It is 2006. I am 9 years old. I am at the movies with my family. There is a group of younger guys sitting in front of us. One of them lets out the most disgusting, most heinous fart that has ever been ripped in the history of putrid farts. We all make faces at each other—the smell saturated the entire theatre. I try to make eye contact with my mother but could not find her. I soon realize that it is because she is standing up, gagging into her shirt. In the middle of the theatre. While the movie is playing. Solely because she loves the drama of it all, I am convinced. She is loud. She is causing a scene, a spectacle. I watch her with a terrified expression but cannot stop laughing at her. And with her.
***
My mother has black, curly hair. She swears it was an auburn color when she was younger. She bleached it once when she was 25 and the roots started growing in black. Allegedly. I am unsure of the science behind this and if it even is possible. But I nod every time she tells me this story. I want to believe her.
***
It is 2001. I am 3 years old. I drop fish food all over the kitchen floor and panic. Big footsteps are coming. I cannot pick up the fish food quickly enough with my hands. Bad, bad, bad. My mother screams. My head hurts. And then nothing.
***
My mother has calloused, coarse hands. They are damaged from years of handling bleach and other chemicals. For several years, she had a job cleaning the apartments my father had renovated when first starting his own remodeling company. The apartments were beautiful, rich, expensive—but the work was painful, exhausting, and paid poverty wages. She often looked down at her own hands. She laughed. And then she cried.
***
It is 2004. I am 6 years old. I bring home Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss. It is the first book that is mine—not the public library’s, but mine. I hold it in my hands with excitement. The hardcover is glossy. The pages are robust with color. Green Eggs and Ham is everything I could have ever wanted. My mother holds my head in her lap and asks me to translate it from English to Spanish for her. I nod and say sí. Sí.
***
My mother is fat. She has not been this way forever—no, not always. She shows us pictures of her in her youth. “See, I was once beautiful.” She boasted. Her face lit up. This photograph is the reason she made me drink green tea every morning and wear spanks. With every flash of her smile and with every wave of her polaroid, one of my biggest fears slowly comes to fruition.
***
It is 2010. I am 12 years old. I read books all day, everyday, and whenever I can. I read them during church. I read them at school during lunch. I read them at recess. I read them while my mother is talking. At the age of 12, I have collected a closet-full of them. The absence of me living in reality upset my mother. One day, she forces me to throw the books in three black plastic trash bags. She drives me to Half Price Books to sell them. I cry and plead. Half Price Books gives me $5.35 for the three trash bags. My mother drives me back home without saying a word.
***
My mother has lost four of her teeth due to rot. Our family had no dental insurance and could not afford to have them fixed. So, they fell out. I knew a new tooth had fallen out when I heard the wailing coming from her bedroom. It was not the usual wailing. It was a bloodcurdling, nightmare inducing wail. One that could start wars. She would not leave her bedroom those days. “Don’t look at me! Don’t look at me!”
***
It is 2018. I am 20 years old. I am moving out of my parent’s house for the first time. She gives me avocados and a box of instant rice before I go. When I leave, she waves goodbye to me. I watch her hand ripple in the sunlight. I absorb her goodbye as if it will be the last.
***
My mother is Mexican. She speaks close to no English throughout my time in Elementary School and Middle School. When she finally learns English, she does so with a thick, heavy accent. I am ashamed. I ask her not to speak to me when dropping me off at school. She looks embarrassed when I ask this of her. The next day she does not say I love you. She simply drives off.
***
My mother has two brothers. Both of them have been in prison for several years during their lifetimes. She would pay the exorbitant amount of money it takes to call them on the phone every time they were incarcerated. She would hear horror stories. Sexual assault. More violence. She would cry on the phone. She would cry the entire day after. I gave her space simply because I did not want her to tell me about what my uncles confessed to her. I did not want to feel heavy. She carried the load alone. I am selfish.
***
It is 2016. I am 18 years old. My mother finds me downing a bottle of pills in my room. She angrily grabs me by the shoulder and drags me to the bathroom, shoves her fingers down my throat, and asks me to throw up. It does not work. I wake up in a hospital. My mother picks me up after two days of being inpatient. While driving me home from the hospital, she closes her eyes periodically. She prays. She does not make eye contact or speak to me for a week after. She finds peace.
***
My mother is forgetful. When leaving the house, we both ask each other, “phone, wallet, keys?” We are missing one of them every single time. Leaving the house takes 10 minutes for this reason. Regardless of the system, after driving for ten minutes, she will ask me, “have you seen my phone?”
***
It is 2014. I am 16 years old. My mother cooks breakfast for me and my siblings every morning before we go to school. When my siblings and I are done eating, she stands by the door and lets us walk to school if we are not running late. By the time we leave, she has cleaned the entire house. An hour after, she goes and cleans other people’s houses. When my siblings and I come back home, she has already prepared another meal for us. This is done without reward or notice, almost like it was done by a ghost.
***
My mother had a horrific childhood. Regardless, she is deeply close with her own mother. I suppose they have forgiven of each other’s sins. Or perhaps they hold those locked inside a place where no one can go, not even themselves. If my mother and her mother were to peek through, they would lose everything that they have hid away from. Even so, digging rot out does not equal bravery or intuition. Sometimes it simply requires survival. Who gives anyone the right to break into their own home and rob them of their most valuables, anyway? Who wants to break open?
***
It is 2022. I am turning 25 years old in less than a month. When I am sad, I imagine my mother caressing my face gently while swaddling me like a baby. She runs the bath. She washes my hair carefully and then combs it. She speaks softly and tells me not to worry because she will take care of me. I believe her. Every time I believe her.
