She Needs to Know

I was inspired by the connection we made today when my mother called from Puerto Rico. 

She Needs to Know 

She called wanting to know.  That’s what a Mom needs. 

She needs to know. Everything.

If she can know

then maybe she won’t worry so much. 

She’ll keep connected to the people she loves. 

A connection that cannot possibly ever be severed.

If she knows, maybe she can be there for her child.

Maybe there will be a need to console,

to advise, or to cry with her child. 

Or maybe to cheer, rejoice, congratulate,

or exclaim like the days of old.

But best of all maybe to laugh

and be more than mother and child

and thereby find joint joy.

By knowing, she can imagine

that eyebrow of yours going up,

the glint in your eye when

you’ve made a decision,

the way you look when you’re pensive. 

Her connection is experience.

She needs to know

because she believes she’s the one person

that knows you better than you know yourself.

She imagines the thoughts and emotions running through you.

And feels it with you so far away.

And when She called, I made it light and airy. 

There was nothing new to report

No crisis, no triumphs, a typical cold day.

Much like hers except there’s heat in her day.

Nothing that needed much knowing

No underlying need to role-play mother and child

But I know that She likes to console and feel needed

so I complained of all I had to do.

And she told me to slow down and take it easy.

So we laughed, we talked

Of happy things, listening to the joy

And the harmony within our voices.

Because now I know what She knows

Our ages are far closer than our years

And I know and feel the same need

To be the She, wanting to know.

Coloring Hair May Cause Childhood Injuries

Memories of Childhood, always good blog fodder.

Principal Lord, what a man.  He was great guy and a gorgeous one at that.  He had presence and charisma that even the youngest children at our school would take notice of it.  And his name, can you believe it?  Just saying it makes me think of him with a dreamy smile and real affection. Principal Lord.

The parking blocks in the teacher’s lot lined up nicely and the kids would walk and hop on them on our way into the building.  I was doing just that when I slipped on a wet block and put a gash in my knee that would not stop bleeding.  Being the wimp that I was, I cried uncontrollably.

Principal Lord drove me home. How cool! We found Sister After Me and soon we were in front of our house.  He carried me to the door (Sweet!) and when the door opened, I think we both gasped.  Mami was wearing a tattered housecoat, had plastic gloves on and her hair was covered with goop.  What was that stuff!

She grabbed her head in horror when she saw Principal Lord and frantically looked around desperate for something to cover up. Her expression quickly changed from extreme embarrassment to concern and she forgot her head.  Soon the red dye was running down her face and dripping on the floor.  Who knows what Principal Lord was thinking?

The following year someone pushed me down.  My face hit the gravel and a gash opened up over my eye that later required nine stitches.  Blood poured down my face getting into my eyes and although I was the biggest wuss ever, I felt perfectly justified in screaming my head off.  Again the gallant Principal Lord came to my rescue and drove me home.  With blood dripping down my face, he swooped me up and carried me to the door. My mother seeing a man carrying one of her children swung open the door wearing once again, big plastic gloves and black goop in her hair.  What are the odds!

A year later, Sister After Me broke her ankle and you guessed it, Principal Lord took her home and carried her to the door. Yes you can guess the rest. Mami opens the door with plastic gloves and was coloring her hair. My poor embarrassed mother. Everyone said she was a beautiful woman, looking a bit like Elizabeth Taylor, but Mr. Lord would never know it.

The three times Principal Lord came to our home. Three times he comes carrying injured children. Three times he finds a woman that is apparently obsessed with her hair color. Did we have radar and know just when and how to embarrass our mother in front of the most gorgeous man on the planet?

Is there a cosmic connection that whenever Mami colors her hair, one of her children incurs an injury? A twist on the old chant that children sing when walking along, “Don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mother’s back.”

“Color your hair red and a child will break his head.” Really what are the odds?

The Daughter I Used to Be

I don't like to be touched.  My personal space is hallow ground. Step too close and I might bark or give you a swift kick to the knee.

My mom's a hugger and a kisser - to EVERYONE.  Be careful because you might meet my mom on the street one day.  And if you look down or disheartened, don't be surprised if a four foot nine, redheaded, 78 year old, looks you empathetically in the eye and with an impish smile, rushes up to give you a big hug and a kiss.  You think I'm kidding?

One thing that annoys my mother is when some of her friends during a conversation keep touching her on the knee or arm every few seconds to get her attention or to emphasize a point.  She tells me this all the while she is touching my arm every few seconds to keep my attention and to emphasize a point.

After about the ninth tip touch, I can't take it anymore, "Mami, stop doing that, okay?"  "What?"

Living with all that love, empathy, and need for human connection, finally got to me. I can't help myself. At our martial art school, students are regularly greeted with big hugs and a few kisses.  Children and adults stay with us for five years or more so they become closer to family than clients. My mother taught me that people all need to feel wanted, welcomed, and understood.  Instead of being the growling grouch of my youth,  I have become a loving, hugging fool.

Vodkamom posted some posts about her mother that got me thinking again about my dear Mami.  I realized that as you get older, real intimacy is sometimes lost between a parent and child. There are a lot of grandchildren and my brother and sisters, and there is plenty of love, but intimate moments are few yet cherished by her.  My dad is not a demonstrative man, very closed, never was.  My mom is a complete opposite.  She needs lots of love, but she is not too selfish.  Because what she gives will tenfold exceed what she needs.

So at church today, watching the multitude of children in our congregation, and I mean multitude, I witnessed the little one's need to hold a parents' hand or to be picked up in those loving, safe arms. The complete bond, that oneness between mother and child was something my mom hasn't experienced for a long, long time. So I decided to be her little girl again.

I slipped my hand into hers as a five year old would, and we held hands the whole service, as daughter and mother, reliving the oneness we used to feel.

Random Errands

My mom has been lonely lately.  She sees all five of her children at least once a week, some of them more, but she still gets lonely.  Trapped inside that 78 year old body is a 22 year old girl trying to get out.  She loves life.  She loves people.  She loves adventure.  One day trapped in her house without something to do and no visitors means a day of gardening, or cleaning, or sorting.  She loves to sort her stuff. Two days and she gets anxious with no contact.  Papi's sitting in his chair putting together a puzzle.  The dresser in his room is piled high with jigsaw puzzle boxes.  But he doesn't count.  He hasn't counted in ages.  He's home and stays alone, maybe a little lonely, but she definitely gets lonely and needs to get away.

So I called her and asked if she wanted to keep me company while I ran errands the next day.  When I awoke and the sun was shining. becoming a beautiful crisp November morning, I knew she would be pleased. I know I was.

I always drive a circuit.  I plan my drive for minimum miles per gallon.  I also pile my errands together to make sure the trip to one place will yield another place to stop.  So if I go east, I visit every store that I usually frequent in that area.

First I take her to the a polish meat market, the only one left in the area.  Been there forever. Yea, no line. We munch on samples of bratwurst,  kielbasa and jerky.  Meat is king! She wonders from one end of the store to the other munching on cajun and garlic roasted peanuts.

Then off to the italian meat market, the only one left in our area.  She's amazed that so much can be packed into a small store.  I buy fresh ricotta, freshly shredded mozzarella, and freshly ground parmesan.  Cheese is king! I get a pepperoni and grab a dough out of the freezer.  Guess what we are having tonight.

Oh, don't look at the cannoli.  Back away, pretend it's not there.  Don't buy a cannoli! Hey mom do you like cannoli?  No sweetie, I don't.  Thanks Ma.

Then off to the fabric store.  I need some black satin to make black sashes for the upcoming black belt test. I love this store or any fabric store.  Unfortunately they are going the way of the dinosaur.  Even this store is a fabric slash craft store, but I'm grateful for any space in a store for fabrics. It will be a sorrowful day when I won't be able to see and feel all these lovely textiles.

The little woman is meandering around.  I see her up an isle and I hurry to catch up to her.  What the hey! She turned the corner and she was gone.  I call her, Ma!  She's two isles down and cruising in the direction of the call.  But I've moved too, moving fast to head her off, but she'll already turned around and is out of sight.  Ma!  Now she's confused and heads left and down another isle.  I hit the isle and again, What the hey.  Where is she?  I've got to stop calling out Ma.

I finally corner her and we're off to the bank.  Then to the post office.  By the way the Christmas stamps are in.  Just saying.  The post office was the only place where I encountered a line.  So off she went to check out what's cool at the post office.  She came and found me in line to tell me that a little old lady was coming in the door and that she was going to keep an eye on her.  Oookay.  I wondered what my 78 year old mother thought an old lady looked like, but I kept that to myself.  Besides she moves like she's 60 and acts like she's 22.  She helped me place a hundred postcard stamps on a hundred postcards, reminding me that we are so grateful that they are self stick.

Then off to the dentist's office to drop off a payment.  She stayed in the car and was delighted that I put on the classical station for her. Throughout my circuit, I went down the less traveled roads or chose the roads where the scenery was pleasant.  She always thought she was lost until she realized that the stores were on main roads. She was pleased. We were lucky and were serviced quickly at each location.

QueenMaker just walked in the room and looked at my post.  What?!  He started with the usual, people write way to much information on the web.  You just told the everyone in the world how to track you down.  There would be no way you could go into hiding if you wanted to, because you just told everyone you love to hang out in meat markets, that you need and love fabrics.  When they come looking for you, they'll just stake out those places.  Who knows what other info you've let out on the web... His voice is trailing off as he walks away.  He's been reading 1984 lately, so excuse him.
But he is right.

Anyhoo.  Mami and I were back by noon.  I dropped her off at home and raced home to make dinner.  We had a lovely morning. I felt very daughter-y.

Now go visit Keely our hostess for Random Thoughts Tuesday.

Mami's Love for Machetes

My mom, 78, got a new machete.  I said, “My god woman! How many do you own now?”  This was her third one. Her grandson Jose gave it to her.  I asked her how many did she need, really, I mean. She said, "Never too many."  She pulled it out to show me. She was so happy like a little kid at Christmas. “I got a new machete! I got a new machete!”  This has always been Mami’s tool of choice especially in the garden. Now this tool might be a little over kill for a garden, but it’s the tool she knows.  She can wield it expertly.  Her expertise was always apparent. I never questioned it.

We finally asked the history of her affinity for the machete, and the stories she told generated a paradigm shift within me.  I know nothing about my mother.  I don’t really have a clue. She has history to tell and she has been busting out trying to tell it. But I have been deaf to the stories about her life all my life.

Since Mami doesn’t own a computer, she has been curious about my blog, so she asked me to print them out for her to read.  I think she also wants to make sure that I show her in the proper light. She's been saying a lot lately, "You know I tried my best.  I don't think I was too bad a mother." I keep assuring her she's a great mom.

Since we were all getting together for Memorial Day, I printed them out for her to take home. She decided to read several of my stories. She later said to me, “You forgot to mention that I was the one that bought the Pecan Sandies. I knew that Papi did that, so I made sure we had them around.”  In other words, I’m the one that facilitated your visits with your father.  It was because of me that good things happen in your life. You didn’t acknowledge that. Because I didn't know.

Knowing that she had this thing about being left out of anything or that any of us say something favorable about Papi, drives her crazy.  I said, “But Mami that’s not really the point of this particular story.”  She said, “I know, but…”  Again I assumed that she was being overly needy, slightly jealous or childish.

Later she said to me, with real longing and sadness in her eyes, "If I could write about my life it would be a real story to tell.  I have a lot to tell." 

These two sentence had a profound effect on me.  Here I am, writing the stories I want about my childhood, as a young woman, motherhood, and as the middle age tween that I am today. How pale in comparison. I have a burning desire to write, but I realized that Mami needs to write too, but she doesn’t have the means. She has no outlet. She tries to tell her story, but no one wants to listen. 

I only know the woman that Mami is today.  But she needs me to see her as the impoverished child foraging for and stealing food to help feed her brothers and sisters, her mother’s right hand, her mother’s only ally, the indentured servitude first to her father who never treated her as a daughter, and then as a young woman in the many homes she was sent to work. 

Searching for love, she thought she wound find it with her husband.  And since a lot of us marry our fathers or mothers, she robbed herself of the love she sought, finding someone whose pain body was as large as hers. The only joy she acknowledges is her children and grandchildren.  She was always known for the unconditional love she taught and gave freely to others.  I realized that she was filling the hole with as much love as she could give, because the hole within her was just as large from the lack of it.

I haven’t been able to write a word since.  I realized that the stories she told, I always discounted as complaining because they were the “same old stories.”  They were about the hurts and pain she had experienced in her life.  I never realized the extent of the sorrow and hardship in her life story.  I wasn’t willing to listen.  But I got a glimpse of it when I asked her why she loved her machete. I finally listened.  My mouth dropped when she told me just a fraction of what had happened to her.

I began to feel that writing was a therapy and I want to extend that therapy to my mom. My story and need are so miniscule to hers. I realized that my need to blog seemed more akin to self-indulgence or a self-cleansing.   But in reality I just wanted it out there.  I wanted my stories to be told and since they’re out there in cyberspace, I feel perpetuated. Do I need comments?  Really for me, no.  Knowing that my stories are out there are mainly an experience of release.  Feels damn good.  My need is no longer paramount.  

Now I will try to release it for my mom and dad.  I will be starting the Mami and Papi Project. We start taping Friday. 

Looking for the Ghost

Why the fire started I would find out later, but we know who started it, Youngest Sister and Only Brother, five and six years old respectively.

Our upstairs bedroom had access to two separate attic spaces.  One door about three feet high was along one wall of our bedroom. No one ever wanted their bed near this door because it was spooky. You never knew what lurked within. The second door was above the landing at the top of the stairs.  You had to take a big step up to get into this attic space.  Inside this door was a large cedar lined closet with shelves and poles for hanging clothes. Beyond this space was another 3-foot door that led to the rest of the unfinished portion of the attic. We never explored this area beyond the closet because it was dark and scary and you had to walk stooped over in that part of the attic, making it hard to turn and run from monsters if need be.   It was hard to feel secure in the cedar closet because who knows what lurked behind that other door, but sometimes you would find all five of us in there playing. 

It started when Mami decided to play a prank on us one day.  She was cleaning out the cedar closet and she thought it would be funny to go into the other section of the attic behind the second door. She decided to hide. Where is she? She’s gone.  Mami, Mami where are you?   She started making ghosts sounds that made us jump and run.  She started screaming pretending that the ghost was “getting her.”  We screamed and cried, and then she came out laughing.  It was a good prank, but some of us didn’t think it was funny at all. Mami always had a mischievous streak and she loved to watch the reactions she would get when she did or said something outrageous.

So that’s why I found it strange that Only Brother and Youngest Sister would be alone together in that closet a week or two after Mami’s prank.  When I realized why they were in there I thought them both brave and stupid at the same time. They were going ghost hunting. What they did next was very, very stupid. 

The light was dim so they took matches with them. And you know it; they dropped a lit match and tried to blow it out themselves. Only Brother sent Little Sister down to get a glass of water. Mami noticed the filthy glass in Little Sister’s hand and asked, “Where are you taking that glass?” Only Brother wants some water she explained. Mami took the glass and told her to get a clean one. Soon Only Brother had to raise the alarm, running down the stairs screaming that the attic was on fire.  No one believed him at first, until I looked up the stairs and saw a glow coming from the inside of the closet. Mami flew into action. 

First she screamed for Only Brother and Little Sister to get out of the house, and they ran out the back door.  Mami screamed, “Girls! Bring me water. Get the big pans and fill them up with water and bring them to me quick.  Hurry, hurry!”  Pretty much every kitchen had huge pots to make enormous amounts of rice or soup for their big families.  Luckily we had three good size pots. Mami jumped into the closet and started beating the fire with whatever she could.  She started tossing things out of the closet as not to catch fire. 

Sister After Me, Middle Sister and I were taking turns running the pots of water to her. We started out by trying to fill the pots to the top, but this was too inefficient. The pots were too heavy and water sloshed out before we could get them up to her.  Plus Mami was yelling down for us to hurry, she needed water, NOW! We realized that we couldn’t fill the pots too high, but at the same time there had to be sufficient water in the pots to do any good, otherwise Mami she would certainly lose the battle. And battle she did. 

Every time I went up I still saw the glow of the fire, sometimes against her face, her arms rising above her head, working hard to beat the blaze down. We ran up and down the stairs over a dozen times each, Mami grabbing the pot of water and throwing it onto the fire and screaming for us to hurry with more.  We decided to try the bucket line, where I would fill and the others would grab the pot and leave the empty one. But it seemed to take forever. Besides I was the oldest, the strongest to carry the heaviest of pots, so we went back to each of us filling and carrying our own pots.  I can’t tell you how long it took to put it out.  After a point, we realized that Mami was in danger.  We started calling and crying for Mami to come out. But she wouldn’t give up.

It seemed an eternity. I think it actually took about 10-15 minutes, but finally the fire was out.  We were amazed. She did it.  My mom was a hero, and one of the bravest women I know.  I was so proud of her. When she came out her hair was wild, her face black, and she looked exhausted.  We looked at her and started laughing because even the inside of her nose was black. She looked perturbed with us, but then gave a big smile.

I realized that not only was she battling to put out a fire, she was battling to keep her home. She was fighting to keep a roof over our five heads.  Mami saved our house. What a woman!

For punishment Little Sister and Only Brother knelt for hours on the bathroom floor.

Queen Maker Have You Met Mami?

This is how Queen Maker first met my mother.  

I was fifteen years old when I first met my boyfriend and future husband (but after this encounter, I don't know why he stayed around.)  I invited him to my house to meet my mother and father. When we walked in,  Mami was preparing dinner. She was using the large butcher knife cutting a whole fryer chicken into pieces.  

Queen Maker went over to introduce himself and to talk to her for a few minutes.  Mami asked him, “So you like my daughter?”  He said he did and she said, “Just so you remember I’m really good with a knife and..” she suddenly thrust the butcher knife into his belly.  Queen Maker’s knees almost buckled.  He was shocked and when he looked down, expecting a big hole in his belly, he realizes that she was holding the tip of the blade.  She was so good with a knife that when she pretended to thrust the knife at his belly, she just let go of knife handle and with the dexterity of a magician, moved her hand to the tip of the knife in one swift, perfect move. She laughed and laughed and laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.

I walk up and ask, "So Queen Maker have you met Mami, yet?"