I grew up all over The United States. There is no "home" town, as "home" was always a travel trailer, a tent, an apartment, occasionally a house, or anywhere that I was with my mom. My mother was a hippie; you know. . . the bell-bottom jeans, the John Lennon glasses (the round ones), and tassels on virtually everything. We traveled around so she could work & protest various things. To think back on it, I'm certainly lucky that my name wasn't something like, Moon Unit or Dweezil Zappa.
My mother wasn't simply making statements about the environment, the Vietnam war, racial prejudices, she was rebelling against her entire family. My maternal family is racist at its core; not all of them, mind you. They are very white (truth be told, they are American Indian, Portugese, and Irish) and affluent, live on "the hill," and "don't want nuttin' to do w/da 'monkeys' and 'dog-eaters' (insert all racial slurs here)." My mother made it a point to attend "blacks only" churches and demanded that I not use the "whites only" ANYTHING. For example, when we were living in a very small town called Depew in Oklahoma, my mother only had me drink out of the "blacks only" drinking fountain. She also convinced an elder, female family member to go to church with her one Sunday morning; the family member just about lost her lunch when she walked inside and found a congregation full of black folks. My mother just smugly smiled the entire service. That's the smirk I cherish.
My mother died right before Christmas 1977 when I was just seven years old. My life went to shit after she died. It was pretty shitty before her passing, too, but it got so much worse afterwards. I went from family homes to foster care to friends, and noone could handle me. I asked questions. After living the last year I had with her on the Navajo Indian Reservation, I didn't understand authority. I didn't know why I had to get up at a certain time, go to bed at a certain time, and even eat on a schedule. I got into a lot of trouble because I questioned why I had to learn stuff & why I had to stand, sit, and kneel at my stepmother's church (that got me slapped across the jaw, and my jaw clicks to this day. . . 40+ years later).
She wasn’t a saint, that Eileen Taletha, but she was the only mother I had. I’m certain that I would’ve grown to despise her because she was always leaving me with people that mistreated me so she could go party. I was molested by a few, pinched & hit by other children, & was used as a drug mule (mostly pot, but there was other stuff). In fact, I was at a terrible sitter when she died. My last words to her were, “I hate you.” I meant it, & I still do. Who has children just to pretend they don’t exist? We could be in the same freaking trailer, & it was like being alone.
She wasn’t a demon, either, that woman with wanderlust. I loved her so much & wanted to be with her every minute. When she’d get mad at someone for any number of reasons, she’d take off. Sometimes, she’d take me with her, & we’d hitchhike to Disneyland. Other times, she’d dress me up & enter me in “Little Miss” pageants. I could talk to her about anything. One time, I was telling her that I wished I could pee standing up, & she not only told me that I could, she showed me. Bath time was always fun when I could share with my mom. We’d take turns drawing letters & small words on each others’ backs, & she’d tell me stories about the different American Indians. She loved Buddha, Jesus, Ganesha, and any other prophet or saint that encouraged peace. She had statues that moved with us everywhere just to remind her to stay the course.
In short, my mother was a product of her environment. She was human. She’d cut your dick off with one hand while feeding the poor with the other. She was full of love but lacked the skills to actively love me. She was full of righteous anger that she used to fuel her activism. She could see the pain of the oppressed but didn’t know how to comfort my pain. However, she could make me laugh through tears, & that’s still my favorite emotion as it’s like feeling her around me.
It’s because of her that I question everything. It’s because of her that I cannot keep quiet for even the tiniest of injustices. It’s because of her that I speak. It’s because of her that I can be still & know things. It’s because of her that I can’t stand idly by while the world strips people (animals included—just as the American Indians did/do) & the planet of innocence & equality.
I miss my mother something fierce, and I still question everything and everybody all while wearing my mother's smirk.
