What My Father Doesn't Know
Part 1 - Becomming Me; Chapter 2
Growing up, my father had never ceased to amaze me. Through my inexperienced eyes, he was the ultimate ring master. In one ring, he would conquer the lion of all problems, in the other he would balance on a thin beam between reality and career, and in the last he would awe the crowd with a death defying act, plunging into what the public called ‘sold-out’ music. He was astounding, and I wanted to be just like him.
He was only twenty years old when I came to be; a poor, angry punk that only knew poetry and guitar notes. We lived in an old, two bedroom mobile home in a crowded neighborhood out in a slum of downtown Oakland. Regardless of the state the home was in, with its cracked windows, leaky roof, and broken back door, it still provided us with a nice roof over our heads. My mother once told me that if she squinted her eyes long enough while living there, the carpets would seem to lose their stains, the shrubbery weeds lining the patio would blossom into flowers, and the mold on the walls would gracefully blend in with the patterned wall paper. I was too little to notice the unpleasant interiors of our home at that age; all I noticed were my parent’s absences.
From when I was born until the age of two, I was shuffled between baby-sitters of all sorts while my mother and father worked to provide me with a stable living. I was given to our next door neighbors at first, a hefty Mexican family who had squeezed into a one bedroom home. There were two uncles, one aunt, an ‘abuelita’, a busy mother, and five wild children that played soccer barefoot in the street. My second care-taker was a struggling African American couple that had longed for a baby of their own, but the wife could not physically support one. I remember that they both had what I called ‘worms’ shooting out of their heads like my mother had, except theirs were much thicker. Next, I was passed on to a pasty white woman who lived across the street. She had a yappy dog and a television set in every room, including the bathroom. On top of that, she wore fifty-cent red lipstick and chain smoked. After her, I was tossed down a block to an old woman named Marge who had shaky hands and no teeth. She took care of twenty-one cats and forced me to sit still with her and watch religious movies. I protested the majority of my time there, so my mother gave up and brought me to an Indian family. Their home smelled heavily of incense and spices, and the daughter that lived there would always hit me on the head with a wooden spoon. I did not like being shuffled around to uncommon places and into the hands of strangers; I wanted to stay with my mother and be with my daddy.
All the while I was being shipped around our community, my father was off touring the country and my mother was working long shifts at a Pier 1 Imports store. When times were tough, my parents would often seek help from my grandparents, practically begging for money. We earned just enough cash to the pay the bills, and the rest was spent wisely on the important necessities like food, clothing, and soap.
“Thrift shopping is like hunting for buried treasure, Ada,” my mother once told me during one of our trips to find new clothes to fit my growing body. “You just never know what you might find.” And indeed, my mother had a keen eye for good deals and charming clothes. My wardrobe was completely unique and surprisingly full what with the little money we could spend. I had playful party dresses that she had purchased for just fifty cents each, cozy sweaters and an olive green pea-coat that were practically being given away, and enough pants and t-shirts that she grabbed during a tremendously cheap sale. Sometimes she would even make outfits for me, endlessly wrestling with her ancient sewing machine that kept stabbing her fingers with its fang of a needle.
My mother was also a skilled grocery shopper. Our dinner menu usually consisted of chicken or of some sort of pasta dish since those seemed to be two of the cheapest dishes to cook up. For only about five dollars out of her wallet, my mother could conjure up a pot of spaghetti that tasted like a million bucks.
Besides being gifted with frugality, my mother possessed many other talents that I guess I never bothered to notice. It was always my father that I looked up to, and truthfully, not my mother, even though she was my main caretaker. Whenever my father was touring around town, sometimes he would take me to the venues and proudly show me off to everyone in the audience. I always remembered the familiar smells of the concert atmosphere; beer, odor, weed, and the faint sweet scent of my fathers hair as he held on tightly to me and shouted into his microphone, “This my daughter. She’s the fuckin’ littlest punk in the world. I wouldn’t mess with this little woman.” He would then smile crookedly at me and kiss me on the forehead.
Moments like those were scarce, but they stayed implanted in my memory, frequently passing through my mind whenever I yearned for my father most. Even though I was so young, I guess memories like that remained in such a clear state with me because they all had such an impact on my life. The shows, the people, and especially the music. It made me who I am today.
He was only twenty years old when I came to be; a poor, angry punk that only knew poetry and guitar notes. We lived in an old, two bedroom mobile home in a crowded neighborhood out in a slum of downtown Oakland. Regardless of the state the home was in, with its cracked windows, leaky roof, and broken back door, it still provided us with a nice roof over our heads. My mother once told me that if she squinted her eyes long enough while living there, the carpets would seem to lose their stains, the shrubbery weeds lining the patio would blossom into flowers, and the mold on the walls would gracefully blend in with the patterned wall paper. I was too little to notice the unpleasant interiors of our home at that age; all I noticed were my parent’s absences.
From when I was born until the age of two, I was shuffled between baby-sitters of all sorts while my mother and father worked to provide me with a stable living. I was given to our next door neighbors at first, a hefty Mexican family who had squeezed into a one bedroom home. There were two uncles, one aunt, an ‘abuelita’, a busy mother, and five wild children that played soccer barefoot in the street. My second care-taker was a struggling African American couple that had longed for a baby of their own, but the wife could not physically support one. I remember that they both had what I called ‘worms’ shooting out of their heads like my mother had, except theirs were much thicker. Next, I was passed on to a pasty white woman who lived across the street. She had a yappy dog and a television set in every room, including the bathroom. On top of that, she wore fifty-cent red lipstick and chain smoked. After her, I was tossed down a block to an old woman named Marge who had shaky hands and no teeth. She took care of twenty-one cats and forced me to sit still with her and watch religious movies. I protested the majority of my time there, so my mother gave up and brought me to an Indian family. Their home smelled heavily of incense and spices, and the daughter that lived there would always hit me on the head with a wooden spoon. I did not like being shuffled around to uncommon places and into the hands of strangers; I wanted to stay with my mother and be with my daddy.
All the while I was being shipped around our community, my father was off touring the country and my mother was working long shifts at a Pier 1 Imports store. When times were tough, my parents would often seek help from my grandparents, practically begging for money. We earned just enough cash to the pay the bills, and the rest was spent wisely on the important necessities like food, clothing, and soap.
“Thrift shopping is like hunting for buried treasure, Ada,” my mother once told me during one of our trips to find new clothes to fit my growing body. “You just never know what you might find.” And indeed, my mother had a keen eye for good deals and charming clothes. My wardrobe was completely unique and surprisingly full what with the little money we could spend. I had playful party dresses that she had purchased for just fifty cents each, cozy sweaters and an olive green pea-coat that were practically being given away, and enough pants and t-shirts that she grabbed during a tremendously cheap sale. Sometimes she would even make outfits for me, endlessly wrestling with her ancient sewing machine that kept stabbing her fingers with its fang of a needle.
My mother was also a skilled grocery shopper. Our dinner menu usually consisted of chicken or of some sort of pasta dish since those seemed to be two of the cheapest dishes to cook up. For only about five dollars out of her wallet, my mother could conjure up a pot of spaghetti that tasted like a million bucks.
Besides being gifted with frugality, my mother possessed many other talents that I guess I never bothered to notice. It was always my father that I looked up to, and truthfully, not my mother, even though she was my main caretaker. Whenever my father was touring around town, sometimes he would take me to the venues and proudly show me off to everyone in the audience. I always remembered the familiar smells of the concert atmosphere; beer, odor, weed, and the faint sweet scent of my fathers hair as he held on tightly to me and shouted into his microphone, “This my daughter. She’s the fuckin’ littlest punk in the world. I wouldn’t mess with this little woman.” He would then smile crookedly at me and kiss me on the forehead.
Moments like those were scarce, but they stayed implanted in my memory, frequently passing through my mind whenever I yearned for my father most. Even though I was so young, I guess memories like that remained in such a clear state with me because they all had such an impact on my life. The shows, the people, and especially the music. It made me who I am today.