I have bits and pieces of my parent’s lives. My dad worked many jobs his whole life. My mom worked in smoke-filled VHS Duplication Offices and misogynist pizza shops. I know they got married too young. I know they were too poor to ever retire. I don’t know how they survive knowing that.
I haven’t considered dying happy, though I’ve often considered the dying part. I don’t come from a people that valued mental health professionals, or medical professionals in general, so I don’t know if it’s generational. From what I can tell, my dad’s side has a black sheep every generation, and my mom’s side has too many kids to keep track of, though all the parents try all the religious tricks in the book. I know I’m the black sheep. I guess that counts for something. Their names don’t really mean anything. English names of saints, German, and Irish last names. Nothing specific. Too far separate from that past to know, or at least be cleanly passed down. I don’t know if they felt disconnected from every group they’ve ever been a part of. I don’t know if they were groomed like I was. Do I have a right to that closure? I cut them off, so so I get cut off from the trauma that shapes who I am fighting? I just want to get better. My mother was born in a Levitt town. My dad in the city.
From what I can tell, they both moved homes as children at least once, though my mom moved at least 4 times before she met my dad. Their love story is cute. My mom was a competitive skater frosh, my dad the high school senior. They were both separately getting Burger King after a night at the rink. It was a school night. The place probably smelled like that watery, thick waft of their equally thickly cut fries.
Love Burger King. Hate the Smell.
My mom gives away that she’s enamored by the guy. Her “friend” goes up to him and starts flirting. My mom goes up to punch this bitch in the back of the head, but they spin around and she slams into my dad’s back. Literal meet cute. can’t make that shit up. Five years later she’s 19 and they’re married. She had to wait to move on with him until the marriage went through because they both respected their parents.
I have had my doubts through the years but they clearly love each other. I think I was the problem. whatever. One less kid doesn’t mean much when the extended family still has another 40 (and growing) to spare. Irish Catholics. My mom was a lower-middle-class athlete Catholic and my dad was an honors student turned everyman workaholic because his parents were nincompoops. And I was their peace offering. To the idiots. In the 21st century.
I hope I can reread this one day and find a new understanding. But in my short life, as I burn through my life expectancy, I have yet to manage to put it all together into one informed person, one whole identity. I’ll keep putting together my bits and pieces.
What unfinished stories influence you?
