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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #510
`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
888 888 888 888 888 "No Regrets, I Never
888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8 Asked to Be Born"
888 888 888 888 888 "
888 888 `88b d88' 888 o by Meenk
o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8 3/8/99
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I write this for my mother.
I sit here, inhaling the hot, acid smoke from my Camel, thinking
about the woman who gave me life. She wasn't even a year older than I am
now when I became a part of her life. Carrying me inside her womb,
re-shaping her life to accomodate mine. She probably sat, staring at her
cigarette smoke, thinking about how she got where she was, exactly like
me. We look a lot alike. I have only seen one picture of her at this
age, her round belly, two-dimensional in the photograph, encompassing the
world as I knew it. I would like to think that she thought fondly of me,
the unconditional love for a total stranger inside of her permeating her
thoughts. Anticipation for the chance to form a person capable of anything
bringing a smile to her lips as she tenderly caressed her swollen abdomen.
I don't know, though. She and I aren't close. She probably felt a lot of
regret. Thoughts like this don't occur until a certain point in your
life, if at all. I would ask her, but I am not comfortable with her
anymore. To me, she is a stranger. Soon after she gave birth to me, she
married my father.
Maybe that is why I question her feelings about me before I was
born. A child with a child, she suffered the pains of expelling me from
her body, into this world. All I know of my early life has come from
stories she has told me. The dawn of the 1980s, my mother still trying
to find herself, she tried to make the marriage work. Stories of violence.
I don't remember. She has hundreds of pictures of me, literally learning
to stand, learning to learn. I looked happy. There were few pictures of
her. No one wants pictures of sadness and pain.
I just didn't know any better. She took me away, possibly saving
my life. I never got to express to her my gratitude, how thankful I was
for her courage. She worked hard, caring for me the best she could with
hardly an example from her parents. Teaching me many things, the best she
knew how. Answering my questions to the best of her ability, faking it
when she couldn't, she brought me up with a lust for life. She liked to
move, to experience. Creating impressions that would not be evident for
over a decade she explored herself, raising questions in my developing
mind that I did not know how to ask, yet. Though I wouldn't have thought
so at the time, in retrospect, the unconditional love was always there.
She faced the world alone, fighting not only for herself, but for me too.
There came a time when the questions I had outnumbered the answers she
could give. I was finally able to put into words the concepts developing
in my head over the years. What kind of morals did I want? What kind of
person did I want to be? The same questions my mother was trying to
answer when I came into her life. The only difference was about 8 years.
I knew that I was thinking about things which I shouldn't have had to
worry about for a long time. She had no answers for me and I was not
ready to be so independant. I felt an incredible longing for something
which she couldn't provide and I hated her for it. I wasn't yet a teen,
but already my life was headed in a direction her life could not
accomodate.
I left, barely speaking to her since. I became a woman having only
the memories of her young, overwhelmed, yet strong and fearless progression
into womanhood to guide me. With little guidance from anywhere else, I
learned from the firsthand experience of my mother's mistakes. Not just
stories, but living through the consequences of her choices. I held a lot
against her. I blamed her for a lot of my anguish. Now, I look in the
mirror and I see her eyes. Her wisdom, the lines carved by pain, her
eagerness for life, and I realize that I love her too. Unconditionally,
like she loves me. I hope one day I will have the chance to thank her.
She gave me the tools to find myself and for that I will always be
thankful. I love you, mom.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #510 - WRITTEN BY: MEENK - 3/8/99 ]