume, finger-knife gloves and all! My mother came home and screamed, “Luis, stop that!” as my heart nearly fell out of my petite chest. I was saved. At the time, my dad was my father, mother and playmate – he was my world, but that wouldn’t last as all his flaws would eventually reveal. However, the root of why my mother and I share a strained connection, I believe, begins here, at this home. To this day, we have to work on our connection constantly in order to feel halfway comfortable around each other for an extended period of time. She comes and she goes. I’ve loved her for her independence and I’ve loathed her for her indifference.
She was a fabulously, driven woman. The perfect blend of a 1980’s badass Pam Grier persona with the dainty, whimsical nature of chocolate Farrah Fawcett. She always wore her hair shoulder length, her lips coated with cranberry red lipstick and long, red fingernails to match. Not to mention, she was dripping from head to toe in the most stylish 18k gold accessories, complete with a pinky ring, belly chain, anklet and toe ring. Since I can remember, I was always so breath-taken by her beauty – even as a toddler. To look at her would make me feel so happy that she was my mother – my delicate yet strong, beautiful mother. I had no real concept of self at this time. I only knew that I came from a beautiful person and I knew that meant something special. I was proud just by association.
One night, I heard, “Shit!! Gahtdamnit…it’s gone! It’s gone!”. My mother’s aggravated voice bellowed from their room down the hall. Curiosity always consumed me, so I followed my parents’ voices into their bedroom, turning the corner into their master bathroom. My mother was wrapped in a towel, still wet. My father at this point was on his knees near the shower drain digging at something. I stood there watching silently and observing their exchange. He was looking for her gold belly chain which must have fallen off during her shower. Back then, I can remember that my mother had a unique ability and tendency to stew in her aggravation over a situation. She did this silently most times, but it was a relentless tension that anyone within an inch of her could detect. It was sharp and uncomfortable. My father tried to recover her lost belly chain for as long as his knees would let him then perhaps tried to find a way to make her laugh it off.
Later that night, I remember sifting through my overflowing treasure box of toys trying to find a tool that could rescue her belly chain. I figured I would “Macgyver” my way into that drain, find her gold belly chain and receive her praise, love, kisses, smiles – anything. I just wanted her to be happy with me. I never did get that chain.
Weeks went by and there was a particular day that she and I were in the house alone. My father could have been outside tinkering away at something in the yard. But on that particular weekend morning when my family was complete, I found myself comfortably sitting, crossed-legged, looking up at the TV watching WrestleMania and loving every minute of it. I was in the un-used 3rd bedroom that they had converted into an office study complete with a new 1980-model computer, computer desk, bookshelf with tons of books, a couch and my favorite TV.
My mother walked by the doorway. I could see she went down a few steps then reversed and came back, now standing in the doorway looking down at me. She just pondered me, for what seems like eternity in my mind’s eye. No telling emotions on her face of hate or love, just indifference. There were no words. I may have nervously smiled as I tended to do at that age, but no words.
The only words she said were, “You know, you don’t have to call me Mommy if you don’t want to.” Immediately without fully understanding why, a painful lump started to swell up in my throat and my heart shuttered. I easily remember that physical reaction as the first time I ever felt such a sensation. “But, I want to call you Mommy…”, I said in almost a whisper as I pushed through the choke in my throat. She looked at me for a few more moments and then turned and walked away to carry on with the rest of her day.
WrestleMania continued to roar in the background as I hung my head, looking toward my crossed ankles, picking at some dry skin that would soon turn into eczema. My 4-year-old mind echoed only one thought – she doesn’t want me. She wasn’t proud to be mine like I was proud to be hers. It would take me at least three decades to ever recall this moment to her, with honesty and truth. She laughed it off and said, “I was just giving you the option…lots of people called their parents by their first names.” I smiled and coyly accepted her reasoning but never letting her know how heavily I’ve carried this encounter. Where do you place the unresolved? How do you convince the unconvincing? Needless to say, her response, nor more my pondering of it, have ever soothed my need to feel wanted by her and maybe, it never will. I’ll have to find a way to accept what’s never been said.