Let me talk about the J train for a minute. The J train runs underground starting in downtown Manhattan, comes above ground through Brooklyn and into Queens, then underground again for it's last stop in Jamaica Center, Queens. I lived in Woodhaven, and was right in the middle of the route. Woodhaven was a pretty nice place back then. Not the BEST, but certainly not the WORST. Yet, boarding that train was just not one of my favorite things to do. I would have to take it towards Brooklyn on the rare occasion that I rode it to school. It would usually be filled with a mix of working people commuting into lower Manhattan and a bunch of rambunctious teenagers taking it to Franklin K Lane High School. I never fit in to either category. Was I the only one who didn't quite fit in? Probably not, but I was riddled with self doubt and so self conscious and that made me a target. It was not for many more years that I would build up confidence and self awareness and be able to attack the J train without anxiety. To make that anxiety worse, add taking the train with my Mom to the mix and you can imagine the feelings I had. Apparently, even this was a better option than going to school, so I would take that ride with her. My mom was normally, on a sober and rare day, very reserved and quiet, shy to the max, but always quick witted, sarcastic and funny as hell. When she was high her shyness disappeared. She was still quite funny and the sarcasm grew even more abundantly. Sure, she was basically the sweetest, most loving woman you'd ever meet, but she was also quite the jokester. Because she was always high when I would take that train with her, she was out of her shell. She would take this opportunity to make fun of me. I am sure she could see how awkward I was, and she used it! She would talk in weird voices, loudly, to get people to look at her, and WORSE, look at me. Saying loudly in an unknown accent "Whatsammater Rawbin, are you embarrassed by your Muhther? Come sit next to your Muhther RAAWBIN" It was awful. She thought she was funny tho.
We would arrive at Jamaica Center station and go upstairs, into the streets of Jamaica, Queens. These were, and still are, tough streets. Drug dealers around every corner. Crime, poverty, you name it-Jamaica has it. Most people used this stop on their journey to transfer to the railroad into midtown or to another subway into Manhattan and wouldn't dream of surfacing above ground at this stop. For my Mom, this was just another day. For me, I cringed, I shuddered, I was honestly petrified on those streets. The closer we got to "The Program" (what she called it my whole life) the more sad souls you would encounter. They huddled on street corners, making shady deals. They met up there before going in to ask about which case workers were in that day. Then would meet up again after to make trades, one's methadone for anothers Valium (my Mom's favorite) They would stand there and make their small talk and I would shrink inside myself. I should be used to it by this age, I had been tagging along to The Program since I was still small enough to be carried. There was always something in me that made me feel uncomfortable in those surroundings. I never allowed myself to let it feel "normal". I don't know how or why that is, but I am sure grateful. I certainly was around people who were addicted to drugs often enough. For as far back as I can remember it was just part of my environment. My parents always had someone staying with us "for a few days". My mom never turned anyone away if they needed a place to crash. Maybe she knew that if it weren't for the generosity of my Dad's side of the family, we would be the ones looking for shelter. I can't even imagine that someone had it so bad, that our roach infested, filthy apartment was a step up. If it weren't for welfare, we would never eat. Wait, I take that back. Even WITH welfare, we didn't eat.
I can remember the end of the month rolling around and my Mom saying "just a few more days til check day, we will go to Pathmark and go shopping! I'll make stew!" Check day is what she called it when we would get our welfare allowance. It was Food Stamps back in the day, not a debit card like they have today. I had a love/hate relationship with food stamps. On one hand, it allowed us to buy groceries and fed us. On the other hand, I was mortified every time I was sent to the store with food stamps. What if someone saw me? Someone ALWAYS saw me, even if it was just the cashier. I would get that look. The sad "poor little girl" look. I hate that look! That was if we were lucky to ever see a penny of the food stamps to begin with. Check day would roll around, my Mom would be practically dancing with excitement that morning and send me off to school with promises of fried chicken dinners, or a pot of sauce to come home to. Almost every time I would instead come home to a quiet, dark house and her bedroom door closed and locked. I would always rush past my Moms bedroom door, to the kitchen to look for the food and there would be nothing. My heart and stomach would drop. I would go back down the hallway and knock on the door. First quietly, hoping for her to open it up, greet me with a hug and say "let's go food shopping". That never happened. Ever. (ok, maybe twice?) Every month was the same thing.
<knock knock>
"Mom! I'm home! Are we going to Pathmark?!"
"Hey, sweet girl, I'll be out in a minute! Go get the shopping cart ready"
I would get the cart, which we would walk to the grocery store, fill it up and wheel it back home
<knock knock>
"Got it! Let's go!"
"Ok, sweetie, I'll be out in a minute"
Minutes would turn to hours. Of all the months and years of this happening, I remember ACTUALLY going shopping maybe twice. Once with both my parents, at which time they were caught stealing cheap, no frill sneakers, as we shopped. Security pulling us aside before we were able to leave. My parents fighting with security, arguing that they paid for them. Back and forth, while I snuck Tastee Cakes out of the shopping cart.
I realize now that on check day, by the time I would get home from school all of the food stamps were gone. Traded for drugs. The door being closed and locked was always the first clue. Yet, every month I held on to that glimmer of hope. She was so convincing! She always made me believe that this time would be different. What else could I do? She believed it herself so whole heartedly, that I had no choice but to believer her as well. Sure, she had good intentions in the morning, but was always seduced by the temptation of escape. In the meantime, where did I get to go to escape? A filthy apartment, old toys and an empty kitchen. There came a time that I started rolling my eyes when she would start with all the food we would get when check day come. Eventually, check day was a delusion that she kept for herself. In her world every month she was going to get clean and do the right thing by her babies. She believed it, she had every intention of doing it and I believe that. Sadly, addiction does not work quite so easily. I can only assume that every month, after making that same choice of her addiction over her kids would only make her need to retreat even stronger. I cannot imagine the hell she lived with. The torment her soul felt on a daily basis.
I am so extremely grateful that through it all, my Mom was always able to express her deep love for me. That never, ever wavered. Even tho I went through these neglectful situations, I can honestly say that I was lucky. Lucky to have such a beautiful, sweet soul for a mother. That love that was instilled in me, is the absolute center of me. It is what gave me the strength to persevere.
A few pictures of the J train.
