My Mother

I started this blog on a journey of discovery after my mother passed away years ago.

My Mother was a Mexican American, although I never heard her admit it. Her name was Juliette Marie. 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. I hope my children are not like her. They should always proud of their heritage, their ancestors, their roots.

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.

Not A Loving Mother

Mother didn't hug or kiss me goodnight, listen to my prayers or tuck me in after reading a bedtime story. She never baked cookies for the bake sale. My mother wasn’t the model of what a good mother should be, but she  was my mother. She was not kind, affectionate or thoughtful to me. Not at all.

I was taught by the nuns at the parochial school I attended, I must “honor my mother,” even though they must have known something was up. Dad taught me that, too. It was a commandment.

I was in the 1st grade when my mother took a thin branch from the backyard tree, made me bend over the kitchen table, and switched me. My dad wasn’t home to hear my cries.

Younger than seven years old. I was anemic, very thin. Somehow, I got a heavy wooden ladder, lifted it up against the garage, climbed up and jumped off the roof.  That was what mother told my dad. Hospital and many stitches followed. No one knows how I survived that fall.

Mother took me for swimming lessons some time later. It was a class of several girls. One day, we were instructed to the deep end. I remember that feeling. I was afraid, but I did as as I was told. When my turn came, I refused to let go of the edge of the pool. 

Finally, the last girl left. The teacher insisted. I let go and pushed myself a little bit away from the edge. I tried to tread water,, but I kept sinking under the water. I remember holding my arm up to grab the pole so teacher could pull me to the side of the pool.

I was wiping my eyes at the edge of the pool when I looked up. Teacher was not there, kneeling down to see if I was okay. That was the day I realized God took my hand and pulled me to safety. There was no other explanation. My dad never left me alone with mother again.

When I was 15, I woke up one morning and the ’57 T-Bird my dad gave me was gone; She had a new white 4-door Thunderbird parked in the driveway. My dad let me collect “In God We Trust” dollars from the restaurant cash draw that summer. At he end of summer, 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.

When I was 16, I couldn't tell my dad what happened to me. I didn't want him to stop loving me. I kept quiet when I shouldn’t have.

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."

No More Secrets

People say that there are no secrets that stay secret. Maybe I've kept my past a secret too long. I kept quiet. Didn't tell. I wonder if I should have kept quiet at all.  

When my priest visited me, I couldn’t admit I was still suffering. I wasn’t ready then. 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.

My Secrets

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. I hadn't even gone on my first date yet. I knew one boy in school who was nice to me and that was just during class. I was the quiet type. He invited me to the prom. Of course, I couldn't go. I was broken.

I didn't know about the evil side of life, even after what happened. I didn’t know how wrong it was or what to do about it.

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.

In short, I was a 16-year-old child. My mother sentenced me into a  loveless marriage with the stranger who forced himself on me. I had a miscarriage, got pregnant when I was 17 years old, had a baby when I was 18; got pregnant and had a baby when I was 19, turned 20 the next month; got pregnant when I was 21, had a baby at 22, and he nearly died when I was 23. Some time later, I started bleeding and when I came home, I couldn't have any more children.

I was raped when I was a child. My mother covered it up by forcing me into marriage when I was 17. I was raped for twelve years before I grew up enough to free myself and my children. My mother continued some kind of relationship with that man. He was there with her before and after my divorce, and when my dad died. That's what happened. That's what I believe. I have no proof . Don't ask me what I think they did. It's too ugly.

Forced To Marry 

Two months after I turned 17, I got up the courage to tell my mother what happened to me. I couldn’t have imagined that my mother wouldn’t believe me. In what seemed a blur, I stood next to that stranger and my mother, 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. It was a different time, and I was too much a child raised to do as I was told.  I kept quiet.

I was basically a little girl when suddenly I wasn’t living with my parents. Think about how I must have felt. Frightened out of my mind. 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.

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 do-over wasn’t possible. I had God and my Catholic faith.

I had a miscarriage and didn’t even know what happened. Years and three babies went by. Some time after baby Steven was born, another unexpected hemorrhage. A neighbor rushed me the hospital. When I came home, I was never able to have children again. I learned that sort of thing is usually due to stress, mental trauma, physical abuse. Not having a good response when I told my mother, I kept quiet.

I spent 12 years trapped with someone who had an insatiable appetite, was a mean drunk and often violent. He made me feel stupid and worthless. I felt like a prisoner who was always going to be a prisoner behind a “screen door” I couldn't open.

My Best Friend

I only had one best friend in my whole life. Her name was Erma Ward. I used to say we were close to the same age, even though she was older. We were 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.

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.

Mother Welcomed Who?

The one I left behind, flew back from Vegas the next day and moved in with my mother. Why didn't he move in with his own mother? Anyway, 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.

Divorced But Not Gone

I basically "kicked that screen door of my prison 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 tried to make a good life for my three kids, but as hard as I tried, the devil was determined to stop me from everything. Then, my dad died.

It was the 70s, I got my divorce, but this horrible person (HP) who I believed was the devil incarnate, wasn't out of my life or the kids lives. He tried to strip me of everything from the Elm Street house, custody of my children, to my family, and the love of my three kids. Lawyers offered no relief.

I decided to go to law school to find out exactly my children's rights were. It took some time to gain a skill. I got my GED, and went to secretarial school. It was like a trade school. My first job was as a receptionist. I eventually got better jobs and went to work for a mall developer.  That's when Kim wanted sailing lessons.

Things were getting scary. I had to learn about my kids rights, and I wanted to earn a decent income to give my children a better future. I got a second job working the night shift... and challenged college courses  It wasn't easy. I took the LSAT; got myself into Law School; but I didn't finish: Life got in the way. Long story short... my three children came first.

That was about the time when I learned about a SCOTUS case called Roe vs. Wade. It didn't make sense to me. Questions followed me for the rest of my life. I began to put two and two together. I realized why God saved me all those years ago. My life had purpose.

Who Killed My Dad?

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. I'm sure they remember how much fun they had with unlimited access to free soft-serve ice cream cones.

My dad wanted to give me the gold coins from his coin collection he'd been acquiring for as long as I remember. I guess so the kids and I wouldn’t go hungry. That’s who he was. Thoughtful. Always thinking of others, especially his youngest daughter.

The next night, or the night after that, I can’t recall exactly. Dad came and told me 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  in good health.

I never got the coins or a penny from my dad’s estate. I don’t know what happened to his fortune. I didn't want to know for me. I wanted to know what happened to him and all of his properties. Who got it. That's all.

I wanted to know why was HP there in Tiajuana? Why would he drive the 100 miles to see my dad? How did he know where my dad was or how to get there? Why did he want to see my dad? Did my mother send HP to see my dad? Did she want money? What did HP tell my dad?

HP was there when the kids and I left. Was he still there the night my dad died? Did he get into an argument with my dad? Did my dad die a violent death? Did HP and my mother end up with my dad’s gold coins? His entire coin collection?  All his properties?

I don’t know the truth about the actual circumstances of how my dad died. My mother fed me a story I never believed. The suffering I felt seemed to pile on me more every day. I still have no idea why after the divorce, HP went to see my dad. It doesn't make sense.

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. My dad was my rock. I suspected then, and still do believe, who and what happened to my dad and his gold coins. Naturally, I had no proof. I kept quiet.

Good Daughter

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. I kept quieit. I had to.

It didn't take long for me to realize that those people and that "place" was a vipers nest of hate. Nothing I could do would ever be good enough. 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. 

Texas, Here We Come

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. That's what God wanted. That's why my dad taught me.

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.

At some point in my life, I believed I made a mistake keeping quiet, 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 regretted 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.

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 guess it doesn;t matter now.

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. ///