Dear Mom, I am no longer your “daughter”

Dear Mom, before I sat down to write this, 42 years went by. Together, we braved a world confused by a white, single parent and a mixed-race kid in the 1970s. I existed in a cloud of gap-toothed uncertainty. Got in fights with boys. Played baseball in the street. Asked you about the rules of football. Wanted to be called Roger.

You shoved yellow bonnets on my head, beamed at my pink dresses, rejoiced in my unsuitably feminine name and forced black saddle shoes on my feet to complement my “Sunday Best.” They were rules you followed. Except I was missing. I didn’t want to disappoint you. I didn’t want to disappoint the world that had already begun to other me. So I followed the rules, too. Until I didn’t. Until you didn’t. Until you realized that I had been crumbling under the weight of “It’s a girl!”

Dear Mom, before I sat down to write this, you tried to lead me through a world that fears difference. We contended with your addiction to alcohol and your interminable health issues. You tried your best to help me navigate our reality of food stamps, orange fiberglass welfare-office chairs and walking down the street through a sea of onlookers confused by the helmet you wore in case you had a seizure. You did this even though you probably couldn’t even fathom it all yourself. You tried to answer the questions I hurled at you about where I came from. About what I was. You cheered me on even when you couldn’t. When you were passed out. When we weren’t talking. When we couldn’t talk.

You observed, though. That one night on the phone you asked me a question that seemed to have been on your mind for years: “Are you transgender?” It sounded so simple. “If you are,” you added, “I would support you no matter what.” It was an amazing thing to say that I did not take for granted. Even though I replied with an emphatic “no.” Even when I proclaimed loudly that “this is female!” Even when I told you — told everyone else, told myself — that I was attempting to somehow redefine femaleness!

Dear Mom, before I sat down to write this, you died. And I am no longer your daughter. Instead, happily, gratefully, peacefully, I am your transgender son. Somehow, perhaps, you are out there, the energy that remains of you, watching over my transition and honoring who I’ve always wanted to be.

You would have been my fiercest advocate and strongest ally. I know this. You would have held the space for my continued progression — the stages I have moved through since you left; the rules I tried to follow for so long. I will live with the strength of knowing you supported me in everything, on good days and bad, even when I couldn’t know myself. Not fully. Not yet. Until we meet again in some far-off place, I will be here, living my life, finally, as someone I love.

I love and miss you. Your trans son,

Henry

When gender and sex identity is up for discussion at Walgreens

I took a trip to my friendly neighborhood Walgreens tonight for a few necessities: antibacterial soap for my new tattoo, deodorant and a variety pack of tampons. I took my goods to the cashier and entered my phone number in the hopes of saving some pennies on my purchase. Naturally, my name popped up on the screen, and was seen by the guy behind the register.

“You’re not Catherine.”

“Yeah I am. You wanna see my ID?”

“No. But you’re [mumble] [mumble] Catherine [mumble]  not….[something] [something].”

And then he mumbled some more stuff, which I promptly ignored as I swiped my card. I was unfazed. I am used to people being unwilling to accept that I am female.

This was merely a blip in a long line of stories I’ve got that challenge what people think is “female.” And it wasn’t the only time it happened at a Walgreens.

Goodbye, Mom

On October 27, 2012, I had to eulogize my mother. It’s one of the worst things I’ve had to do. Second only to talking to the coroner moments after I was notified of her death (are you sure?). Or maybe second only to talking to the crematorium (how long will it take?). Or maybe picking out her urn (that’s a nice one). Or maybe walking into her apartment for the first time after she passed (the stuff).

Or maybe actually sitting down to write the eulogy I had to deliver. 

Over the course of two evenings – and even late into the morning of my mom’s funeral mass – I sat down in my hotel room in the Valley at the end of two very long weeks and wrote something. By no means is it, or could it ever have been, good enough. But I did deliver it that sunny Saturday afternoon, sandwiched between a baptism and a wedding.

I decided to share it publicly, well after the fact, because I want it to live, and because I want people who knew her – and didn’t – to read how she was memorialized that day. This is not the whole story. One day I will tell that. This is simply my goodbye.

We all endure many life stages. My mom began hers in Indiana – the middle as I like to call it. She picked up a strange obsession for the Notre Dame Fighting Irish. Two nights before she passed away she called and left a voice mail boasting about the team’s 6-0 record.

She then became a California kid and the rest was history. She got dirty. She ran. She fell. She jumped. She skated. She rode. She got up to no good, as they say. And she no doubt smiled a lot. She loved roller derby. I found – and kept (along with two of my baby teeth…the woman kept everything) a letter by the Roller Derby Association or whatever the official organization was called, in responding to her request for information on the closest roller derby training school. She was 16.

She loved. She lost. And then she had me at the age of 22, a single parent with no training and little guidance. She raised me the best she could, making the tough decision when it wasn’t popular (it’s never popular) to receive social services – the food stamps, the welfare, the Medi-Cal – to give me a shot. Us a shot.

It wouldn’t be long before one health issue after another began to plague her. These issues that required a daily intake of an incomprehensible amount of medication. That forced her to stop playing softball. That squandered her roller derby dream for good. But she fortified her armor, shoring up her ability to withstand any challenge that was thrown her way. She dealt with the effects of that medication the best she could. She had and recovered from a stroke, regaining her ability to walk when she was in her mid-thirties.

And she fought. She fought to be a parent when people tried to take me away. It could not have been easy – I have an attitude problem. In addition to the baby teeth she kept, I also found my many letters to Santa. I was a little bossy, even to him, telling him where in the Sears Wishbook he could find the items I requested. This is the kid my mom had to deal with and protect.

She kept meticulous records of my development. Last week I opened a sealed envelope that was labeled ‘Cathi’s first year out of the womb.’ In it were sheets of paper in her handwriting. A journal. I was able to read about how much she loved me on my first day of life. She wrote about how I could turn myself over in the crib on my own after only four weeks and that she would not have believed it had she not seen it for herself. That earned a few exclamation marks.

And then I started to get older. She put me in sports. Thank god. She gave me pen and paper. And how did I repay her?

One day we were in the K-mart at Valley Plaza in North Hollywood. There was a barrel of watermelon candy sitting unguarded in a barren aisle. Un. Guarded. Perhaps I felt I had a right to that candy. I was five, so of course I did. I easily swiped a few pieces. But did I wait until later that night to break open my loot? Nope. Once in the car, I reached into my pocket for the few pieces (only few!) of candy I swiped and tore open the wrappers. One by one I shoved the hard candy into my mouth. It tasted so good. But then:

“What are you eating?” my mom asked from the front seat.

“Nnthng,” I was barely able to reply, my mouth full of candy, the scent of sugar and watermelon wafting through the air.

“What. Are. You. Eating?” she asked, finally turning in her seat to watch my struggle.

“Nnth-ing.”

She held out her hand. I looked in her eyes, suddenly afraid of what could possibly happen. There was no way out. I leaned forward and spit my loot into the cupped palm of her hand.

There might have been some yelling. Some questions, such as “Where did this come from,” etc. But I could only hear one thing: “No Dukes of Hazzard for you tonight!” I was devastated. No Bo. No Luke. No. Daisy.

I never stole again.

Then there was the time she took me to see Ghostbusters. I was 11 and so scared that the marshmallow thing at the end was coming after me, that I forced her to stay up one night and play Battleship. I can still see her heavy eyelids wanting so badly to close. But she knew I was afraid and that she alone could protect me from the marshmallow. (I won all the games we played, by the way.)

Then there was the time we took a train ride to Texas that Christmas to be with my grandparents. That was the year she (or perhaps Santa) bought me a guitar. My mom played once upon a time and she wanted to play, too. I did take some lessons, and then I quit. Last year, my mom bought a guitar, deciding to learn to play again. It’s mine now. I won’t quit this time.

Then there was the time I bought markers from Disneyland and took them home and they were dried up. She insisted we work on a letter of complaint to the powers that be. I got new markers. That arrived dry. Whatever. There was the Grand Ole Opry, and the amusement park and I made her go on the roller coaster with me seven times. She did happily.

And then there was last summer. It was 3 a.m. on a Saturday and I had surrounded myself in bed with work. I was overcome with stress and pressure and confusion. I called my mom. Did I think she could fix it? No. Did I want her to? No. I knew she couldn’t. I just needed my mom. I was 38.

Years ago, my mom said one of her biggest fears was having to rely on people toward the end of her life. Despite her best attempts, through the years, her body endured one hit after another and, unfortunately, her fear became realized.

At least that’s how it seemed. I’d actually argue that she was the one people relied on. Sure, she needed help to perform the most mundane activities associated with life. But there was a fight in her that accompanied everything she did.

She fought through over-medicated states. She fought through the incessant poking and prodding of this doctor and that.

She fought against the restrictions that at times kept her from getting herself in and out of bed.….even if it meant she’d fall. Even if it meant she’d have to endure lectures from me over the phone. The words I said were good. They made sense. But even as they came out of my mouth, I knew they were futile. My mother didn’t listen. And she wasn’t gonna be told what to do.

And she fought paralysis – this time the result of a botched spinal surgery – every once in a while trying to see if just maybe she might have regained the ability to walk as she did years before.

She fought for everything. In the end she was still fighting. But her acceptance filled her with strength and provided the character that infected everyone with whom she came into contact. With my mom you’d get honesty. Compassion. Support. Encouragement. And yes, sometimes anger. Even if she had just come home tired from the doctor. Even if she could barely keep her eyes open in the middle of the afternoon. She was there and she expected you to be right there with her.

She did the very hard work every day to remain sober. This year she celebrated 17 years of sobriety. She found fulfillment in her work with Operation Gratitude in support of our troops overseas, exchanging letters with appreciative soldiers who received gifts she herself packaged. She developed a community here and forged best friendships that will live on in memories forever.

_________________________________________________________________________

Mom, I stand up here as the most imperfect of daughters entering the next phase of my life without you in it. You will not see me turn 40, which you teased me about in the voicemail you left me on my 39^th birthday a couple of months ago. We had a good go together even though we were often apart. It wasn’t always easy, I know. I was a difficult kid with an attitude and a misunderstanding way back then of the difficulties you had to endure and the sacrifices you made for me. And I’m sure I made it harder. For the rest of my life, I will hold onto the memories and recall your fight, letting it inspire me as I amble through the life I’ve got left.

As we all gather here today to bear the sorrow of your passing, we know that your spirit has evolved into something beyond this world. Your fight is over and you are somewhere free. You’ve left us, confident that we no longer need to rely on you. You’ve shed your wheels. Put a bat in your hand and skates on your feet. You’re now where you need to be, because I know you’d have it no other way.

Mom, keep watching over me, because I will always need you to make sure I’m okay. I love you.

Rest in peace.

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A bit of gender action on Muni. Because why not?

I recently headed to SF’s SOMA on Muni’s T line to conduct an interview for an article. I had my headphones on and a notebook open on my lap. I was not in the mood to talk, and that was painfully clear. I wasn’t even in the mood for sitting next to anyone. But that’s impossible smack dab in the middle of the day. But I’m glad I got to sit next to a woman named Lois Cotton.

The first person who sat next to me was a little too close. I didn’t budge, but rather tried to take up a couple of additional inches that I thought might have encouraged him to get back up. It worked. How about don’t sit that close? Muni seats are small and all that, but you can make the effort to maintain a comfortable-enough distance between you and the person next to you. It’s not rocket science.

I hadn’t been alone in the double seat for long. The next person came along and minded his own business well enough. Maybe it was the energy I was giving off — or maybe it was my elbow — but for some reason he soon got up. I would be alone only for one more stop, because at Powell Street, an elderly African American woman with a big purse and bag of groceries in tow sat right down next to me with no concern for how close she was.

I didn’t care. I dropped my pen instead.

The life-saving effects of childhood sports

I watched the local news the other day. I hate local news. Worse, the remote was well within my reach on the sofa, but I didn’t go for it. I just sat there. And watched.

After about 10 minutes I made an attempt to change the channel because I couldn’t tolerate another weather report heralding the hot temperatures in the Bay Area as I sat in sweats and a sweatshirt on my west side of San Francisco. And then, just before a commercial break, the newscasters said something about how two brothers turned their chore-doing into some kind of world-changing something or other that had to do with baseball.

“After these words.”

Playing sports saved my life. It’s a dramatic statement, and it is not hyperbole.

Of course there is no way to know what course life is to take despite our best intentions to control its every turn. But I can say with a pretty fair amount of certainty that, without t-ball, slow-then-fast-pitch softball, volleyball, and basketball, my life would have looked a lot different. It might not even be a life anymore.

At five and six (and one and two and three and four) I knew I was gay, but I lacked the words to know it and the space to show it. I was mixed-variety brown and didn’t have the corresponding parent. I had to belong. My mom put me in sports. Little did I know I would need them to survive.

First there was t-ball when I was five or six — the only girl on the Pirates. The coaches put stars on our hats for doing good things. I don’t know: hitting, catching, diving, sliding. When I was eight, I played slow-pitch softball at St. Elisabeth in the San Fernando Valley. Good Catholic schoolgirl by week, fierce competitor every Saturday. Eight years old. I loved it. I longed for it.

Swinging for the Pirates in North Hollywood, California.

And back then, I looked forward to sleep time because I’d lie awake at night and imagine myself putting on a baseball uniform in order to play these games. Except I wasn’t putting on the league-issued, quarter-sleeved shirt with the team name emblazoned in cursive across the front. The uniform I imagined as I fought off sleep came with everything that Major League Baseball players had: White pants! Stirrups! Blue belt (Dodgers fan)! Sweet cleats! Pressed jersey tucked in neatly! A Rawlings glove! And finally: The Hat.

In my fantasy, I walked out of the girls’ bathroom alone, batting gloves, worn and crusted from the diamond’s dirt and my sweat, slapped together and hanging out of my back-right pocket. The sun was always shining and the team was always waiting. So were the girls. I’m not sure who these girls were but they were there, awaiting my arrival in the stands while double-fisting boxes of Nerds and Red Vines.

It doesn’t matter who they were. Or who their mothers or fathers. I relied on them all and the successful production of the softball league each fall. I needed somewhere to go. I needed there to be people who needed me to show up to play. I needed that to never go away.

These elementary school sports lead to high school sports, which meant I had somewhere to be every day after school. They meant survival.

But sports require equipment. I’m not sure how my mom got her hands on all of the supplies for me, but she did. Other kids aren’t so lucky, which brings me back to the local news and these Bay Area brothers. I won’t rehash the entire story; you can watch it on your own time.

The gist of it is that there are two boys who live in San Jose who went rooting around in their garage on dad’s orders one day and came across all their old equipment. So they decided to do what any normal 11- and 13-year-old boys would do: They started a foundation called Baseball Buddies to collect old and not-so-old baseball equipment to donate to kids who might not be able to afford it.

So if you’re a so-called helicopter parent or just have a mitt lying around somewhere that a kid could use, find Baseball Buddies or something else like it. Donate something. And maybe save a life.

Throwdown in suburban San Francisco

Walk down San Francisco’s West Portal, which is on the, uh, west side of the city, and you will pass pretty much everything you need to survive: a bookstore, a music store, a movie theatre, a hardware store, ice cream, grocery stores (with well-stocked beer sections), restaurants, bars, cleaners, electronics, pet grooming, pet accessories, shoe repair, hair care. I’ve made my point. So much to see yet no reason to visit.

There is also coffee in the form of Peets and Starbucks. I recently had some time to kill during one of my many jaunts down the street and for some reason decided that getting a cup of coffee would be infinitely more responsible than a pint at the Irish pub. So Peets or Starbucks? The former is a bit small for my liking, with tables shoved between the window and the counter. And it being San Francisco in the summer, it was too cold to sit outside.

I chose Starbucks. Whatever. It’s roomy. And on a Tuesday evening, it couldn’t have been crowded, what with all the suburban dinners surely in the oven and ready to eat. I was wrong. It was packed, save for the three spots available at the counter-like table that lined the window.

On the floor, slightly obscuring the chair I wanted to sit on, was a yellow wet-floor sign. No matter. I moved it to the side and, with my little cup of coffee, took my spot at the window. And here is where it gets a bit tricky.

A seemingly innocuous woman with her face planted firmly in her laptop’s screen sat on the left side of the counter. Her bags were on the chair next to her. There was a vacant chair next to me, but I put my bag on the counter. For a few minutes she and I sat like this at opposite ends working on our respective projects. I had a notebook open and was staring out the window. Productive.

A man soon came up behind me. I turned to see him gesturing at my bag, which, you recall, was on the table. I gladly moved it to the floor. After all, that’s where it belonged. He then turned his attention to the nice-looking lady.

“May I use this chair?” he asked in a thick Russian accent, pointing to the chair on which her bags sat.

“No, my bags are there.”

Seriously. She told the guy that he couldn’t use the chair because her bags were on it. I stopped concentrating on the random passersby through the window and instead locked my gaze on the tree in front of me, so I could concentrate on their exchange.

“But your bags– they can go on the floor.”

“Use that chair,” she said pointing at the one next to me.

“I have a friend coming. And chairs are for people to sit on.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“I don’t care!” Seriously. She started to raise her voice. In the West Portal Starbucks. “I’m not putting my bags on the floor just so you can sit here.”

Understandably stunned, the Russian man remained standing. I wasn’t looking at him but I could feel him try to make sense of the woman’s absurdity.

“Maybe then I can go get that chair and bring it over here. Do you mind?”

“I don’t care!”

A short game of musical chairs ensued. He and I finally made eye contact. Our respective gazes said so much. “I am not like her,” was the message I tried to send him with my eyes. “For she is a crazy woman.”

Two vacant chairs were now to my left and the man, who seemed to relish in exposing her lunacy, began to play with her plug on the baseboard. Crazy’s plug was in the outlet on the top. His plug would not fit in the outlet on the bottom. He wanted to move hers so he could plug in his device. In a West Portal Starbucks, this shouldn’t be a problem.

“Do you mind if I swap your plug with mine?” he asked. Oh god.

“Would you leave my stuff alone??!” She erupted. Seriously. It was as though her voice were a car that suddenly sped up to make the red light. Bam! “You’re really pissing me off!”

Every Starbucks patron stopped what they’re doing and looked at them. The Russian dude’s like, what the hell? I’m concentrating on nothing out the window and hoping this continues to escalate while being slightly afraid of what she might do.

“I’m only asking if I can swap plugs because mine won’t fit under yours.” And now it’s just like a kid taunting a hungry lion with a slab of raw meat.

“You’re pissing me off!” Yeah, she kept saying it. “Go get someone who works here to deal with your shit cuz you’re pissing me off!!”

Train wreck.

The guy had two choices: continue the shouting match (which I was hoping for) or just give up and sit down and show her his ass. He picked the second option, but not before he relayed his plan to her: “I will show you my ass.” Really. He said that.

His friend soon arrived and managed to work his way into the small space next to me. The two men began speaking to one another in Russian, which for some reason pissed her off even more. Because by now we all know this is about Crazy. She got on her cell and began to speak in a voice that would outdo her opponents:

“They’re sitting right here like assholes shouting to each other just to piss me off.”

Yep. Just to piss her off. I left 10 minutes later after I was sure there would be no more fighting.

Destined

Last weekend I was in a terrible suburb of San Diego to hang out with one of my aunts. I don’t mean to be so caustic toward this particular suburb: I think all suburbs are terrible. Moving on.

This particular aunt of mine, the oldest of five, has always had an interest in knowledge. I like that. Some of what has kept her attention has been the history of the people who came before us. I like that, too. Her early pursuit of this knowledge resulted in a letter written to her mother — my grandmother — by her mother’s uncle. There were some interesting stories about fighting in France, which my aunt doesn’t quite believe. I don’t care about that.

What I care about? My great-great-great-grandfather’s name was Henry Miller.

Broccoli Hates Me

Broccoli, apparently, is good for you. The greener and crisper the better. It’s a message that has been handed down from generation to generation since the magical vegetable was invented. And I actually like it. I can even eat it raw without ranch. How’s that for healthy?

But there’s a problem: bugs. I don’t mind the occasional critter that might have needed a ride to the grocery store. And I might even be able to forgive a broccoli-colored worm that might stroll from the florets after I take it from the fridge. (True story.) It makes sense given the fact that broccoli comes from the ground and all.

However, a recent go-round with a head of broccoli was, perhaps, the most traumatic experience involving food in my life ever. (Followed in a close second by numerous attempts at white fish that end miserably with a pile of overcooked mush on a plate.) At the sink, I washed what I considered to be thoroughly, each little tree. I ran my thumb each one under the water, believing that I had removed all traces of dirt, grime, and random insect in case there happened to be one. And there was one. I caught it scurrying down the stem and smashed it. There went that floret.

And then I took a closer look.

That dirt and grime I thought I saw wasn’t actually dirt and grime. It was a cluster of bugs. Stupid things sitting there waiting to be eaten. I looked at the ones I had already washed. More bugs. A lot more. Clusters of little critters gathered in mini kingdoms replete with a king, queen and little servant bugs all reproducing on top of one another. I picked up another floret and I saw more little kingdoms. Millions upon millions of insects ready to gain entry into my digestive system so they could feast on my internal organs. In a span of 75 seconds, I examined each and every floret that came in the bunch. They were everywhere, invisible to an untrained eye, basking in their green glory.

I was pissed. I envisioned a scenario wherein I’d retrieve the receipt from the trash, put the bug-infested broccoli back in its tainted plastic bag, drive to the grocery store and give the produce manager a piece of my mind after making him handle my produce with bare hands. I would demand an exchange for un-bugged broccoli and remind him that he has a duty to his customers to ensure a bug-free nutrients. (And I don’t care if bugs are protein.)

But I didn’t do that. I tossed it in the trash outside so I wouldn’t wake up to a bug farm in the morning and swore off broccoli for a week. It’s hard being healthy.

Discount carded

I was in the grocery store the other day for the first time since I returned from Australia. Vons in the Valley.

I walked the aisles slowly, eyes wide over the colorful boxes of cereal and seemingly unending choice of Coffee Mate flavors and brands of half and half. The refrigerated section full of ready-to-eat food that I didn’t know could be all that ready to eat was something I didn’t know I missed. And the range of special little healthy drinks and packaged health food was too much, frankly, for me to take in all in one visit. So I meandered, bought some frozen burritos (organic!), pre-cut celery, nectarines, and a six pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, among other things, and headed to the checkout counter.

This is where my joy ended. This is where the romantic dream state died. And this is the point at which I was reminded that there are stupid people everywhere that need to be clocked.

At the checkout counter, I waited patiently for a group of five or so people clearly preparing for a party to get themselves into the line, which seemed to be a bit of an undertaking that my glaring failed to expedite. Finally they begin to unload the cart of party supplies. I looked at the gum, wondering if they had the same stuff I chewed in Australia. They didn’t. I selected another brand, which ended up being slightly unsatisfying, but whatever. It’s gum.

“Sorry, that phone number doesn’t work,” I heard the cashier say to the leader of the pack after I selected my gum. “Do you have another one I can use?”

“That’s my number, so no.”

“Anything? Any other number you can think of that might work for this card?”

Now, granted, I came into this exchange late, but, I’m sorry, he doesn’t have another number, dumb ass! The big to do continued, and, in the end, the kids couldn’t get a discount on their groceries, because, as I found out after listening closer, you need a number to prove that your discount card is your discount card.

My turn.

“Do you have a Vons card?”

Sigh. “No.” I was patient. I was calm. I replied quietly and quickly in order to end our exchange.

“Are you sure?” said the bagger. The bagger. Really? I turned my head toward him.

“I’m sure.”

“Because sometimes it could be some random number that you once had but it will work. Maybe your parents’ number? Sometimes,  you’d be surprised, they’ll have a discount card that they use here.”

I looked at him. My parents? He was busy bagging my stuff, lobbing flippant suggestions because he desperately needs me to save money on my celery. And, apparently, my so-called “parents” have a discount card that I could be using right now to save this unbelievable amount.

“No,” I said in the same tone, though I looked at him with only one eye from under a raised eyebrow.

“Would you like to sign up for one?” asked the cashier and not the bagger.

Tag teamed. God damn it! I could only muster a head shake.

“You would have saved on two items by now,” said the happy, rather smug by now, bagger. Are you fucking kidding me?

This time I looked at him, with both eyes, and said nothing to him as he continued foisting my goods into bags. I thought about their Saturday morning staff meeting wherein the head guy tells the staff that registrations are low and they need more names and numbers. More people to (prostitute) offer deals to!

I was finally allowed to complete my transaction and leave the store. When the day began, I wasn’t the biggest fan of grocery shopping, but I gave into nostalgia so that I might buy beer. From now on, I will only go to stores with self checkout.

Mother

Many years ago, people told my mother not to have me. But she insisted (her choice) and welcomed me into the world two weeks after I was due. None of it would be easy for her.

She didn’t know, for instance, at the age of 22, what it would be like raising a mixed-race kid as a single parent, having to fend off continued implorations to give me away. And then there was me. I had a bit of an attitude problem, feeling often that I should get what I wanted. It was quite simple, really, and I didn’t understand why she couldn’t see it the way I did. Such suffering I had to contend with as a two year old. Get thee to preschool, she said then, and off I went, shy as hell and clinging to her polyester pant leg.

It can’t have been easy fending off my persistence. “Just let me have one more,” I’d say, wide-eyed with my pointer finger between us for emphasis. I’d follow my pleads politician-like: “I promise I will be good.” She knew better most times. And most times I flashed my smile and there was no getting around it.

My mother has struggled with her own demons – from practically the beginning of my life through to now: alcoholism (sober for 15 years); epilepsy; a stroke when I wasn’t yet in high school and resulting paralysis from which she would recover. One health issue after another, all while trying to raise me.

I had questions she didn’t know how to answer, but she tried the best she could. And I presented her with other challenges that confounded her, such as my hair. It grew and grew into a thick mass of cotton-ball-like madness, and it didn’t come with an instruction book. (Class photos from 2nd to 8th grade can attest to this. After that it was my fault.) And she made me wear dresses. Perhaps to get back at me.

But through it all, she showed me love. She put me into sports before I could add, and gave me paper and a pencil. There were the Dodger’s. M&M’s on New Year’s Eve as the crackers fired to Dick Clark. A train ride to visit the grandparents in Texas. And that time she called me back home when I was halfway to the bus stop when I was eight, so I didn’t have to go to school (shhh).

That’s my mom.

My mom and me in a dress. The torture!

I also have a Tan, that name a bastardized form of Aunt Ann. Though not related by blood to neither my mom nor me, she gave of herself to see me through, perhaps at the detriment of her own family. The reason wasn’t my smile, which I’d prefer to believe, but rather the size of her heart, crazy though it might have been.

She missed some of my early years in order to get her own family started, but she returned, quickly managing with a frustrating-to-me sense of ease to say no a hell of a lot more (and louder) than my mom did.

She worked her ass off for reasons that I’ll probably never know to help keep my mom and me going. She was there when my mom went into the hospital for weeks at a time and all the while made sure I was at school with my homework done and food in my belly. All with not much money to go around.

She didn’t have to do any of it; sometimes I wonder why and wish I could give it all back to her. But she’s never asked for that.

That’s Tan.

Tan making me smile in a dress and showing me love.

Without one I wouldn’t have been born; without the other, I wouldn’t have survived.

I love you both. Happy Mother’s Day.

Tan, me and my mom two years ago.