Tag Archives: mother

Pre and Post Funeral Thoughts

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Pre-Funeral Thoughts

My father died and I’ve only told three people. I didn’t take off work. I didn’t even cry, although I’ve cried over plenty of other things recently (e.g. This Is Us, my ex-boyfriend, a coworker) and I’m sure this incident found a way to sneak in a tear or two while it had the chance.

It’s so strange losing someone who was an equally imperative and meaningless part of your life—I, at first, doubted that it was possible to mourn someone I hadn’t seen in over 20 years. I have a dad and he’s alive and well, probably working in his woodshop right now. This man who died is basically responsible for creating me, but not raising me, not loving me, not knowing me in any way. How insane is that? To create someone but never know them? I can’t even abandon a book, old shoes, or ancient Tupperware.

My mom said, “I’ll always have love for him because he gave me the greatest gift of my life—you.” And it’s funny because that’s how I’ve always felt about him. I’m only grateful that he gave me her. That’s all he’s ever been for me; he made it possible for me to live, and for me to be her daughter.

I wrote a poem back in October, when I first learned he was sick. Back when I asked my grandfather to keep me updated, but instead, I got a text in January that just read: “Robert Mendez memorial service” with a date, time, and place.

You kissed a pretty blonde cheerleader other side of the tracks type once
and probably thought nothing of it
thought nothing of the few years from then wedding,
the one her dad almost didn’t go to because of your last name
the same last name you’d give to a little baby girl
first name some Tejano singer from the station where you spent all your time
drinking and snorting away the reality that you were a husband and a father
not anything special
but you could’ve been special in the way the best people are
//
You probably couldn’t see all of this, right?
Back when you were in love and making a room laugh and playing piano
I guess you couldn’t see how your brother may have chosen to end his life
but so did you
long, drawn out, choosing to disappear
until you were dying in a hospital room
//
You want me to give some bedside eulogy while your body turns against you
but you died so long ago
I’m so confused
My funeral speech accolades about you were embedded in my
high school, bachelors, and masters diplomas, my book, my passport stamps—
everywhere that last name is inked
Everything good I’ve ever done is tainted by the tiniest truth
that I’m always proving what I can accomplish
without you
despite you
//
Even worse, everything bad that’s ever happened—
every terrible relationship choice
every panic attack
every depression
every over-analytical-anxiety-filled  am I good enough?
Everything can be sourly linked to you
//
So you see?
You’ve been here all along
in every achievement
every mishap
I wrote this all on your tombstone
sang these lyrics at your grave
I’ve said goodbye
and don’t know if I want to say it again

 

 

Post-Funeral Thoughts

PSA to every parent that could potentially be reading this: when you die, what do you want to be said at your funeral? I listened to an hour full of Bible verses and rosary repetition at my father’s funeral. There was nothing said about his life because I guess there was nothing to say.

You don’t have to be the richest or the smartest, you don’t have to climb Everest or invent a Shark Tank phenomenon, you don’t have to be the founder of a company, you don’t have to cure a disease…life is so meaningless unless you spread kindness, unless you love and are loved, unless you are remembered…

Hardly any people came to my father’s funeral. Most people who did show up were there to support my grandparents, one who doesn’t remember who I am and one who disowned me when I asked my dad to adopt me a couple years ago. Uncomfortable doesn’t really quite explain how I felt, sitting in the back of a near-empty funeral home room, seeing framed photos of a man who I vaguely resemble. Depressed, angry, annoyed, disgusted—there’s not one adjective that I could pin down and actually FEEL. I’ve never wanted to be in a room less, and that made me feel sad for him. And for my grandparents. It must be heartbreaking to outlive your children. Even more heartbreaking I suppose for there to be nothing to say at their funeral.

I guess that’s what I felt: sad. What most people feel at funerals, but a completely different kind of sadness really. I’m not sad that he’s gone—I’m sad that he’s always been gone. I’m not really sad for my loss—I’m sad for his.

Hell-Raiser

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Thank you for raising me to be a hell-raiser. When I took Drivers Ed with my best friend, she slammed on the breaks and cried once. Every time I was behind the wheel, it was more like Yippee Ki-yay Mother Fuckers!

Don’t get me wrong, there’s definitely pros to being the girl who cried in Drivers Ed. My best friend never has to apologize to people for her brazen words also known as “harsh honesty.” I do. I have to do that. A lot. Plus, I’m often told that it’s astounding that I’m still alive and well, driving the way I do.

BUT. I rarely take shit from anyone. I stand up for myself and my beliefs and my loved ones and women and people of color and my students and Humans Who Genuinely Enjoy Miracle Whip and my dog (he’s still learning, OK?!). I’m so full of self-righteous indignation sometimes that I have been known to—gasp!—tell a man why I don’t want to go on another date with him. I know, I know, the audacity! Let him think he’s amazing and superior, even when letting him down, right? NO. Not right.

I have stomped my foot, I have gotten on and off so many goddamn soapboxes, I have tutted and tsked my way through a room, and I have shaken my head and finger at plenty of deserving suspects. How dare they? Do they know who I am? Do they know who raised me?

Yes, yes, this means my options are narrowed. I’m too outspoken or too opinionated or too awesome for a lot of guys. I’d be married with a bunch of babies by now if I wasn’t such a hell-raiser. I just…can’t seem to stop.

I wanted to thank you for not being the kind of mother who says things like:

“You should really hurry up and meet a man so that I can have grandbabies.”

“Why are you still single? When are you gonna settle down?”

“You’re not getting any younger!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so picky; maybe this is the best thing that’s gonna come around…”

Sometimes I forget how lucky I am—I forget how common those questions are, how casually they’re constantly thrown at women like darts.

YOU say things like:

“You don’t HAVE to have kids. Don’t feel like you HAVE to have children. If you want them, well OK then.”

And then, when I say that yes, I do want kids one day, but I worry about the complications of having kids in your mid-late thirties:

“You know, you don’t have to get married to have a kid. You can always adopt. Never rush into something because you want to have kids.”

 “You should NEVER settle.”

 

It’s crazy how many parents pressure their children into getting married and having kids…I will always be grateful to have been raised by a woman like you, who never pressured me into doing anything besides focusing on my schoolwork. I may be biased as an educator, but I think that’s the only thing that parents should ever pressure their kids into doing, haha! You may not be perfect. I’m sure as hell not perfect. But I am a hell-raiser and you are perfect in my eyes. Thanks, Mama<3

Beluga Lava Lamps

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This topic has been fully covered in embarrassing middle school health videos, corny pre-teen flicks, and Seventeen Magazine. But I feel like our age group needs a little refresher. Mainly, I just need to vent. Mother Nature should be renamed Mother Fucker or perhaps simply Bitch Lady.

Yes, that’s right. This blog is about menstrual cycles. Periods, days of the month, the rag, Aunt Flow, “becoming a woman”. Ugh.

Today, I felt like staying in bed all day, watching E!, and popping the leftover hydrocodone from my wisdom tooth removal. My back feels like a sumo wrestler is sitting on me and, at any moment, I fully expect my ovaries to burst out from my belly, screeching “YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN UTERUS!!!” I’m as bloated as a beluga and I go through waves of nausea mixed with severe cravings and hunger. I swear I could devour an entire pizza, a tray of cookies, and a pitcher of margarita, then puke it up, and then reach for a bucket of chicken and a box of chocolate. Along with ALL of these facts, add my roller coaster feelings. I’m basically a bipolar blob who wants to hug you, fight you, and cry on you in the span of five minutes. I’m also trying to move into my apartment and start my new job. You DON’T wanna mess with me this week. I will destroy you.

I hear pregnancy is like this, but 100 times worse. You might not ever see me with a baby bump if that’s the case. Women have to go through all this just so we can one day go through it times 100 for nine months straight? Gee thanks, Bitch Lady.

I mean, I haven’t even mentioned the most obvious little nugget of joy—we literally bleed out as if we were shot in the vagina. That’s just cruel, man. Like, who the hell thought of this process? The whole stork delivery thing is genius in my opinion. Better yet, trees bear fruit, why can’t they just dangle infants as well?

Or maybe if men could understand a morsel of our pain and suffering…ya know? Sea horses get it. I’m also a big proponent of somehow making pregnancy a fair toss-up: you have unprotected sex and there’s a 50/50 chance of one of you getting preggo. That would be sweet!

Seriously, what do men have to deal with? Morning wood, wet dreams, shaving their mustache? Gimme a break. Bleed for a week straight while feeling like death and then get back to me.

I guess I’m just here to say…we don’t exaggerate our cramps and it’s not our fault that our emotions get plopped into a high speed lava lamp (red).

So boyfriends/husbands: don’t complain or get grossed out. Definitely don’t rattle the cage. Just buy your lovely beluga a goddamn cupcake, sit through whatever movie she chooses, and rub her feet. In exchange, she’ll keep feeling horrible every month so that one day, you can teach your son how to play football. What a deal.

And then one day after that, she’ll be able to do what my mother recently did to me: grin while handing over a box of tampons and say, “I no longer need these, here you go!” I can’t wait to be that Bitch Lady.