Miranda Moron

Professor Sidibe

ENW 210

April 30, 2019

Memoirs of A Once Very Angry Daughter

The deeper into relationships and parenting that I get the more I realize I am more like my parents than I would ever like to admit, and for some time I would think only in the bad ways. I used to watch my mother so closely and pick apart every little thing about her. I hated her taste in men, I hated the way she killed herself at work and never made time for herself. I also felt like she was selfish, which I now realize completely contradicts my other opinions. Specifically, I hated the way my mother would eat when she was having a bad day. She would look so miserable as she sat there consuming a meal simply for the need of it not because she desired it. I never realized how hard it is to eat and enjoy a meal when you have the world crashing down around you. Now, thinking back to it I have watched my mothers world crash down in shambles around her on so many occasions. never for a second realizing how much of a toll this took on the way she loved herself (or didn’t), the way she parented us, or in the way she chose her lovers.

I’ve watched my mother’s personality change often in my short 26 years of being her number one fan, critic, and helper all at the same time. I NEVER realized how much pressure my eyes alone were applying to her, not to mention the other 4 set of eyes always waiting to witness and critique her next move. I cannot understand why I ever thought this would make my mothers job any easier.

“You should take your bag with you.” I said quietly to my daughter Aaliyah as we finally sat down. I knew that my daughter would attempt to leave it behind as she went into her therapy appointment. This had become a part of our Friday routine. I would sign her out of after school early and trek to the other side of the Bronx to bring her. The office smelled stale, and there was not an ounce of sunlight anywhere to be found. It was small but we were always eagerly welcomed by the receptionist behind the desk and her thick Boston accent. ‘Hey Aaliyah’s mom how are we today” she always said as if it were rehearsed after a long day, and I knew she was just excited cause we were her last clients of the day. Luz would sign us in, ask me how school was going and how our week was, half listen and then we would wait for Aaliyah’s therapist to finish with her 4:30 client. “Mom, it’s so much easier to just leave my stuff with you. Why do I have to take it with me?” Aaliyah pleaded with me, as she always did. “Because you’re getting to an age where you need to be responsible for your own things. Do I ever leave my purse anywhere? Or with anyone? No, because it’s my stuff so it is safest with me” I explained to 9 year old daughter. My very tired, and always full of complaints and questions for the world at all times right hand girl. As much as I disliked explaining myself, I was grateful she always had questions. It gave me faith for her future knowing that nothing could happen around or to her without her asking plenty of questions. The door that led to the offices finally flung open and out rushed Aaliyah’s therapist. “Miranda! How are we this week? Is there anything we need to discuss or can I grab Aaliyah?” Dr. Ross asks shifting her eyes from me to Aaliyah and then back to me. “No, no. Everything is good, you guy can go ahead.” I answered quickly. Truth is, this was my favorite part of the week. I was tired from work and school and I knew that Aaliyah was getting her weekly relief so I was content for a moment. I would sit here and probably listen to music and read emails while I wait for her, a small peace for my mind after a long week.

The two of them left and a sense of relief took over my body. My shoulders dropped the weight that was my monday through friday work school and parent life schedule that ran me into the ground some weeks. I sat back and turned up the volume on my headphones, allowing Vivian Green to sing sweet nothings in my ear for a moment while I enjoyed my solitude. I began thinking back to when I was Aaliyah’s age.

I was 9 years old when I had my mother’s bank account number memorized. We usto go to the Federal Credit Union every single pay period, it was our bi-weekly friday routine. My mother would pull up in the drive through lane and insert her documents into the little magic tube that would send it to the teller behind the window some yards away. I never tried to memorize it, I just realized that I knew it one day as I heard her recite it to someone. Soon enough, I was 10 when I learned how to forge my mother’s name; it was my homework to fill out numerous forms, signing both my own school paperwork and my siblings school paperwork. She had actually taught me how to do so once because she had a backlog of daycare sign in sheets she had yet to fill out and it was now my job to fill out all the endless amount of forms for her to turn in, in order for her to keep her daycare assistance for my younger sister, brothers and I. I was Aminah Martinez, as far as they knew.

I was in the 4th grade when my mother had my brother Christian, and in the 5th grade when she had Ryan. I remember getting mad at my mom when she told me she was pregnant with Ryan, as if I was her baby daddy, whom I actually despised. “I thought you were on birth control, Mom!!” I shouted at her the day that she brought home the news. All I could think of was I didn’t want another child to take care. Life had been a bit simpler when it was just us, the original 3, we had a system that worked for us and any additions in our eyes were a nuisance, a disruption if you will. Now, we had Christian and Ryan. They grew on us of course, which we knew would happen. We would be monsters had we not allowed them into our sacred circle of survival.

As much as I hated having to take care of all of my siblings and myself and my mom, and the house and everything else that had become my responsibility all of a sudden, I finally realize now that at 26 I wouldn’t be as self sufficient as I am had my mother not overwhelmed me with responsibility. When I gave birth to my daughter at the age of 17, not having a clue about what I had just gotten myself into, I wouldn’t have known exactly how to change and dress and soothe her. I wouldn’t have known that babies have different cries for every different need that they have. I wouldn’t have known how to make something out of nothing when I found myself just like my mother, in the midst of hard times.

There was a time period when my mothers car was broken down and the piece was either too expensive to get and fix or maybe there was another issue that I never knew about. I just knew our car didn’t work so we woke up at 4 am to walk to school on the other side of town. After traveling for hours I would always fall asleep in class which always made adults ask questions, and eventually make phone calls, which always made my mother so angry. Any time the school picked up on anything that was weighing on us from home, they were very attentive and would wind up prying into my mother’s life and she hated it.

5:15, okay she’ll be out soon maybe I can scroll through this reading that needs to get done tonight, I thought to myself. Taking notice to the time and my surroundings after slipping into a daze. Luz had left her desk and was likely preparing to leave, meaning the end of Aaliyah’s session was approaching. My thoughts circled back to my 9 year old self and how much I wish my mother would have seen a need for just one time slot to be left open, just for me. Not for my other siblings who always managed to find a way to get exactly what they needed. Even hinting at needing help, needing therapy, was considered outrageous.

One time, when I was in the fifth grade, I volunteered to participate in this program that my school hosted, it was called C.H.I.L.L. It was a type of in school therapy and anger management and I had often seen the counselor around. She kinda took to me she asked me if I thought I could benefit from participating in the program. I leaped at the opportunity to be apart of something other than my family. So the counselor sent me home with paperwork and I was letting my mom know that I was gonna sign everything for her, as I always did. I don’t think I could ever forget this day. We were at the babysitter’s house, Mrs. Delores. I brought out the paperwork, adding it to my pile of homework. I guess for once my mother’s curiosity was sparked because she snatched the papers up to see what exactly I was signing. All she could find was the word “therapy”, and she was on me. My mother began screaming and yelling in a way that I couldn’t understand. Her face went from calm to distressed. Eyebrows raised, spit flying out of her mouth as she yelled and screamed at me. Her voice reached a peak I only heard in times like this. In times where she never failed to remind me that no matter how much I did for her, for my siblings, for her man that I hated so much. It was never enough, I was never enough. Just like that, my babysitters comfortable, safe, home had turned into a war zone in literally 2.5 seconds.  

“What’s wrong mommy, I didn’t think it would be a big deal at all” I said in my innocent 10 year old voice that never meant to ruin the peace that I always had found here at Mrs.Delores’ home.

This seemed to enrage her even more, she began to burst as if my actions caused the volcano that was her to erupt.

“Why do you keep doing this shit, Miranda? Don’t you realize that every little thing you do makes these motherfuckers ask me questions. It’s only a matter of time before these people are back to calling me, calling my job. I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS SHIT!”. The rest of the conversation remains a blur of insults and hands thrown and I walked away that day knowing that going to anyone outside of my home about the problems within me and within my home was unacceptable if I wanted to stay on my mother’s good side. I decided I wouldn’t ask for help, I would just lean on myself to fix anything that was broken both inside of me and around me.

I was brought back to reality as I heard the door to the left swing open. “See you next week, Aaliyah!” Dr. Ross mumbled as she rushed to the elevator, eager to begin her weekend.

“How was it, babe?” I asked Aaliyah, knowing I wasn’t going to get an answer, knowing that another week had passed and Dr. Ross still had not got down to the real reason that we were here. Aaliyah had not seen or heard from her father for going on two years and had begun to make everyone that was existent in her life, miserable right along with her. There was no diagnosis, although the therapist she had before this one had settled with throwing around the term “adjustment disorder”.

Aaliyah was really good at talking about everything but what was really bothering her. She had a way of charming everyone around her into thinking that there really was no problem, and no she had no explanation for her behavior. Just a simple shrug of her shoulders was all she could give to professionals, while behind closed doors she would give me constant hell.

“It was good, mom, same as always. We just talked about school and what I want to do this weekend, that’s about it. I don’t know why you always have to ask.” she said matter of factly, pairing it with an eye roll.

Lord, help me. I already saw where this night was going. I could never figure out where this came from but deep down I know she always saw much more than she will ever admit or even remember. She watched her father speak to me in the same manner, she watched her father constantly dismiss both me and my feelings. I never knew that watching him for only 4 years would create habits that I would spend the rest of her adolescence trying to break.

Now, watching my father when I was younger definitely only taught me one thing and one thing only. It’s always easier to run, the one thing my mom wasn’t allowed to do even if it was life or death. Neglect your responsibilities and find somewhere to hide from it all. Growing up I eventually found my way back to daddy dearest and he had more lessons to hand out and now i was an adult and legal to ingest this poison he was serving me. Upon finding him in his hiding place, Glens Falls, I learned nothing great can grow from the seeds you plant maliciously trying to grow trees to cover the buds you originally planted. You can make it look as beautiful as you’d like. Boy, did I fall for the way it all looked from far away. It became something I longed and ached for even though I would never admit it. It didn’t take long for me to swallow what he was pouring. I learned if you drink enough you can forget the day and probably the week before it, too. If you yell enough your kids will be scared enough to leave you alone and let you peacefully watch your baseball game with your bottle of Bacardi. I learned that by being selfish enough and letting your partner know from jump that is what yours is yours and what’s hers is yours she will never interrupt your day out with the guys to ask you to pick up an extra bottle of spaghetti sauce for dinner, instead she will make dry spaghetti and the kids will get over it.

When I tell you that my daddy taught me how to run without even realizing he was teaching me this, boy did I learn. I have moved 14 times in the last 8 years. 14 times that I have packed and unpacked. 14 times that I have placed my belongings in a way that I thought would make me comfortable only to eventually and shortly after pack it up and move on to my next destination. one out of state move, and several in state around the corner moves later I have realized I desire nothing more than stability. I’ll take stability over comfort at this point, but I have also come to the strange conclusion and the humble acceptance that I am my mother’s daughter, I am exactly who she groomed me to be, how she groomed be to be, to survive in this world as a single mother. I am hiding from everything in me that resembles my father. When I look in the mirror, I am the only time you will ever see them together. Here on my face, blatantly obvious in my actions, and cold and calculated in the way that I weave out of every house, apartment and relationship. Never afraid of starting over, and always avoiding anything that could drag depth out of me. Although I have accepted the parts of myself that I am now realizing resemble my father, I am learning that even if i spent a lifetime resenting her, there are aspects of my mother that I am extremely grateful to possess. I look back at the days where I swore my mother was miserable and realize that she simply had too much on her plate but nobody was in a rush to help her finish her serving. she was not living in a time and day where she could reach down and open her phone and go to some apps that would suggest some #self love, or that would remind her to #self care. She had 5 friends and we were her best friends in the whole wide world and all 5 of us depended on her for the air we breathed. She only had what she was taught and clearly were in the midst of a cycle that definitely didn’t start with my mother, but I pray can end with me. She was doing everything she could with what she had but if you asked the critics they were slandering her in the reviews, and that was never fair.

Aaliyah and I made our way back to our side of the Bronx. She hated traveling, especially on a busy friday evening. On our walk to the bus she continued to babble about her day, she was quite the gossip girl so there was much to discuss. As she rambled on and on about her best friend dating her crush and her teacher separating them to diffuse the situation I couldn’t help but stop and be grateful. Even if it was the smallest luxury in the world, I was grateful for the mind set that I had after all I had been through. I was grateful that I didn’t see my daughter needing help as a problem, I didn’t see anything she ever needed as a problem or an inconvenience.

Being a parent sometimes is half telling the truth and half the poker face. I’m not saying to throw honesty out the window, but truth comes in time and they can only handle some truths at a time, and sometimes “can we talk about this later?”, is all you can muster up while we figure out the best way to deliver the worst news. Realistically speaking, your kids will never truly understand everything that you’re going through. They couldn’t possibly fathom it because to them, their world isn’t big enough. We handle the world for them, because We are their world. One day, hopefully, they become parents, and as much as we wish it wouldn’t happen, they bare their own difficult truths. Maybe one day they will be forced to write a memoir for a creative writing class that will help them creatively deal with the skeletons in their closets and the ghosts of their pasts. Maybe one day they wake up and finally understand why every morning wasn’t always a good morning and every night won’t be a goodnight, but you always say, goodnight and I love you, regardless. Maybe this helps them understand you, maybe they stay bitter. I guess only time will tell.