Stipulations/Manifestations/Mediations: Housing, Employment, Rosie & Ripa
Homophobia is pervasive. It’s a theme that I am obligated to tackle over and over again. At first, as a child of lesbian parents and now as a second-generation, queer identified woman. There are severe implications of homophobia. As an individual, my self-esteem and safety are at stake; in public I am constantly checking and balancing what kind of conduct and/or expression is acceptable. I am sometimes asked to negotiate and/or sacrifice my quality of life in order to serve what the dominant norm is.
Here is a recent request and a past instance that I have been presented with:
Housing:
1)In attempting to secure a place to live, I was offered a basement studio by my mother’s best friend who is a self-identified fundamentalist Christian. When I first came out to my mother, her friend told her that my choices were an abomination. My mother disagreed with this and they stopped having conversations about my sexuality. Afterward, I was always cordial and friendly with her regardless of my opinion about her opinion. But, when her offer came to me this last month it was quite a surprise. She offered me an affordable space to live with a condition: I would be allowed to live there but I would not be allowed to have my partner stay the night. Her explanation was that she would not even let a straight unmarried couple stay together overnight if she rented to someone in a heterosexual relationship. Knowing her faith, I understand her position but have some issues regarding her request that I intend on discussing with her. This is my position and it is to the point: As a woman in a lesbian relationship, a citizen of the state of Oregon, I cannot get legal recognition of my partnership, I cannot get married to my partner. This stipulation of renting is discriminatory due to this and therefore I will not take up residency at her home.
Employment:
2)While working for Portland Brewing Company as a bartender in 2003, I started dating my first girlfriend. I was very excited about the new relationship and secure with being out. Often, my women friends and my lover would pick me up after work. Sometimes they would come inside and wait a minute at the bar while I wrapped things up. I approached my supervisor in the spring and requested, and was given, one day during pride weekend off. The next day, while I was taking a break in the staff room, a female head chef came in and I asked her for a smoke. She gave me one and asked me how I got the weekend off and said, “Did you finger fuck her (my supervisor).” I was so caught off guard that I sat there and said nothing but gave her a thank you for the cigarette. This was the first incident. A week or so later, the other chef came to the side of my bar and requested some beer for the kitchen. As I was filling up my bucket, several waiters and waitresses were gathered next to him waiting for their order. As I was getting everything together, he commented on my Anheiser-Busch belt buckle and said out loud that he knew why I liked it, “Its because of the bush” he implied. Everyone looked at me kind of strange and I shot him a hush look as he returned to the kitchen. About two weeks later, I was called into the supervisor’s office and “let go” due to what was described as “a personality difference.” I felt I was discriminated against because of my sexuality and called Basic Rights Oregon first, for referral to an attorney. I then contacted the Oregon Bureau of Labor and Industries to go about filing a complaint. I was told by both if I did not have someone who was present to hear the two instance as described above, that I had no case. I lost a job that I loved and was put into an instant economic depression while I tried to secure another job just as summer approached.
Recently, Clay Aiken was a stand-in host on the Regis & Kelly Show. During an interview Aiken interrupted Kelly Ripa by placing his hand over her mouth. She responded to him by saying, “Oh. That’s a no-no” and followed it with “I don’t know where that hand has been.” The following day on The View, Rosie O’Donnell stated the she believed Ripa’s remark to be homophobic, although Clay Aiken has never come out as gay. The two had dialogue live on the show and Ripa said that the remark was due to the fact that she has children and she was responding to the threat of germs.
In my opinion, I can see Rosie’s response to this as a homophobic remark but at the same time, it seems to be somewhat of a projection. I can also see Kelly’s position but not for the reason she state on The View. Clay’s actions were inappropriate because, in a male dominated culture, women have long been silenced but figuratively and realistically, and she certainly didn’t deserve to have any one’s hands placed on her anywhere. I am thankful however, that we have Rosie to represent the LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bi, Trans, Queer) community, as we need more representation in media. We also need more individuals who are willing to speak out as frankly as she did. It is people who have this kind of courage that get other people to look closely at their actions and statements. These are issues that sometimes only get addressed in small situations but these situations are sometimes the most powerful.
For instance, in discussing my daily adventure to a roommate in 2003, I described a person who’s gender I couldn’t identify as being a “he, she, it, whatever…” and my friend immediately called me out, telling me how inappropriate that statement was. I was a bit taken off guard and nervous but asked her to explain to me why. Even as a lifelong advocate for the LGBTQ community, I didn’t know that the more appropriate approach to this situation was to not be concerned with gender and if I really needed to use gender to better know an individual, to wait until they identified themselves and go from there. This was a life changing moment for me, an invaluable learning experience that, although uncomfortable, changed my world-view forever. This is why it is important to work with each other on a one to one basis (as well as within the larger community) as a means of educating each other and helping people to better understand the complex world we live in.
As a part of my Women’s Studies class this term, these are a few issues I would like to explore. I am interested in hearing opinions and other observations on these matters from others so please, engage in dialogue with me.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Fathers Day
Fathers Day was never spent buying ties or fishing reels. We had a computer with stacks of connected green-tinted computer paper that rolled out into the printer. With an archaic design program I printed: HAPPY FATHERS DAY on a banner, stuck it to the wall with masking tape and held my breath.
Laurie was my 'father'. Today even, I call her on Fathers Day (and sometimes Mothers Day) to tell her I love her. Although my father lived just thirty minutes away, I knew deep down inside he had four boys of his own, and a new family to celebrate his day with.
My father is a short woman with bleached blonde hair who stands about 5'3" tall. She is stalky and round. She is rough and her knuckles are hard and wrinkled with age. She plays music loud in my childhood home. She is an exquisite cook but works in dive restaurants around the city. She has an onry smile and a vicious tickle. She smokes Player cigarettes in succession, at night kicks her high-top Vans atop the couch arm and watches Americas Funniest Videos. On my special days, she pulls me into her and tells me, "I love you Chelsia-bugs."
This year my cell phone was disconnected and my bank account extinguished. I wonder if she knows that I have no way to call and tell her that I still love her, no matter what. She is tucked away far above the United States on a Canadian prarie. I called my biological father, told him how happy I was that our relationship seemed to get better with the years and that its a pleasure to have him in my life. I called my step-father and we talked about motorcycle rides in the country and a visit soon. But I didn't get to call the father that comes to mind first, the lady who spent my most formative years as my other parent.
Laurie. Although you may not read this, you've been on my mind. The banner was strung high in my mind for you Sunday and I was caught up in memory about our family. Our road may be long and trecherous but my love for you has never seized. Thank you. You've taught me so many things about life. On the fine edge of pain and exhileration, I can honestly say: I love you.
Happy fathers day.
Laurie was my 'father'. Today even, I call her on Fathers Day (and sometimes Mothers Day) to tell her I love her. Although my father lived just thirty minutes away, I knew deep down inside he had four boys of his own, and a new family to celebrate his day with.
My father is a short woman with bleached blonde hair who stands about 5'3" tall. She is stalky and round. She is rough and her knuckles are hard and wrinkled with age. She plays music loud in my childhood home. She is an exquisite cook but works in dive restaurants around the city. She has an onry smile and a vicious tickle. She smokes Player cigarettes in succession, at night kicks her high-top Vans atop the couch arm and watches Americas Funniest Videos. On my special days, she pulls me into her and tells me, "I love you Chelsia-bugs."
This year my cell phone was disconnected and my bank account extinguished. I wonder if she knows that I have no way to call and tell her that I still love her, no matter what. She is tucked away far above the United States on a Canadian prarie. I called my biological father, told him how happy I was that our relationship seemed to get better with the years and that its a pleasure to have him in my life. I called my step-father and we talked about motorcycle rides in the country and a visit soon. But I didn't get to call the father that comes to mind first, the lady who spent my most formative years as my other parent.
Laurie. Although you may not read this, you've been on my mind. The banner was strung high in my mind for you Sunday and I was caught up in memory about our family. Our road may be long and trecherous but my love for you has never seized. Thank you. You've taught me so many things about life. On the fine edge of pain and exhileration, I can honestly say: I love you.
Happy fathers day.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
When it comes to fists.
I don’t think she remembers although, I hope I get to ask her, someday...
These days, our time on the telephone is brief. Shortened by her inability to stay focused. The medication stronger than her will. Sometimes she comes into focus, can have an even exchange of words with me. Sometimes I feel strong enough to ask her. Like the last time we spoke. She says, “They’ve got me on a good combination now. I take shots once every two weeks. My head still gets away from me. It was never like that when I was with your mom. Maybe it didn’t happen because I was so happy with your mom.”
I don’t know what to say to her. Maybe her memory is delusional, focused on what was good and ignorant of just how chaotic it was. I wonder if she remembers taunting us.
I never raised my hands to her and she never got her hands on me. My nimble feet could run for blocks to whose ever home would let me in. There are a hundred and one beds, homes, and parks where I could sleep alone, or with my biological mother by my side.
She called her a “fat cunt” one evening. One of her favorite terms for my mother, who never struggled with her weight. I was sixteen on that fall evening. We were preparing to head to a dinner with my French class at the local high-society dining establishment. In the kitchen with my back to their argument, I heard those words emerge and I turned on my heels; unknowingly, my fists clenched at my sides. Laurie looked at me with eyes wide and filled with an unleashed anger that kept her lids peeled back. Beyond her my mother watched, tears in her eyes and a readiness I recognized. “Come on, try me Chelsia Ann. You wanna fight me, bring it on.” She looked me down to my fists and back up to my eyes. All stood still in that moment. I looked down to my fist and realized that this time, I was ready. Or at least I thought I was. All I could say was, “Don’t you ever call my mother that, again.”
Laurie leapt towards me and I quickly ran around her as my mother threw herself against Laurie, and then up against the counter. Their struggle moved dishes and pans off the counter and onto the floor as I ran through the house to the unfinished bathroom. The door, I knew could not hold her back. Put up as a temporary fix, its particle board strength could not hold her. I put my back against the door, braced my foot against the toilet, pushed my other hand against the towel rack, and held on.
She made it to the bathroom door and through her weight against it like a rabid dog, attempting to break through. Her familiar threats of “breaking legs” or arms or ripping my skull out of my head came out of her mouth faster than her beating tempo against the door. Wrapped around her rage, I knew my mothers arms were there keeping her back until all I could hear from behind the door was her heavy breaths and her whisper in the crack of the door telling me, “You better not fall asleep tonight Chelsia fucking Rice, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Sometime between that time behind the door and the parking lot of the French restaurant, my mother and I reapplied our mascara, gave each other the love and hugs that we needed to put on our face for society, once again, and continued onto our plans to celebrate our union of mother and daughter under the guise of a french dinner. In the presence of my peers and instructors, we checked our faces, I ate escargot for the first time, and marveled at the flames on my banana flambé. I knew what happened that evening wasn’t over, we still had to return to our home and the conflict that would remain unsolved.
These days, our time on the telephone is brief. Shortened by her inability to stay focused. The medication stronger than her will. Sometimes she comes into focus, can have an even exchange of words with me. Sometimes I feel strong enough to ask her. Like the last time we spoke. She says, “They’ve got me on a good combination now. I take shots once every two weeks. My head still gets away from me. It was never like that when I was with your mom. Maybe it didn’t happen because I was so happy with your mom.”
I don’t know what to say to her. Maybe her memory is delusional, focused on what was good and ignorant of just how chaotic it was. I wonder if she remembers taunting us.
I never raised my hands to her and she never got her hands on me. My nimble feet could run for blocks to whose ever home would let me in. There are a hundred and one beds, homes, and parks where I could sleep alone, or with my biological mother by my side.
She called her a “fat cunt” one evening. One of her favorite terms for my mother, who never struggled with her weight. I was sixteen on that fall evening. We were preparing to head to a dinner with my French class at the local high-society dining establishment. In the kitchen with my back to their argument, I heard those words emerge and I turned on my heels; unknowingly, my fists clenched at my sides. Laurie looked at me with eyes wide and filled with an unleashed anger that kept her lids peeled back. Beyond her my mother watched, tears in her eyes and a readiness I recognized. “Come on, try me Chelsia Ann. You wanna fight me, bring it on.” She looked me down to my fists and back up to my eyes. All stood still in that moment. I looked down to my fist and realized that this time, I was ready. Or at least I thought I was. All I could say was, “Don’t you ever call my mother that, again.”
Laurie leapt towards me and I quickly ran around her as my mother threw herself against Laurie, and then up against the counter. Their struggle moved dishes and pans off the counter and onto the floor as I ran through the house to the unfinished bathroom. The door, I knew could not hold her back. Put up as a temporary fix, its particle board strength could not hold her. I put my back against the door, braced my foot against the toilet, pushed my other hand against the towel rack, and held on.
She made it to the bathroom door and through her weight against it like a rabid dog, attempting to break through. Her familiar threats of “breaking legs” or arms or ripping my skull out of my head came out of her mouth faster than her beating tempo against the door. Wrapped around her rage, I knew my mothers arms were there keeping her back until all I could hear from behind the door was her heavy breaths and her whisper in the crack of the door telling me, “You better not fall asleep tonight Chelsia fucking Rice, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Sometime between that time behind the door and the parking lot of the French restaurant, my mother and I reapplied our mascara, gave each other the love and hugs that we needed to put on our face for society, once again, and continued onto our plans to celebrate our union of mother and daughter under the guise of a french dinner. In the presence of my peers and instructors, we checked our faces, I ate escargot for the first time, and marveled at the flames on my banana flambé. I knew what happened that evening wasn’t over, we still had to return to our home and the conflict that would remain unsolved.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Second-Gen succumbs to Anxiety
Watching the drama unfold through on the little screen sometimes generates as much anxiety as my own melodrama. I try not to see myself in everything that happens around me but inevitably, I am looking for ways to relate my experience to that of someone else's. Like their outcome could possibly provide me with a prediction of my own. There was a time when I left media in order to cure the anxiety that it generates and this evening, I question if that time is approaching again.
In the stories of prime-time television we see love lost and recommence over and over again. Tonight's episode of L-word had me looking at all the dynamics of lesbian relationships (and straight relationships) that have me shaking my head in repitition like Shane to Carmen's accusations and insecurity. Sometimes I feel like that shaking could just go on and on. Just when a sense of security seems to emerge within me, I recoil, speculate, stand outside of myself and examine the dynamics of the relationships I keep, both casual and intimate. Too much introspection can make anyone question everything they are doing.
At a late night birthday party last night, a deck of Tarot complete with a reader (of over fifteen years) emerged. I asked her a simple question, knowing that her knowledge of the cards in the presence of many friends might make matters complicated if I asked something too specific. "What will summer bring?" Seems like a broad enough questions. From the deck, I picked the card that I felt best represented me. It was some card depicting the ends of arrows. This card representative of the many racing thoughts that consume me. "Full of speed and desire and passion" she said. I began to feel all my internalized and compressed issues unfold before the party.
In the future she says there will be justice and I am certain it will be served against me although she didn't predict it that way. Eventually a sense of calm will emerge, an ability to take into consideration where I come from, what has happened recently and what is currently going on. She mentioned that the defensive position that I am taking with all these things that seem to be surrounding and confronting me, may be ineffective. That coming into the power that I have is the only way to achieve the calm that is certain to come.
In this life at this time, there is so much to consider. Where I come from and how it is being recreated in my current life. What I am doing and how that will affect my future. Who I am involving myself with and how that will either nurture or cripple me. What I have done in my past, recent past and the present; and how life eventually evens the score in one way or another.
Somedays I feel I am truly at the mercy of the universe and other days I can feel that I still have the power within me. Tonight, I will return to the little screen where love is lost and recommenced, still looking for indications of direction in fictitious relationships, knowing that the only answer comes from waiting for the universe to provide the answers or taking the reins myself and driving the chariot back home to save myself.
In the stories of prime-time television we see love lost and recommence over and over again. Tonight's episode of L-word had me looking at all the dynamics of lesbian relationships (and straight relationships) that have me shaking my head in repitition like Shane to Carmen's accusations and insecurity. Sometimes I feel like that shaking could just go on and on. Just when a sense of security seems to emerge within me, I recoil, speculate, stand outside of myself and examine the dynamics of the relationships I keep, both casual and intimate. Too much introspection can make anyone question everything they are doing.
At a late night birthday party last night, a deck of Tarot complete with a reader (of over fifteen years) emerged. I asked her a simple question, knowing that her knowledge of the cards in the presence of many friends might make matters complicated if I asked something too specific. "What will summer bring?" Seems like a broad enough questions. From the deck, I picked the card that I felt best represented me. It was some card depicting the ends of arrows. This card representative of the many racing thoughts that consume me. "Full of speed and desire and passion" she said. I began to feel all my internalized and compressed issues unfold before the party.
In the future she says there will be justice and I am certain it will be served against me although she didn't predict it that way. Eventually a sense of calm will emerge, an ability to take into consideration where I come from, what has happened recently and what is currently going on. She mentioned that the defensive position that I am taking with all these things that seem to be surrounding and confronting me, may be ineffective. That coming into the power that I have is the only way to achieve the calm that is certain to come.
In this life at this time, there is so much to consider. Where I come from and how it is being recreated in my current life. What I am doing and how that will affect my future. Who I am involving myself with and how that will either nurture or cripple me. What I have done in my past, recent past and the present; and how life eventually evens the score in one way or another.
Somedays I feel I am truly at the mercy of the universe and other days I can feel that I still have the power within me. Tonight, I will return to the little screen where love is lost and recommenced, still looking for indications of direction in fictitious relationships, knowing that the only answer comes from waiting for the universe to provide the answers or taking the reins myself and driving the chariot back home to save myself.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Positive outcome, negative experience.
Speaking publicly about my family hasn't come easy. Especially considering the current political climate. Curtailing the real story to convey another story is sort of an art form which I am not so sure that I am comfortable with anymore. At some point, I have to tell it like it was and is. Sugar coating doesn't serve anyone's interest.
It wasn't easy and it sure wasn't perfect. My mothers weren't the best parents in the world. Although they loved me and provided me with affection and love, they created a home climate that will forever affect the way I live. In my relationships, I see reflections of the ways they treated each other. I see myself at the perpetrator and the victim all at once and this is what needs to be said: Domestic violence isn't something exclusive to heterosexual homes. It isn't something that men do to woman. It is without gender. It is a problem that permeates all sectors of our society and it needs to be exposed.
There wasn't a holiday that passed without a fight. Not an argument, not just an issue, an all out fist fight, exchange of demoralizing and insulting remarks, tossed furniture and food splattered against the wall. Broken down doors and shattered windows. Blood trickling from the ear of my battered mother. A manic monster storming through the house and destroying everything precious in her path. A family photo ripped in half and a stuck to the wall with a knife through the picture of my young, seven year old face.
I created a safe world, a silent and numb existence that protected me from the horror I was witnessing. When a silence fell over the house and tires tore out in the street in front of my house, when I could hear my mother sobbing from behind my bedroom door, only then could I come out and wrap my arms around my mother and begin to rebuild. Put the chairs back in their spots, mop up the soup that was flug across the room, rewrap the presents that were torn from under the tree and make the great escape to someone's house or a park where we knew we could not be found.
They ask me to speak locally about "celebrating our cultural tapestry" and I can say that my life was colorful and at times beautiful, but silencing the real story for the sake of creating positive images to gain more acceptance for our homosexual community, is killing me. There is more that needs to be said. The challenges of living twice closeted (once for my lesbian parents and twice for our domestic violence) is part of the story. Its is part of describing the positivity that can come from absolutely horrific experiences. These experiences are not ones that we can all relate to but therein lies the issue: it is time that we recognize that we are all a part of this society that allows this violence to continue. This is the motivator that will provide us with an issue common to families of all kinds. Your family is your foundation and you honor it regardless of your struggle. You honor all families for the sake of creating a space that is nuturing for children of all kind. There can be no more hiding.
It wasn't easy and it sure wasn't perfect. My mothers weren't the best parents in the world. Although they loved me and provided me with affection and love, they created a home climate that will forever affect the way I live. In my relationships, I see reflections of the ways they treated each other. I see myself at the perpetrator and the victim all at once and this is what needs to be said: Domestic violence isn't something exclusive to heterosexual homes. It isn't something that men do to woman. It is without gender. It is a problem that permeates all sectors of our society and it needs to be exposed.
There wasn't a holiday that passed without a fight. Not an argument, not just an issue, an all out fist fight, exchange of demoralizing and insulting remarks, tossed furniture and food splattered against the wall. Broken down doors and shattered windows. Blood trickling from the ear of my battered mother. A manic monster storming through the house and destroying everything precious in her path. A family photo ripped in half and a stuck to the wall with a knife through the picture of my young, seven year old face.
I created a safe world, a silent and numb existence that protected me from the horror I was witnessing. When a silence fell over the house and tires tore out in the street in front of my house, when I could hear my mother sobbing from behind my bedroom door, only then could I come out and wrap my arms around my mother and begin to rebuild. Put the chairs back in their spots, mop up the soup that was flug across the room, rewrap the presents that were torn from under the tree and make the great escape to someone's house or a park where we knew we could not be found.
They ask me to speak locally about "celebrating our cultural tapestry" and I can say that my life was colorful and at times beautiful, but silencing the real story for the sake of creating positive images to gain more acceptance for our homosexual community, is killing me. There is more that needs to be said. The challenges of living twice closeted (once for my lesbian parents and twice for our domestic violence) is part of the story. Its is part of describing the positivity that can come from absolutely horrific experiences. These experiences are not ones that we can all relate to but therein lies the issue: it is time that we recognize that we are all a part of this society that allows this violence to continue. This is the motivator that will provide us with an issue common to families of all kinds. Your family is your foundation and you honor it regardless of your struggle. You honor all families for the sake of creating a space that is nuturing for children of all kind. There can be no more hiding.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
How do you say Lesbian again?
I look down at the syllabus. I'm 28. My ASL class will be talking about family the third week. I hesitate. How do I articulate my family. I have two moms, a dad, a step-dad, a step-mom? What's the sign for lesbian again? Is that appropriate? After all this time and all my speaking I still hesitate at having to explain, even in all my proudness. The reality is, it takes a lot of words. Is the other person going to wonder if I think I'm so "special" by sharing that experience? Will they understand? Should I just give in and only tell them about my biological mother and father?
I wonder how children feel when they come across this? Are they ready and willing to give up this information? Are they proud? Is this easy or a challenge?
I wonder how children feel when they come across this? Are they ready and willing to give up this information? Are they proud? Is this easy or a challenge?
Monday, January 02, 2006
Wobbly Wonderings
It has occurred to me that time is running out. My non-biological mother lives far North in the prairie lands of Canada. She has become progressively mentally ill since long before I knew how to walk. These days as an adult in my late twenties, I can see that her functionality is decreasing. With or without medication she can barely hold a conversation. I am sure that the medication gives her some sort of grounding so that she can function as necessary throughout her day but I wonder how much of her mental illness is emotions trapped inside of her head with no conversation by which to escape.
I have been meaning to talk with her for years. After six years of not seeing her in person, I went for a forty-eight hour visit last summer. She shuffles in her knee length shorts through the house to her cigarette roller where she stuffs and packs tabacco into fifty pre-made cigarette shells. Her medication keeps her relatively sedated for the first of the morning, her eyes barely open enough to watch afternoon t.v. Again, her medication is administered at noon, another forty-five minutes of drool and unconsciousness. Later in the evening, a final dose puts her out for the rest of the night.
I wonder if she knows how much she has deteriorated in the last decade. I wonder if she is able to rationalize where she is and how she got there. I want to ask her questions about her life: what was life like on the streets? How do you resolve being sexually molested by your brothers? How do you feel about giving up your first daughter for adoption? Do you remember beating my mother? Why did you cut yourself?
I feel as if time is running out. Her weight gain, her mentality, her dependence on others has me questioning what kind of time I really have to ask these questions. She is my other mother. For fifteen years, although most of them wrought with abuse, she helped raised me. She was my greatest friend and my worst enemy. The most gentle and the most frightening person I know. My life has been infused with her presence in both negative and positive ways. This time, it is time for my own resolve.
Looking for opportunities to travel to her this spring. Spend two weeks with her and a dictaphone. Talk about the things that we have never got to talk seriously about. Ask her about her feelings, her life, what happened and what she remembers. Look for a way to resolve, this life that was built around the love the I have for her, regardless of the illness that nearly killed us.
I have been meaning to talk with her for years. After six years of not seeing her in person, I went for a forty-eight hour visit last summer. She shuffles in her knee length shorts through the house to her cigarette roller where she stuffs and packs tabacco into fifty pre-made cigarette shells. Her medication keeps her relatively sedated for the first of the morning, her eyes barely open enough to watch afternoon t.v. Again, her medication is administered at noon, another forty-five minutes of drool and unconsciousness. Later in the evening, a final dose puts her out for the rest of the night.
I wonder if she knows how much she has deteriorated in the last decade. I wonder if she is able to rationalize where she is and how she got there. I want to ask her questions about her life: what was life like on the streets? How do you resolve being sexually molested by your brothers? How do you feel about giving up your first daughter for adoption? Do you remember beating my mother? Why did you cut yourself?
I feel as if time is running out. Her weight gain, her mentality, her dependence on others has me questioning what kind of time I really have to ask these questions. She is my other mother. For fifteen years, although most of them wrought with abuse, she helped raised me. She was my greatest friend and my worst enemy. The most gentle and the most frightening person I know. My life has been infused with her presence in both negative and positive ways. This time, it is time for my own resolve.
Looking for opportunities to travel to her this spring. Spend two weeks with her and a dictaphone. Talk about the things that we have never got to talk seriously about. Ask her about her feelings, her life, what happened and what she remembers. Look for a way to resolve, this life that was built around the love the I have for her, regardless of the illness that nearly killed us.
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