It’s hard to imagine now, but my mom and I actually enjoy each other’s company in the car. We’re driving home from IKEA. I needed some new covers, pillows, and excitement after being in quarantine for so long I knew I could have gone to any store for those things, but I love IKEA, it’s IKEA after all. I also knew that my mom wanted to get out of the house too. She works 12-hour shifts at a factory, 5 days a week, as an assistant manager. Whenever we are in the car, we always end up talking about work, school, my siblings, and other small talk subjects. But for the first time, as I am sitting there listening to her talk about work, I can’t help but see how similar we are. While she would never tell me this and I would never openly admit it, I know that we enjoy each other’s company. Two chaotic forces of energy, anxiety, and insecurity, matching, balancing, and understanding the other’s energy, though, two forces unwilling to waver in each other’s pursuit of familial dominance over the other.
My brothers and my sister have always told me that I will be the most successful one out of all of them - that I will be the one who gets out of the Southside of Chicago, obtains a high paying job, becomes the most educated -- the one responsible for helping their siblings also get out. We all know that we are all fucked up, but I’m the one who seems to manage the best, and they look up to me for that reason. I, the baby of the family, had the opportunity to observe how others dealt with their circumstances, and filter and choose the coping mechanisms and strategies that worked best. I guess I’m just lucky.
As we’re driving back home, tired as hell, I spot it -- the place of revelation. A place where I seem to learn more about myself than anywhere else. A place where I cannot help but beg the driver of the car to make a pit stop at, with the innate yet subconscious hope of learning something new about myself. With glee, I scream to my mom that we should pull over, so that we can get a bite to eat. I tell her I’ll pay for it. She agrees, and she pulls in. I don’t know why, but I fucking love Denny’s.
Before I can go in, I need to smoke. As I step out of my door, take out a cigarette, light it’s tip -- flick-- and take in that first drag of sweet tar and nicotine, I spot this family. Two parents and kids walking happily inside of Denny’s. The dad was wearing nice, round, thin-frame- glasses, with a nice dress shirt tucked into some nice slacks. The mom was dressed just as eloquently in a red dress on. The kids were so young, maybe 3, maybe 4. They all seemed so happy and so perfect. I was instantly filled with irrational jealousy. The anxiety swelling inside me. Why couldn’t I have been raised with that picture-perfect family? Mom and dad, so happy and supportive. Siblings that actually seemed to care about you, that would call you and ask you how school is going. I think about these questions as I take puff after puff, watching my mom go inside to find a table before I join her. Whenever I get this sense of familial jealousy, I find myself back to Christmas Eve of 2011. The worst Christmas of my life, though, none of them were all that great.
The day started out like a typical Christmas Eve. I was so excited! I am half-Polish and half-Latino, and my Polish side of the family always comes over from Poland to celebrate the holidays. My grandparents -- who begrudgingly decided to help my mother not indulge completely in self-destruction, and pay her mortgage and buy her food -- are the go to destination for family gatherings.
I was not as excited to see them as I was for the presents that they were going to give me. Getting delicious Polish candy and some European clothes would be the highlight of my day, or so I thought. My dad, who abandoned my mom and us kids, decided to make an appearance that day. It was strange of him because me and my two brothers, Miguel and Damian, only saw him about once a week at that point and we just saw him the day before, but he had brought us some cool gifts. A freaking remote controlled car! My brothers and I were excited and thankful for the great gifts he brought us and immediately unwrapped them and started driving them around our small bungalow house. That’s when he went into the kitchen, where my mom was making us kids breakfast bacon, eggs, pancakes, and sausages! A rarity in our house. When he walked in the kitchen and started talking to my mom, that’s when things went sideways and when the screaming resumed.
My mom has serious mental health issues. My sister has been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, and from what the doctor told us, it can be hereditary in the family. So, we have this suspicion that our mom also has borderline personality disorder because of the intense manic episodes she goes through, which are most often triggered whenever she gets into an argument with my dad.
Once the yelling started, my brothers and I did what we were involuntarily trained to do. We went around the house hiding all the knives, cords, pills, and any other items that my mom might use to innovatively kill herself. This was natural for us. The beating heart, the shaking, the edge of tears, and also the craving for someone to just hug me and tell me that it’ll be okay. I never got that.
I don’t even remember what they were arguing about, but I could remember the face my mom made when she got mad. The anger in her eyes, just pure hatred for my dad and us innocent boys, the foaming of her mouth, and that horrible screeching in her thick Eastern European accent are so memorable. My dad never yelled at her though, or at us. He always took in what she was saying with a calming look on his face. This short, overweight, brown, Mexican man knew he had the power to get away from her and leave these problems whenever he wanted. At the boiling point of the argument, my mom did what she always did. She went to look for something to take her own life with, and that’s where us boys had fucked up, because we forgot to take her pills out of her purse. As soon as she pulled it out and screamed at my dad that she was going to kill herself, that’s when that asshole left. He left without any consideration for us kids. Middle-schoolers with no fucking idea on what to do, scared to call anyone with the fear of losing our distorted sense of security. With the only consideration being himself, he left.
Despite him walking out that door, my mom was not finished. We had locked ourselves in our room as much as possible to try and get away from the situation going on outside, but we were close enough to act if necessary. Us just sitting in our rooms, in our own anxiety, not even consoling each other because we had no idea how to. How do you console others when no one has ever consoled you? ? That’s when she came to our door, slamming on it to tell us to open up. My brother Miguel, being the bravest sibling, opened it up. He opened it and found my mother with a wine bottle in hand and pills in the other. Furious eyes streaming with tears, face red as a tomato, and an evil smile on her face. She aggressively shoved the pills in her mouth and tried using the wine to chug it down. My brother, though, jumped right in, forcibly opening her mouth and shoving his hand in to make her vomit what she just took in. He threw the wine bottle against the wall, shattering the glass and its wine all over the place.
**
I look at my mom just entering the Denny’s, and I am filled with intense rage. The fucking audacity. The fucking normalcy of everything! How do you go on living so fucking normally?
**
“You stupid fucking bitch.” Miguel screamed as he ran outside the house on the verge of tears. He would never allow us to see himself cry. The image of the toughest Flores brother was an image he had to protect, an image instilled into him and the rest of us from growing up on the Southside. He lived up to it the most, though. But that’s what it’s like growing up on the Southside. You either pretend to be hot shit, or you are hot shit, or you are just shit. Either way, eventually, someone is going to step-up on you, family or stranger.
After that my mother did the natural thing and dialed him, screaming at him and telling him, “Never come back to my fucking house. Do you think you are smart? You are fucking stupid. You are just like your father. You stupid fucking Mexican!”
Fortunately, my mom, who still had a relationship with my dad despite how much they fought, had her boyfriend coming over later that day. At that point, my mom and dad were patching things up, though, it’s hard to believe how when that just happened. However, my dad did not know that my mom was essentially cheating on him, but us boys, we knew. Our mom made sure we knew. Taking us out to events with him, making us talk to him, and trying to make us like this guy. Victor was not a bad guy. He was kind and sweet, but I fucking hated him. This man had no idea about my dad and how he would still come over and whenever we went out together my mom and dad would act like any couple outside with their kids. Because of him, though, I had to lie to my dad. Tell him about places my mom took us but leaving out the fact that she brought along another guy. It was fucked, and I hated him for having us lie about that. How does a mom force her own kids to contribute to a lie of her infidelity? I’m not surprised, though. My mother came to the United States married to a Polish guy and she had a daughter. My sister Kasia. The only blue-eyed blondie of any of her children. She was also the obvious family favorite. She would go on to get a new car at 16 and have her college tuition paid for by my grandparents. Though, when my mom came here and started working she met my dad where she cheated on her husband at the time. Them being traditional polish Catholics, he did not want to leave her and he allowed her to live with him even after she had three illegitimate children with another man. Eventually, she left him.
Regardless, we cleaned up and made it seem like everything was okay. We put all the knives, cords, pills, and whatever else we hid back and went about our day as if something traumatic did not just happen, again. However, to our new-found knowledge, we learned that we were going to be dropped off our grandparents that night without our mom. She wanted to celebrate the holidays with Victor, and so we went. When we got dropped off, that’s when things got worse.
My grandmother lived on the Northside of Chicago in a very nice and wealthy neighborhood. The money was coming from the stores my grandfather owned back in Poland. My grandpa was the only family member that did not know English so it was hard communicating with him because I did not know any Polish nor any Spanish. He had a comforting presence about him and reminded me of Santa Claus. I never really got the chance to know because of the language barrier, because I barely saw him, and because he would die three years later. However, he was a great man. He was tough from living through communist Poland, but he was wise and kind. The only family member that showed us, bi-racial boys, any sort of respect.
After some of the hellos and greetings, my mom announced that she would be leaving for the night and that us boys would have to stay there. She left out the fact that she was going to spend the holiday night with her boyfriend. When she announced she was to leave, everyone freaked out. Nobody wanted to take care of three tan-skinned boys, and we felt the betrayal, anxiety, and anger flooding back in. We caught some words in Polish from them because we knew a little bit at the time. Mostly, we caught phrases like “little Mexican boys” and “they’ll burn the house down.” After minutes of my grandmother screaming at my mom not to just leave us there, my grandmother tried forcibly keeping her inside. My mom getting red all over, screaming “I fucking hate you” over and over again at all of them in English and in Polish.
**
I’ve stopped inhaling that sweet tar and nicotine and my cigarette’s cherry has gone out. The anger and anxiety retaining it’s hold on me. I light the cigarette again. Flick.
**
The fear spread all over me. The anxiety, the uncertainty, the craving for a hug just spread over me. I wanted to cry, I wanted to run away, I wanted to just get out of there and find someone to just tell me that it’ll be alright, but I was not going to get it that night. I was frozen where I was, just watching the screaming.. I panned over to the dining room where my aunt and sister were. My sister was crying sitting on my aunt’s lap while my aunt hugged her and rocked back and forth, and the jealousy set right back in. Why couldn’t I have something like that? Family members that would look at me when I cried, hugged me, rocked me, cared for me.
The rest of the night was a blur. My mom left, and so my other family members did what they normally did and put us in the basement until it was dinner time. We did not have a problem with that, though. We were happy to be away from them after what just happened. At least, they gave us some delicious polish candy. At dinner, we ate what they ate though we were seated at the kiddy table. Again, we didn’t complain about that. When it was time to open presents, our excitement picked up yet again. When we were opening presents, we got some nice presents, and nice fancy clothes, but we also received deodorant --someone also thought it to be amusing to wrap this up for us. Apparently, they had heard that Mexicans smell bad.
I never liked my extended family, and as an adult, I am not close with my parents. I still go back for holidays and vacations, but it’s not out of love. It’s out of obligation. It’s the right thing to do and because of selfish reasons. What am I supposed to tell my friends, peers, teachers, and others when they ask me how I spent the winter break? That I spent it far away from my parents because they scared me into loathing going back home because of the immense anxiety that I feel whenever I am around them? That I am always on the brink of a panic attack whenever I hear my front door open because it reminds me of the arguments that ensued right after that? No, I suck it up and deal with it lest someone find out my real thoughts of going back home. The only redeeming factor of going home is being back on the Southside, catching the redline train, and getting some sweet tar and nicotine from the redline drug dealer, even though I am 21.
Regardless, my parents are together now and have been living together for a couple of years. Though they still get into plenty of arguments, it is not as bad as when I was a kid. I think it’s because my parents have no control over us. Us boys have our own lives now. Hell, I made it out of the freaking southside and that toxic house environment. I am thriving at the University of Michigan. Defining myself not based on my past experiences or background but from the actions I take today, the things I pursue, and the people with whom I interact with. Opening my true self to not for sympathy but for clarity in understanding myself.
This mixed background and the story that I carry with it can feel annoying, to say the least. I am not culturally connected to my Latino side in the slightest. I was exposed more to the Polish side and that’s not saying much. However, I look Latino. I have no problem with that and whenever I am asked what my ethnicity is, I always say Polish and Latino. I am not culturally connected to them, and, frankly, I don’t have any desire to grow connected to it, because I am much more than a bundle of common genes to a group of people in some specific region of the world. And while it is annoying that whenever I talk to people they expect me to be culturally connected to my Latino side, I have grown from it and I have become my own person. Why do I have to define myself based on my ethnic background? Is it even appropriate to do such a thing when one feels rejection from a group they expected to embrace them?
That’s when I finish my cigarette. My face stern from all that hard thinking and remembering. It could not have been more than 5 minutes of deep thought, though it felt like I was out there on that warm parking lot for a while, slowly inhaling and exhaling sweet tar and nicotine in the hope of getting a buzz to calm my nerves. Though it never came, I knew what my conversation of choice was going to be. I was determined to learn something new about myself and to get some closure.
As I walk in, the waitress greets me., “Welcome to Denny’s! How may I help you?”
“Hi, my mom just came in. She’s sitting right over there. Mind if I just join her,” I say?
“Sure thing,” she says as she leads me to my mom’s table.
As I sit down, we engage in some small talk. I order a burger and some fries -- My go-to whenever I am at Denny’s. I don’t know why it set me off so much but my mom was on her phone. I wanted to engage in the things I was thinking about outside, but my mom was on her phone. I don’t remember what I said, but I know it was nasty enough to get my mom’s attention. And now my mom and I were beginning to exchange some whispered words of heated conversation, each comment more hurtful than the last.
Eventually, I explode., “What the fuck do you want us to do then? Forgive you for all the shit you did? Remember Victor? Remember you screaming down the highway you were going to kill yourself and your kids to my dad? Remember you setting loose the dog my dad got us because you were angry at him? Remember all the fucked up shit you did?”
That’s when the waitress came by handing us our food. “Here’s your food. Is there anything else we could get ya?”
“Not now. Please leave my mom and I are having a private conversation.” I say.
“Oh, yeah sorry,” She leaves with a shocked look on her face.
“So, what? What do you want me to do about it?” I say, resuming the heated exchange.
“Forget about it! I come to a restaurant trying to enjoy my food, and I fucking can’t because you always want to talk shit. What about me? You never ask how I felt. How I felt every time your father would come.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter! We were kids with no possible way to help ourselves or to even help you, and you fucking used us and only cared about us when my father tried to leave again.” I said.
Eventually, after much more harsh words back and forth, mom decided she had enough. She packed her stuff, told me to “never come back to her fucking house again,” and left me stranded two hours from Chicago in some suburb I’ve never been to. Once she walked out, leaving me with people staring at me after the scene that just took place at our table, I reached out for a bite of my burger and realized how fucking dry it was. Goddamn Denny’s. All I wanted was closure. Guess I’ll have to wait a bit for that.
Eventually, I finished my food, apologized to the waitress, left a nice tip, and walked out of the restaurant. I looked at my phone for the nearest train station to the city. It was about an hour walk away in 90-degree weather. I could’ve Ubered, but where would the fun have been in that? So I took out my pack of Marlboros and began walking towards the train station. My mom was right. I should and I have moved on from what happened, but I’ll never forget. I hope one day we can have a candid conversation on what happened.
Here’s to hoping. Flick.
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