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01 - My Parents
Mar. 24th, 2025 10:00 amI was born on August 6, 1980 at 9:08 AM in Baltimore City. According to my birth certificate, my father was William J. (54) and my mother was Delores E. (47). I want to talk about them here because, well, they're my roots, aren't they?
I don't know much about my dad, William J. I know he was an Army veteran who served in World War II, but there are no details on what his service was like. He never talked about it, and I never asked.
He was a very quiet man. He liked his drink, and he would spend his days getting toasted with friends at this closed garage near our house. He always came stumbling home after dark with slurred speech and a desperate lean against whatever would hold him up. He'd pass out, then often be up and out of the house before dawn. I honestly don't know what he did all day. Sometimes he would bring home catfish in a bucket for my mom to clean. Sometimes he'd go "out with friends" and be gone for a day or two.
So that means Delores E. raised me. She didn't approve of his drinking, obviously -- I don't think she approved of him much at all, to be honest. She never really spoke well of him until after they separated in the late 80s. Then, she would talk about how much she missed him, how handsome he used to be, how good of a dancer he was. Looking back, I think she missed the man she married before...whatever happened to chase him into drink. By the time me and my sister were on the scene, alcoholism had already taken him. When he was sober, he wasn't present. It felt like some pain or memory had claimed him and alcohol was the only escape.
My mom was an unhappy woman. She and my dad would have fist-fights about his drinking when I was young, and when they weren't fighting mom was...hen-pecking him about everything. I think she came to only see the ways in which he had disappointed her, or maybe she was constantly chasing the man she imagined he would become after marriage. I don't know. But she wasn't happy with him and she was never happy without him, either.
Mom loved raising children, I think. She wanted to take care of people, loved to cook, and tried to keep a clean house as much as possible. But she was also severe and...constantly cutting. She would be by turns encouraging and then...cold. I think I learned very early on from her that love was conditional, that you could easily make a mistake and suddenly, that would be the last time you'd be supported in that situation.
When I was in first grade I signed up for a spelling bee. Mom showed up until I misspelled a pretty easy word -- 'has'. I think I misunderstood what the judge was saying or something, but no excuses here. I blew it. :) So Mom blew me a kiss and left immediately. She never attended another spelling or math bee again. She missed my eventual school spelling bee championship in seventh grade and my second (or third?) place city finish. She told me that she never came because when she did "I would always mess up".
Most of what I remember about my mom is all the times she made me feel bad about myself, or afraid, or alone. She brought us up as Jehovah's Witnesses, but left when I told an elder about a romantic affair she was having with another man and got (I assume) reprimanded for it. And that whole thing fucked me up but good. I remember all the times I would plan to run away with my sister because we were fed up over the ways Mom had mistreated or ignored us.
I remember her whipping my sister and me with a leather belt several times over the course of an afternoon insisting we knew why and demanding an explanation. It wasn't until evening that she realized an uncle who had been living in an upstairs apartment hid a porn magazine in our bedroom, and not us. We got a "my bad", and she moved on like nothing had ever happened.
I remember pushing her when she tried hitting me with a broom one time when I was 16, walking out of the house and across North Avenue to my aunt's house and crying as soon as they let me in. It was the closest safe space I could think of that would be open. She never hit me again, but the distance between us grew.
I remember how she handled my coming out. She wouldn't let me touch her because "she didn't know where my hands had been". She sat me down and made me call everyone in my family and come out to them in front of her. She told me she was glad we weren't closer, because if we were and I told her she "would have hated me". I wasn't even important enough in her life to be hated.
She told me not to come back home when I left for college that summer. I moved out two weeks later and didn't come back to Baltimore for 16 years until the death of my sister. In the intervening years, we'd talk on the phone, trying to patch together whatever relationship we had. When I found out how she had been living after my sister's death, I took over Power of Attorney and tried to get her finances together. I tried to find her better living arrangements that gave her some measure of autonomy, but she fought everyone who had been trying to help her. So she landed in a nursing home, and it's there she died in 2022.
My father was moved in with a family friend after they separated, where he was given an allowance and...basically managed as much as he could be. He would frequently take the bus across town and show up at our house, where Mom would drive him right back to where he was.
He walked out of where he was staying during a blizzard in 1996 (or 1997?). We have no idea what happened to him, but he's presumed dead. We were never able to get any official word.
So, those are my parents. My dad was an alcoholic who disappeared during a blizzard, never to be seen again. My mom was an abusive, caustic woman who made most people around her unhappy too.
Only, those aren't actually my parents. When I was a teenager, I found out I was adopted -- which gave me a little more insight into where I came from, but not much.
That's for tomorrow.
I don't know much about my dad, William J. I know he was an Army veteran who served in World War II, but there are no details on what his service was like. He never talked about it, and I never asked.
He was a very quiet man. He liked his drink, and he would spend his days getting toasted with friends at this closed garage near our house. He always came stumbling home after dark with slurred speech and a desperate lean against whatever would hold him up. He'd pass out, then often be up and out of the house before dawn. I honestly don't know what he did all day. Sometimes he would bring home catfish in a bucket for my mom to clean. Sometimes he'd go "out with friends" and be gone for a day or two.
So that means Delores E. raised me. She didn't approve of his drinking, obviously -- I don't think she approved of him much at all, to be honest. She never really spoke well of him until after they separated in the late 80s. Then, she would talk about how much she missed him, how handsome he used to be, how good of a dancer he was. Looking back, I think she missed the man she married before...whatever happened to chase him into drink. By the time me and my sister were on the scene, alcoholism had already taken him. When he was sober, he wasn't present. It felt like some pain or memory had claimed him and alcohol was the only escape.
My mom was an unhappy woman. She and my dad would have fist-fights about his drinking when I was young, and when they weren't fighting mom was...hen-pecking him about everything. I think she came to only see the ways in which he had disappointed her, or maybe she was constantly chasing the man she imagined he would become after marriage. I don't know. But she wasn't happy with him and she was never happy without him, either.
Mom loved raising children, I think. She wanted to take care of people, loved to cook, and tried to keep a clean house as much as possible. But she was also severe and...constantly cutting. She would be by turns encouraging and then...cold. I think I learned very early on from her that love was conditional, that you could easily make a mistake and suddenly, that would be the last time you'd be supported in that situation.
When I was in first grade I signed up for a spelling bee. Mom showed up until I misspelled a pretty easy word -- 'has'. I think I misunderstood what the judge was saying or something, but no excuses here. I blew it. :) So Mom blew me a kiss and left immediately. She never attended another spelling or math bee again. She missed my eventual school spelling bee championship in seventh grade and my second (or third?) place city finish. She told me that she never came because when she did "I would always mess up".
Most of what I remember about my mom is all the times she made me feel bad about myself, or afraid, or alone. She brought us up as Jehovah's Witnesses, but left when I told an elder about a romantic affair she was having with another man and got (I assume) reprimanded for it. And that whole thing fucked me up but good. I remember all the times I would plan to run away with my sister because we were fed up over the ways Mom had mistreated or ignored us.
I remember her whipping my sister and me with a leather belt several times over the course of an afternoon insisting we knew why and demanding an explanation. It wasn't until evening that she realized an uncle who had been living in an upstairs apartment hid a porn magazine in our bedroom, and not us. We got a "my bad", and she moved on like nothing had ever happened.
I remember pushing her when she tried hitting me with a broom one time when I was 16, walking out of the house and across North Avenue to my aunt's house and crying as soon as they let me in. It was the closest safe space I could think of that would be open. She never hit me again, but the distance between us grew.
I remember how she handled my coming out. She wouldn't let me touch her because "she didn't know where my hands had been". She sat me down and made me call everyone in my family and come out to them in front of her. She told me she was glad we weren't closer, because if we were and I told her she "would have hated me". I wasn't even important enough in her life to be hated.
She told me not to come back home when I left for college that summer. I moved out two weeks later and didn't come back to Baltimore for 16 years until the death of my sister. In the intervening years, we'd talk on the phone, trying to patch together whatever relationship we had. When I found out how she had been living after my sister's death, I took over Power of Attorney and tried to get her finances together. I tried to find her better living arrangements that gave her some measure of autonomy, but she fought everyone who had been trying to help her. So she landed in a nursing home, and it's there she died in 2022.
My father was moved in with a family friend after they separated, where he was given an allowance and...basically managed as much as he could be. He would frequently take the bus across town and show up at our house, where Mom would drive him right back to where he was.
He walked out of where he was staying during a blizzard in 1996 (or 1997?). We have no idea what happened to him, but he's presumed dead. We were never able to get any official word.
So, those are my parents. My dad was an alcoholic who disappeared during a blizzard, never to be seen again. My mom was an abusive, caustic woman who made most people around her unhappy too.
Only, those aren't actually my parents. When I was a teenager, I found out I was adopted -- which gave me a little more insight into where I came from, but not much.
That's for tomorrow.
