My Mother was a Mexican American, although I never heard her admit it. She had excellent taste — and appearances mattered to her. Mother didn't cook or clean. Ever.
Mother was fluent in Spanish and English, but she never allowed Spanish to be spoken in our house. Our Mexican heritage was never mentioned. I never wore clothes that looked Mexican. Mexican food was not served. Mexican holidays were not acknowledged. My mother acted as if she was ashamed of being Mexican. Maybe she was afraid of living as a Mexican-American.
Mother was most happy wearing fine clothes and beautiful furs. She drove a new car every year. She always wore diamond and ruby rings, brooches and diamond-studded watches. In her heyday, mother was the ultimate material girl.
I suppose she met Charlie Carrillo in her social circles. He was court interpreter and must have asked mother to help. She worked at the old courthouse parttime until he retired. She became court interpreter. As far as I know, mother didn’t need to work. She likely relished being around the wealthy like judges and lawyers.
I gave little thought to money and position growing up, but I guess my parents were well healed as the expression goes. Mother was active in social circles and her picture appeared in the society pages of the newspaper all the time. That was more important to her than anything. I still have a clipping or two.
My mother loved socializing, and she especially enjoyed going to the Victor Hugo Inn. I didn't know it then, but it was a top class restaurant in Laguna Beach. I am sure she had a high regard for the restaurant because my dad took us there often.
It might have been because it was a glamorous spot overlooking the beautiful Pacific Ocean, each table set with exquisite china, linens and gorgeous silver. But I think it was more about the many locals who also dined there. Celebs such as John Wayne (who by the way often moored his "boat" just down from dad's restaurant in Balboa), Bette Davis, Rock Hudson, Claire Trevor, Jimmy Cagney, Errol Flynn, Peter Lorre and famous Hollywood writers would be at the next table on any given evening.
As I think about it now, mother just wanted to live the life she dreamed of. That's okay... everyone should strive to make their dreams come true.
Mother didn't hug or kiss me goodnight, listen to my prayers or tuck me in after reading a bedtime story. She never visited my school or spoke with the nuns. Mother never baked cookies for the bake sale.
My mother wasn’t the model of what a good mother should be, but she wasn't a wicked step-mother. She was my mother. She was not kind, affectionate or thoughtful to me. Not at all. I woke up one morning and the ’57 T-Bird my dad gave me when I was 15, was gone; She had a new white 4-door Thunderbird parked in the driveway. My dad let me save “In God We Trust” dollars from the restaurant cash draw. My mother emptied it. I didn't care about the money. Those "bills" were memories my dad and I shared. She couldn't take that away from me.
Mother Passed Away
A short time after my mother passed, my priest came to our home to visit me. I confessed how I still agonized over what my mother did. After he heard what happened, we prayed. I was forgiven. I could receive communion. He told me he was "sorry that the church let me down."
People say that there are no secrets that stay secret. Maybe I've kept my past a secret too long. I wonder if I should have kept quiet at all.
Twenty-some years ago, when my priest visited me, I couldn’t admit I was still suffering. I wasn’t ready then.
As I near the exit door, my life shouldn’t be a secret. I can’t let the devil stop me from achieving the purpose God sent me to do. I have to stop being afraid of how I feel. I have to face the truth.
My kids may not want to know the truth. I understand that. Maybe they made decisions in their life, because they didn’t know the truth.
Maybe knowing, will help them understand my feelings of abandonment, betrayal and disappointment that I’ve lived with my whole life.
I didn't live the life I dreamed about when I played with my dolls. Even after decades, it’s difficult for me to look back.
I confessed that my "Cinderella" childhood ended when I was 16 years old. I was a naive, sheltered girl. I thought kissing a boy in the back row of a dark movie theater made me pregnant. Not that I ever did that. I was too young to be allowed to go on a date yet. I didn't know about the evil side of life, even after I was raped. I didn’t know how wrong it was or what to do about it. I couldn’t ask my dad.
I was young in mind and body. The loss of innocence caused so much grief. I took a razorblade across my wrist. I stopped when I saw blood, and prayed to God to tell me what to do.
I went to my sister and asked if I should tell mother. My sister got out her ironing board and said, "You're going to need to know how to iron a shirt collar." I guess that said more than I understood at the time.
I was barely 17 when I told my mother what happened to me. I couldn’t have imagined that she wouldn’t believe me. I stood next to a stranger before a judge in an empty courtroom. I don’t remember if I signed anything. I was underage, so my mother must have signed some document that forced me into a loveless marriage with a stranger. It was a different time, and I was too young and vulnerable to disobey her.
I was a very young girl when suddenly I wasn’t living with my parents. Think about how I must have felt. It was literally a nightmare that I couldn’t say was a nightmare. There was no escape even if that thought had come to mind. Months passed and by Christmas, everyone could see I wasn’t pregnant. Maybe that wasn’t the reason my mother did what she did. Maybe she had another reason.
I never returned to the 11th grade. No Prom for me. No graduation with smiling faces all around me; No college; No white wedding at my church. I had my Catholic Bible with gold-edged pages and a beautiful white lace Mantilla that I was going to wear someday when I walked down the aisle on my daddy's arm. I missed a big chunk of my life, and a no do-over wasn’t possible. I had God and my Catholic faith.
Then, I had a miscarriage and didn’t even know what happened. A few years after baby Steven was born, another unexpected hemorrhage rushed to me the hospital. When I came home, I was never able to have children again.
I spent years trapped with a man who made me feel stupid and worthless. I felt like a “screen door prisoner.”
My Best Friend
I only had one best friend in my whole life. Her name was Erma Ward. We were close to the same age, and both about eight months pregnant with our first child when we met. She named her baby girl, Jeppy. Later, she had a son, Kobe. Her and her husband, Del, had moved to Las Vegas.
She knew I loved horses. When the girls were about ten, our family of five traveled to Vegas for a visit. It turned out to be my awakening. It wasn't my son's bloody nose, but only four of us were in the car on the long drive back to Elm Street from Wayne Newton's Arabian horse ranch in Las Vegas... That was the day I woke up. I wasn't the young sheltered know-nothing teenager anymore. I grew up.
The one I left behind, flew back from Vegas the next day and moved in with my mother. I wasn’t surprised. From the beginning, he spent time at her duplex and endeared himself to her and my “relatives.” But, after the divorce, I never understood why my mother welcomed him into her home, but I was glad he didn’t try to confront me and the kids.
I "kicked that screen door off its hinges after that." Divorce was a sin. I defied church teachings. I became a divorced Catholic, a single mom and a free woman.
I can’t remember if my dad called or if I decided to visit. I drove my children to Tijuana where he was building houses for low-income families. The kids and I stayed in the apartment above my dad’s Frosty Freeze walk-up.
The next night, or the night after that, I can’t recall exactly. Dad came and told me a horrible person (HP) who I never wanted to see again was there. My first thought was “how did he find out we were here?” Now, I think HP might have been there for another reason.
The reason wasn’t on my mind then. I was too afraid to think clearly. I quickly packed and drove the kids back home.
A few days later, I got a call from my mother. I never knew what "cold fish" meant until that morning when my mother called me to say, “Your father is dead.” I can’t describe how I felt. It didn’t make sense. He was young and in good health. So much to handle, I lost touch with Erma. I don't think I ever had a chance to explain why we left in the dark of night.
My dad was going to give me his gold coin collectibles. I guess so the kids and I wouldn’t go hungry. That’s who he was. Thoughtful. Always thinking of others. I never got the coins or a penny from my dad’s estate. I don’t know what happened to his fortune.
Did my mother send HP to see my dad? Did she want money? Did HP end up with my dad’s gold coins? Was he still there the night my dad died? Did my dad die a violent death? I don’t know the truth about the actual day or the circumstances of how my dad died. The suffering I felt seemed to pile on me more every day.
I sat on a pew by myself in the rear of the church at my dad’s funeral service. “The relatives” mocked me for sobbing.
I never denied my mother a relationship with my young children. I thought they should know their grandmother. Although, she insisted the kids call her, “TiTi.” (Aunt in Spanish was Tia) I can’t recall if she visited me on Elm Street, she probably did. The children spent time at the two or three houses where she lived back then. One had a swimming pool with a magnificent water fall. It was stunning. I know the kids had a lot of fun playing in the pool. But…
The flood of my “relatives” recriminations kept coming. My cousin on mother’s side scolded me for treating my mother so “horribly” was the word she used. I was shocked. She told me it was true because mother herself told her.
I didn’t want to make things worse, so I never confronted my mother about this or anyone else’s devil-speak. Nasty evil talk, like the “relatives” telling me my daughter was going to be a whore because I got a divorce. The only thing missing was them spitting on me.
It didn't take long for me to realize that those people and that "place" was a vipers nest of hate. I can only guess, the gossip that framed me as an unworthy person would continue, ruin my children’s happiness and possibly scar them for life. I had to get the children away. Far away. That's what I did.
They were young, but not babies anymore. We headed to where the streets were paved with gold.
I didn’t live across town or in the same State anymore, but I did speak with my mother twice a month: I called her on the "number" day of my birthday, and she called on her "number" day. I Invited her to visit. Sent flowers on Mother's Day. Called and sent greeting cards on her birthday. I threw her a 75th birthday party with Mariachis, and invited her to my wedding. I did the right thing as a good daughter should.
I was a good daughter, but I was not a hypocrite. Motherhood just wasn't part of mother’s dream. I never let her know how I felt about what she did to me. That would have been disrespectful. It wasn't for me to judge. I focused on my behavior. Not hers.
I'm glad my mother had the life she wanted. No matter how she treated me, my deep faith guided me to give my mother the respect she deserved. She gave me life and took me to church. She taught me to value life. Every minute of life. She made me want to be a better mother than she was.
I didn't live the life I dreamed about when I played with my dolls. Even after decades, it’s difficult for me to look back.
People say that there are no secrets that stay secret. Maybe I've kept my secrets too long. I wonder if I should have kept quiet at all.
Twenty-some years ago, when my priest visited me, I couldn’t admit I was still suffering. I wasn’t ready then.
As I near the exit door, my life shouldn’t be a secret. I was a child. I didn’t do anything wrong. Wrong was done to me. It’s taken decades for me to say those words. Face that truth.
Maybe I hoped my mother would love me. I honestly don’t know. I do know I’m a good person. I know I’m a good mother. I know God loves me.
I can’t let the devil stop me from achieving the purpose God sent me to do. I have to stop being afraid of how I feel. I have to face the truth.
My kids may not want to know the truth. I understand that. Maybe they made decisions in their life, because they didn’t know the truth.
Maybe knowing, will help them understand my feelings of abandonment, betrayal and disappointment that I’ve lived with my whole life.
Over the years, I regreted not hiding the hurt feelings I had for my mother. I never wanted my children to know about that, because I couldn’t explain why.
I always thought they never knew why I didn’t speak highly of my mother. I never said why I never wanted to see HP again. Now, I wonder how much the older ones do remember.
I never blamed God for what happened. I know—better than anyone—that such evil could only be the devil’s doing. I prayed to God to guide my life back to joy.
My LIFE is validation that God is good. ///