I hated the way my mom acted. It was embarrassing. I used to wish that night wouldnever come, because then I was forced to watch strange men pull into our driveway. Theystumbled into our home in a drunken stupor where my mom greeted them with open legs.I hated these men. I fought back sleep, dosing off and nodding like a dope fiend. I feltpowerless when I was asleep, like Freddie Krueger would invade my dreams and killeveryone on my street.
I got really scared. I stayed up and watched my mom like a starving hound dog. Shepatted me on the head and casually dismissed me. When I refused to go away, she offeredme sweets if I agreed to go to sleep. I would eat my treat and sulk as I listened to themfucking. It made me sick to my stomach. The next morning, I woke up and peaked intomy mom’s room to see if her male visitor had left for the day. I would be overtaken by adark rage when I saw their bodies intertwined and limp from a restless night of hot sex.
The worst part of it all is that my mom used to hear voices. She was smart; she nevertold anyone, at least not a shrink. I guess she didn’t want to be confined to a mentalinstitution for the rest of her life. I suppose that in the end she chose the alternative, tolive with the voices until they killed her. I am not sure if I can do that. You know, acertain part of me wants to fight, and a small part of me believes that there might be hopefor me. She used to say that the voices used to put evil and wicked thoughts into her head,that they made her do awful things. I didn’t believe her, until I started to hear the voicesmyself.
Whenever she started to mumble to herself, throwing her head back and forth as ifshe was trying to get the voices out, I knew that there would be hell to pay. I knew that ina matter of seconds she would go into one of her tangents and her sweet, lovingpersonality would become violent. Her anger erupted like a cold, dark storm. Her screamswere loud like thunder. I remembered Ali squinting and covering his ears. Me, I prayedthat the thunderstorm would just hurry up and pass us by.
But it got worse before it got better. It turned dangerous. My mom lashed out at uslike bolts of lightning. Her fist worked like hammers pounding on flesh. Like any stormmy brother and I would long for it to end. We would hope for the worst part to be over sowe could recover from our wounds. We would find refuge in a dark corner of the houseand sit silently as the storm regressed. For some reason, Ali never fought back. I supposethat he believed that our mom’s tangents hurt her more than us. Afterwards, she lockedherself in her room, for days. We knocked on her door to check up on her. She shooed usaway, telling us that she was dangerous and evil and didn’t deserve to live. Later, shewould emerge, walking around our apartment, mumbling to herself.
My mom made desperate attempts to get better. She even tried going to church. Itwas a complete nightmare. I never understood why drunks, crazies, and losers thoughtthat attending a few Sunday masses would change their lives forever. Maybe it was anillusion. Or maybe it was a get well quick scheme. You know a solution that’s fast andeasy. Personally, I think that a lot of people went to church because they had a guiltyconscious. They could smoke crack on Tuesday, cheat on their wives on Friday, and beatup their kids on Saturday, and, if they went to church on Sunday, all of the misdeeds thathappened throughout the week would be absolved. What a bunch of bullshit. I guesseveryone needs to believe in something.
Well anyway, I hated church. I am crazy so I am allowed to say that. In fact, I canpretty much say and do whatever I damn well please. Ha! Who would have thought thatbeing crazy would be this much fun? Church was brutal because my mom forced me towear outdated dresses that were ill fitting and overly embellished with ruffles andrhinestones. I had to squeeze my feet into black Mary Jane shoes, and my hair was styledinto two bushy pigtails. And my mom always insisted that I wear my fake rabbit fur coatfor warmth.
Ali had it much worse than me. There seemed to be a limited selection of boy’sclothing at the local Goodwill store, so he had to wear fashions that reached their peakten years ago. Even the most devoted Catholic would laugh upon seeing a young boy inawkwardly stitched clothing that was normally made of polyester or some other form ofitchy and uncomfortable fabric. He walked into the church with his head down, lookinglike he wanted to drop through the floor. Instead, he was forced to walk a long corridorand pass dozens of aisles of people who snickered at his checkered pants and teal shirt.
My brother and I sat in the crowd, holding on tightly to the small amount of moneyour mom had given us. The collection plate would be passed around a total of twelvetimes throughout the two-hour ceremony. And each time we were reluctant to add to it.Whenever the collections plate came our way, we would be weighed down with staresfrom other church members. Their eyes would be filled with so much cynicism. Nomatter how
