[NOTE: This was for Comm 101. I wound up doing a much less personal speech about Meshu, (who's strikingly good looks are used on the title of this blog,) but writing about my mom's death was good for me, so I wanted to share it.]
Many Americans think Canada isn’t much different from the U.S. Canadians, on the other hand, feel quite differently. After gallivanting around their country, I heartily agree.
My life has never been very stable. I wasn’t happy in my hometown of Ladysmith. Trust me; you wouldn’t like it there either. To avoid that hellhole, I lived with acquaintances, friends, and family across the country.
In the summer following my senior year of high school, I was sick of that cycle. As exciting as the nomadic life might be, security is sometimes nice. My aunt and uncle from Michigan called, and offered something I didn’t even realize I wanted: support. My things were always packed, so the move was fast and easy.
I’ve met strangers more familiar than Ben and Jen. Don’t get me wrong, they’re some of the nicest people I know, but our lifestyles are so different. They’re not just living the American dream. They are the American dream. My uncle Ben, former football superhero for MIT, is the head of some multi-billion engineering firm. His wife Jen, with blonde hair and silicone breasts, is what you’d expect his cheerleader girlfriend to look and act like. They have two kids- Alec and Natalie. Sometimes it was hard for me to not get grossed out. I mean, their names rhyme for Eru’s sake! It was like the Brady Bunch, and I’m no Marsha. I didn’t fit in their Hallmark-esque life, and was lonelier than ever.
The situation back in Wisconsin didn’t help matters, either. My father left for the Winnipeg Folk Festival, a massive hippie party in Manitoba, and didn’t come back to the States. He met a lovely lady half his age from an eco-village, and followed her there. Meanwhile, his second ex-wife and my only mother was in the hospital. She overdid the alcohol again, pushing her body to the brink. I was worried about her of course, but mostly just angry. My memory of her almost always involves yellow eyes and a swollen stomach. Like many children of alcoholics, I went through the ‘maybe-if-do-this-she-won’t-drink’ guilt phase, to the ‘she’s-gotten-better’ vulnerable phase, and the ‘that’s-not-her-talking-it’s-the-beer’ hurt phase, over and over and over. After eighteen years of that shit, I finally progressed, (or degressed, depending on your opinion,) to ‘I-don’t-give-a-fuck.’
Of course my aunt and uncle were in a flummox.
“Do you want to go see her?” they asked worriedly.
Hell no! I thought to myself. The last time I saw my mom, she was visiting me in the hospital, and got tossed out by security. I still hadn’t entirely forgiven her for that. Besides, it wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before. My mom was smart. She’d stop drinking until her body was strong enough to start again. I had long stopped pretending that she’d ever quit for good.
My life has never been very stable. I wasn’t happy in my hometown of Ladysmith. Trust me; you wouldn’t like it there either. To avoid that hellhole, I lived with acquaintances, friends, and family across the country.
In the summer following my senior year of high school, I was sick of that cycle. As exciting as the nomadic life might be, security is sometimes nice. My aunt and uncle from Michigan called, and offered something I didn’t even realize I wanted: support. My things were always packed, so the move was fast and easy.
I’ve met strangers more familiar than Ben and Jen. Don’t get me wrong, they’re some of the nicest people I know, but our lifestyles are so different. They’re not just living the American dream. They are the American dream. My uncle Ben, former football superhero for MIT, is the head of some multi-billion engineering firm. His wife Jen, with blonde hair and silicone breasts, is what you’d expect his cheerleader girlfriend to look and act like. They have two kids- Alec and Natalie. Sometimes it was hard for me to not get grossed out. I mean, their names rhyme for Eru’s sake! It was like the Brady Bunch, and I’m no Marsha. I didn’t fit in their Hallmark-esque life, and was lonelier than ever.
The situation back in Wisconsin didn’t help matters, either. My father left for the Winnipeg Folk Festival, a massive hippie party in Manitoba, and didn’t come back to the States. He met a lovely lady half his age from an eco-village, and followed her there. Meanwhile, his second ex-wife and my only mother was in the hospital. She overdid the alcohol again, pushing her body to the brink. I was worried about her of course, but mostly just angry. My memory of her almost always involves yellow eyes and a swollen stomach. Like many children of alcoholics, I went through the ‘maybe-if-do-this-she-won’t-drink’ guilt phase, to the ‘she’s-gotten-better’ vulnerable phase, and the ‘that’s-not-her-talking-it’s-the-beer’ hurt phase, over and over and over. After eighteen years of that shit, I finally progressed, (or degressed, depending on your opinion,) to ‘I-don’t-give-a-fuck.’
Of course my aunt and uncle were in a flummox.
“Do you want to go see her?” they asked worriedly.
Hell no! I thought to myself. The last time I saw my mom, she was visiting me in the hospital, and got tossed out by security. I still hadn’t entirely forgiven her for that. Besides, it wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before. My mom was smart. She’d stop drinking until her body was strong enough to start again. I had long stopped pretending that she’d ever quit for good.
Nope, I definitely did not want to see her. I did, however, desperately want to visit my dad. Call it escapism if you like, but I went as far away from my mom as financially possible, buying a Greyhound ticket to Winnipeg, Manitoba.
I could make this whole speech on that trip alone. The bus draws some of the craziest, most diverse people this world has to offer. I sat next to a Mennonite wife for a while, whose child was perpetually vomiting three seats ahead of us. A nice lady from Chicago offered me two of her fried chickens. I declined. Most of the thirty-some hour trip was spent speaking with Michael, a UW-Madison student who was born in Congo. We talked for hours about hieroglyphs, Rwanda, and the male and female role. I’m getting a little sidetracked, but he is the first person who proposed to me after all, so it seems worth mentioning.
After thirty excruciating hours being tossed around in the rumbling metal giant, we finally made it. I had no idea what to expect my dad to look like. It reminded of the summer he stayed at a Tibetan Buddhist retreat in Colorado, and came back looking like a man of the woods.
Sure enough, the long, matted beard had returned, as well as the wild (stoned) eyes. Instead of taking me to the eco-village right away, he wanted to show me around Manitoba. In Winnipeg a girl even prettier than my aunt Jen stopped me in the street.
“Excuse me,” she asked, “but do you know a place where I can get my lips done?”
I sputtered. For starters, it was such an odd question. My lips may be bigger than the average girl’s, but I’m no Angelina Jolie. More importantly, the girl was gorgeous! Why mess with that kind of beauty?
I told her no as neutrally as possible, refraining from scolding her for being ungrateful about the looks she already possessed.
“But you have such nice lips!” she gushed with surprise. “I thought you’d know where to go.”
She was too innocent to leave alone. I honestly worried she'd get hurt, looking so stupidly lovely. My dad and I joined her in the hunt for a surgeon, stopping at tattoo shops who instantly turned us down. After five or so rejections we gave up, and went swimming in her pool.
The next day my dad and I went to a Native American powwow, where a woman my father was already familiar with sat intently. She had a vision five years ago that she would find something or someone at one of these gatherings, and had been hitchhiking to ceremonies across the U.S. and Canada ever since. I asked her curiously what she had seen, but didn't get an answer. The vision had yet to make its appearance in reality, and she was rather impatient for it to come.
After that we finally went to Prairie’s Edge, the Canadian family who adopted (and stole) my dad.
Eco-villages are sort of like Greyhound buses; they both draw a lot of strange people. This particular eco-village had its share of unusual individuals. My favorite was Hunter, the only other American who lived in two different realities: this planetary existence most of us reside in, and his dreams. The guy would sleep for twelve hours, and wake up to describe what happened in his own beautiful world. If I recall correctly, they mostly involved girls with purple and blue nipples seducing him. Needless to say, I was envious.
I could make this whole speech on that trip alone. The bus draws some of the craziest, most diverse people this world has to offer. I sat next to a Mennonite wife for a while, whose child was perpetually vomiting three seats ahead of us. A nice lady from Chicago offered me two of her fried chickens. I declined. Most of the thirty-some hour trip was spent speaking with Michael, a UW-Madison student who was born in Congo. We talked for hours about hieroglyphs, Rwanda, and the male and female role. I’m getting a little sidetracked, but he is the first person who proposed to me after all, so it seems worth mentioning.
After thirty excruciating hours being tossed around in the rumbling metal giant, we finally made it. I had no idea what to expect my dad to look like. It reminded of the summer he stayed at a Tibetan Buddhist retreat in Colorado, and came back looking like a man of the woods.
Sure enough, the long, matted beard had returned, as well as the wild (stoned) eyes. Instead of taking me to the eco-village right away, he wanted to show me around Manitoba. In Winnipeg a girl even prettier than my aunt Jen stopped me in the street.
“Excuse me,” she asked, “but do you know a place where I can get my lips done?”
I sputtered. For starters, it was such an odd question. My lips may be bigger than the average girl’s, but I’m no Angelina Jolie. More importantly, the girl was gorgeous! Why mess with that kind of beauty?
I told her no as neutrally as possible, refraining from scolding her for being ungrateful about the looks she already possessed.
“But you have such nice lips!” she gushed with surprise. “I thought you’d know where to go.”
She was too innocent to leave alone. I honestly worried she'd get hurt, looking so stupidly lovely. My dad and I joined her in the hunt for a surgeon, stopping at tattoo shops who instantly turned us down. After five or so rejections we gave up, and went swimming in her pool.
The next day my dad and I went to a Native American powwow, where a woman my father was already familiar with sat intently. She had a vision five years ago that she would find something or someone at one of these gatherings, and had been hitchhiking to ceremonies across the U.S. and Canada ever since. I asked her curiously what she had seen, but didn't get an answer. The vision had yet to make its appearance in reality, and she was rather impatient for it to come.
After that we finally went to Prairie’s Edge, the Canadian family who adopted (and stole) my dad.
Eco-villages are sort of like Greyhound buses; they both draw a lot of strange people. This particular eco-village had its share of unusual individuals. My favorite was Hunter, the only other American who lived in two different realities: this planetary existence most of us reside in, and his dreams. The guy would sleep for twelve hours, and wake up to describe what happened in his own beautiful world. If I recall correctly, they mostly involved girls with purple and blue nipples seducing him. Needless to say, I was envious.
All of this was kept that fears for my mom away, but my aunt and uncle spoiled the fun. They sent me an email, demanding that I come back to Wisconsin. I won’t lie; I didn’t want to. My mom had already ruined so much of my life. Did she have to take this away from me too? I called Jen, asking if it was a dire emergency.
She said yes.
I asked if my mom was going to die.
She said yes.
I can’t accurately describe how I felt. Tears came of course, but it was kind of like seeing someone suffer on a TV screen. There was too much pain to process, so my mind detached itself instinctively, and watched.
My dad and I drove nonstop to Lacrosse, Wisconsin, where my mom was in hospice at Gunderson Lutheran. One week after she died my first year of college at Stevens Point started, and I was mercifully given more distractions from the pain. Homework was literally a lifesaver. I threw myself into studying, and chipped at my mourning one day at a time.
It’s been a little over a year since my Canadian escapade and mother’s passing. In that time I’ve volunteered in Thailand, earned a 3.8 GPA, produced, directed, and performed in the Vagina Monologues, and many other things my mom would have been proud of. I don’t like Nietzsche very much, but I do have to give him props for saying “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” My life has been a bit rough, but extremely fulfilling. Thank you for letting me share a part of it.
She said yes.
I asked if my mom was going to die.
She said yes.
I can’t accurately describe how I felt. Tears came of course, but it was kind of like seeing someone suffer on a TV screen. There was too much pain to process, so my mind detached itself instinctively, and watched.
My dad and I drove nonstop to Lacrosse, Wisconsin, where my mom was in hospice at Gunderson Lutheran. One week after she died my first year of college at Stevens Point started, and I was mercifully given more distractions from the pain. Homework was literally a lifesaver. I threw myself into studying, and chipped at my mourning one day at a time.
It’s been a little over a year since my Canadian escapade and mother’s passing. In that time I’ve volunteered in Thailand, earned a 3.8 GPA, produced, directed, and performed in the Vagina Monologues, and many other things my mom would have been proud of. I don’t like Nietzsche very much, but I do have to give him props for saying “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” My life has been a bit rough, but extremely fulfilling. Thank you for letting me share a part of it.
