The first time my mom and I had a physical fight, we were in Ocho Rios, Jamaica visiting family. I was fifteen years old and still in the midst of a selfish phase that should’ve only involved my friends and I. I didn’t want anything to do with my family but for some reason, they wanted everything to do with me. And so I coined myself, the black sheep, because though I was the most academically advanced, I was still fat, so called “rude”, non-humorous and what’s that word again? Oh yeah!—FAT.
We stayed with my grandmother, a woman standing 54 inches off the ground with a mouth as wide as Dunn’s River Falls. She never shut up, and her husband—not my biological grandfather—never stopped boring holes through his seventy-six-year-old lungs or chugging back Red Stripe beer that would most likely leave his liver a distinct shade of yellow. To this day, I swear, on my mother’s awaiting grave, that they were the cause of the fight. After all, my grandmother birthed her and my grandfather made her the incredibly manic depressive woman she is today. Nothing good ever came out of their mouths. Therefore, my mother was nurtured in a miserable environment. I personally believe my grandmother was trying to give my mother all the woes she missed after escaping to Paris at the age of eighteen. In the meantime, my grandfather looked at my brother and I like we were the product of a broken home; go figure. I'll put aside the fact that we--my brother and I--were born within wedlock. Nevertheless, I stood my shallow ground and would chuckle whenever my grandparents gave me a backhanded compliment.
“Bonnie, ya not fat y’know, but yabambam is wide like fern gully.”
“Ha ha…Oh Grandma, you sure are funny,” I’d say with tight lips.
“Bonnie, Howya look so black. Well at least you’re not a bastard like your mother,” my grandfather would say behind my mother’s back. And I would stare at his ignorance because the old prude was no lighter than me in complexion.
Plain and simple, I couldn’t wait to leave that shithole they called a home. I’d curse myself to sleep every night and my brother would lock himself in the sixth guest bedroom of their melancholy mansion, playing his game boy or drawing detailed doodles. My mother on the other hand had a task of her own. Malicious and just as short as her own bipolar mother, she made it her duty to blame me for everyday that seemed to go wrong in Jamaica.
We went to the Grotto Cave one day and as we were driving through Fern Gully, a storm showered around our poor little Volkswagen like we were trapped in the middle of the ocean.
“The Lord heard you curse me out this morning,” my mother shot at me, as the driver pulled over into the emergency lane, an area that touched neither wall of the Gully in fear of mud slides and falling branches. I was in shock when she said this and thought to myself, “damn Bonnie, you must be really important for God to create this rainstorm just for you.” My mom blabbed on and on about “hearing-and-feeling” parables and I twiddled my thumbs back and forth as she switched back and forth between my abnormal weight and dark skin. I could care less at this point, though and as she continued on, all I could hear myself say was “shut the fuck up!”
My voice boomed within the tiny car and as I exited the humid back seat into the downpour of summer storm, I made sure to kick the back door in with my big fat left foot, just to emphasize her point. I knew all hell would break loose but who cared anyway. I didn’t ask her to buy the god-forsaken plane ticket, or to over feed my when I was one with fried bammy and bread pudding. Nothing good came out fucking Jamaica was all I could think of and now that I was standing in this horrible forest, I could tell my point was solidified.
It was pitch black because the trees hovered high above and bent over one another creating a roof with patchy leaf holes. There was nothing good coming out of the sickening vacation and if I had to hear my mother complain one more time, I knew I’d much rather drown standing up. I sat on top of the car truck; something I’m sure they felt in the car and low and behold another door slammed behind me cueing the exit of an awaiting victim.
“You outta ya cotton-pickin mind gyal?” I heard my mother say as she jabbed her index finger into my nose. I was, of course, taller than her and at this moment could care less if I caught pneumonia so I walked to the other side of the car, ignoring her rude actions. I’m sure you already know what happen though. Low and behold, she followed me and started to hit me like I was a six year-old giant. Her wet hands seemed to enforce the smacks coming in contact with my head and neck and all I could do was get even more upset. Pushing her away, I could see my older brother staring out the window from inside the tiny car and as if he were a child himself, he gawked on with the orthopedic glasses his doctor prescribed him.
At this point, my mother couldn’t believe I touched her and instead of—in my opinion—being a parent, she reverted back to childhood ways and pushed me back. I couldn’t believe what was going on and just wanted to leave the country at that exact moment, but being the kid that I was I just got the nerve up and pushed her back. And so it happened. This fury of tug-of-war was created and in the midst of what seemed like torrential rain, my mom and I were throwing each other around like two kindergarten bully’s fighting for the last puny kid to beat on. It felt as if we were doing this forever because by the time the driver got out and pulled us apart, our clothes were completely drenched and my mom’s naturally yellow skin was red with fury. Me? I probably looked like a juvenile delinquent. My shirt was ripped, her bun was unraveled, my left shoe was missing, and her glasses were sideways on her face.
I didn’t want to sleep in the house that night. Getting back into the car was a duty within itself. I was soaking wet and my mouth was slurring with angry sobs and curses towards my grandparents and mother. My brother’s jaw was shut tight and my mother glared at me the whole ride home. At this point and time, I felt quite accomplished. If anything, I was ignored for the rest of the vacation; only given meals when food was served but never asked to share in colloquial exchange. For that I was happy. In my book, they could all go to hell. I was fifteen and still finding myself. Sorry if they had missed that benchmark, themselves.
--HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY
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