I've been watching the HBO series "The Wire" lately. Since the first episode there has been a personal connection for me to these characters. In case you've never seen the show, it's about drugs and crime on the streets of Baltimore. (It's much more than that, tho, you should check it out!) In Season 1 there is a character named Bubbles, or Bubs. He is a heroin addict, he lives on the streets, but most of all he is a sweetheart. His genuinely good nature shines through. He is funny, clever, sarcastic and smart. He is my mom so much that I tear up almost every scene he is in. He makes me miss my Mom one minute and in the next minute feel so sad that he is caught up in this life. . Or is it sad because my Mom was caught up in that life? They are one in the same. My feelings for Bubs are my feelings for my Mom. Every time I see Bubs on the screen I want to hug him, I fear for his safety. I worry where he will sleep. What will he eat? Every time they show him shooting up I say "No, Bubs! You're better, you're more than that!" There is so much more to my connection to Bubs and how it mirrors the life my Mom led. But, I need to process some other things first.
Season 4 concentrates on the street kids and the public schools. Every night, I sit on my soft leather recliner, from the comfort of my beautiful home here in Arizona and I get transported, back to a time in my life that feels like never could have actually happened to me. I almost feel like I should be in these episodes, sitting in the corner of the classroom The only white girl, dirty, self conscious and scared out of her mind. I share so many of the character's traits and actions. Cutting school at the first sign of insecurity. Not caring about what the hell the teacher is trying to say because there is just too much more REAL shit to be thinking about. Like, will I eat tonight? Will there be electricity when I get home? Why does this teacher think I will ever amount to anything? When will I ever need to know algebra? Doesn't he know I'm invisible?
There is one character on the show, Dookie, who really just gets me straight in the heart and brings back so many memories. More than memories, actual pain and sadness comes over me. He is an awkward boy, poor and dirty. Living in poverty, both of his parents are drug addicts. He's smart, yet insecure. He's sweet, but misunderstood. He's picked on by his classmates for having dirty clothes and for smelling, and he just timidly takes the abuse. He never fights back. Probably because he knows that what they are saying is true. He is dirty. He does smell. He is awkward.
He is me.
In one episode a student tells his teacher that he doesn't have any school supplies or uniform shirt because his parents sell them for money for drugs. I almost had to excuse myself from my own living room to process the feelings this scene brought up. I wanted to pause the show and magically be transported into that classroom and hug Dookie. I wanted to tell him it can be ok. Not it WILL be ok, because honestly, that's just not always the case. A lot of things have to fall into place before he will ever be ok. Before I ever would be ok. But I am living proof that it is possible.
I often wonder about how little things that happen to you as a child can have such an impact on you as an adult. In elementary school my school would have a "Candy Sale" every year. It wasn't like it is today, where you can pay by credit card. I didn't have my parents on my side, rooting for me to sell the most candy so I could win the bike on page 4. My mom wasn't bringing the catalog to work and asking her friends to order, so her daughter could succeed. Instead, my parents would shove me out of the house, with my little collection box, to sell candy. More importantly, to bring back cash for them to buy drugs. I remember going to every apartment in the building with that catalog. Every house on the street. And the next street. And across the avenue. As far as I could go to fill up my box. I was so completely awkward and shy, I wonder if people bought from me out of pity. No, I shouldn't wonder, I know this is why. Especially when year after year I would never return to their house with the chocolate they paid for. Yet, every year, they kept buying from me. I would come home after dark with my little box jingling with cash and coins and hope that I could sneak it past my parents. I was just as naive as my neighbors, they would never get their chocolate and I would never get that bike. I wouldn't even turn an envelope in. Why did I continue to knock on neighbors doors? I try to figure this out, but I just can't get into my little 10 year old head. Did I just want to please my parents? Was I so desperate for any kind of attention that I humiliated myself for them? Did I really believe I had a chance at that bike? It could be any or all of these things, I don't know. That brings me back to my original point - how does this seemingly small incident impact who I am today? I think about this one childhood memory often. Why? Is it the humiliation I felt? Is it the hurt and complete disregard from my parents? Is it because I am a parent now, and I am trying to wrap my brain around the whole scenario? Maybe I will never know. I do know that it has given me great perspective as a mother. I cannot even fathom doing something like this to my boys. That's like comparing apples to oranges. My life compared to my boys' lives just isn't a fair comparison. I can only hope to use my past experiences to teach my kids some valuable lessons. Lessons they may never have the opportunity to learn without my experiences, How my old life will support my new life remains to be seen.
Showing posts with label Wisdom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wisdom. Show all posts
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Chapter 7
After my 15th birthday I don't think I went to school more than a handful of times, if that many. I didn't care about truancy officers anymore, and my Mom just gave up trying to make me go. Some mornings she would make idle threats about making me go to school, but never followed through. Other mornings, I guess the mornings she didn't feel like taking the subway ride to Jamaica alone, she would tell me I could stay home only if I went with her on the train. She belonged to an outpatient methadone clinic and had to go to Jamaica for her methadone. She would make me pee in a cup for her, so that she could pass her drug tests and ensure that she still had a spot in the clinic. I don't know what happened on the days I couldn't be there to pee in that cup, but I know that she was high pretty much 99.999% of the time and she was never kicked out of the program, that I am aware of.
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.
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.
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