Monday March 31, 2008

My brother Gerald called me today to tell me that our mother is dying. She was 35 when I was born back in May of 1959, so if I’m almost 49 and 35+49= 84, then Mom has lived a good long life.

I don’t know what my feelings are. A man should have some kind of feelings when his mother dies. She isn’t dead today. She’s dying. She’s in a hospital in Roseville, a small town near Sacramento, California. I haven’t been in California since December 1988 when I left the place I was born to move to Chicago and make a new start. I’ve been in Chicago ever since, not even going back for a visit. I’ve talked to my oldest brother Don on the phone a few times and a short “hello” to Mom was part of those conversations, but I can’t really say that I’ve talked to my mother since the mid-1980’s; 20 years have passed.

Mom has had Parkinson’s disease for a while now and has been mostly incoherent and senile for quite a few years. That’s no excuse for a guy not to talk with his Mom and no excuse to stop loving the woman who brought me into the world, fed me, cared for me, taught me to read and sing, taught me about humor and silliness, showed me how a positive attitude can make a big difference in life.

She also taught me to be ashamed of my body and to feel dirty about sexuality. She taught me that God was always watching me and that nothing about myself truly belongs to me. She taught me that pride is a sin—that ALL pride is sinful and that I couldn’t ever feel good about myself without being bad in the eyes of God.

She was my best friend when I was little, but she was also the worst enemy of my self-esteem.

Now she’s dying and I don’t know how to feel.

I want to go to her, but I don’t have the money to travel to California and back. I would call on the phone, but I don’t know if the people at the hospital would even let me talk to her. And if I did get to talk to her, what good would it do? Would she know who I was? Does she know who I am? The deterioration of her mind is in a really advanced state by now. A phone call would do nothing except shake the reluctant tears out of me. I would be calling just to help myself grieve.

My brother Gerald—who I also haven’t talked with in 20 years—sounded so different from the brother I remember. He sounded like an old guy. He’d be…56 or so right now. Don is 10 years older than I am and Gerald is two years younger than Don. This is so sad that I don’t even know the ages of the members of my own family. They haven’t seemed like family to me in a long time. When I moved to Chicago, I guess I kind of declared myself to be an orphan or a man without a past or a family. I wanted a complete break from all I had known in California. As a teenager I was so surrounded by crime and drugs and death that I was sure that I could never survive unless I got OUT—unless I could be far away from that place. And I left without looking back.

They wouldn’t have known where I am at all if not for the requirements of the Ba’hai religion regarding marriages. And I’m not even Ba’hai, nor is my wife Kim.

But Kim was raised Catholic and she had already been married once in the Catholic Church. Her marriage to me wouldn’t be recognized in the Catholic Church because she got divorced for a reason other than adultery and that isn’t a proper catholic divorce, therefore her marriage to me couldn’t be a proper catholic marriage.

In short, we shopped for a place to get married and the Ba’hai Temple in nearby Wilmette was the nicest temple we saw. The price was good too. Free. They only had a couple of stipulations, one of them being that no members of the couple’s respective families could have any objection to the marriage.

Romeo and Juliet couldn’t have had a Ba’hai wedding. Bob and Kim could, but only if Bob got either A) his family to attend the ceremony or B) a written statement saying that they approve of the marriage.

So I contacted them to tell them I was getting married to a non-white woman in a non-christian ceremony. I composed a letter for them to sign and return to me. They went along with it, even though I’m sure they were mystified by my request for family approval.

Up until then, my oldest brother and my mother had no idea where I was and my middle brother Gerald—the one who called me today—was in prison and probably had things other-than-me to think about.

But that’s how they came to know where I was and what I was doing and how to get ahold of me. I’ve had the same phone number all this time.

Then today, Gerald called me to tell me Mom is dying. And all I can think to do is write in my journal.

I loved you. Mom. I found that I couldn’t accept the religion you wanted me to accept and not accepting your religion made me feel like I couldn’t be the son you wanted me to be. The place you tried to raise me was a place—or maybe a time—that was full of horrors for me and I had to leave that place. I left you because I had to run away from the place you lived. But I loved you. I just couldn’t make the same choices for myself that I felt you were making for me. I needed to have a better chance to survive. I needed a better education and better employment opportunities. I needed some better ideas about God, too. I needed to fill myself with the good qualities that I couldn’t find in our hometown. I had to get away. But I loved you.

I will call.

I will say, “Mom, this is your son Robert. I love you, Mom. I grew up and I’m doing good. I love you. Goodbye, Mom.”