Mama Against the Messy Kind
Mama always said boys don't like girls with broken hearts, She said put your mascara on and sit up straight because boys don't date the girls with baggage. She said they wanted the nice ones. The kind who used fancy perfume and wore pearls on their wrists and in their hair. She said they wanted girls in sandals and nice pants; girls who were modest and timid and didn't threaten their comfort. She said it was our responsibility.
"We must," she crowed, "We must. It is our responsibility as females to make men comfortable."
But I wore all the wrong words and sang all the wrong colors.
I put silver chains in my ears and I wore jeans with frayed hems. I wore dresses that made me feel pretty but made my mother gasp and the boys feel threatened. I took pride in the curves she told me to cover, I swayed my hips when I danced, and I let my shirts hang scantily. I said all the wrong phrases; my vocabulary was as colorful as the paint that filled my free time. I wrote poetry and sang till she told me to shut up and "be quiet please." I didn't clean my room and I didn't make my bed or make it in the real world. I cried at math problems and cried at injustice and cried for all the love and cliches. I picked boys she said were not the good kind, but I loved them, yes, Mama, I loved him. I laughed with people she said would hurt me; she couldn't realize they loved far better than she ever taught me how. I kissed people she would have slapped and I cried into arms that gave me the home she took away. I called out in the night for some peace or relief. I woke up at the wrong time, I forgot to brush my hair, I used to hate to paint my nails. I liked to be on time but I never had enough of it. I loved the wrong people. I loathed the good ones. I loved the wrong kind of job, the wrong kind of riches, and the wrong kind of pleasures. I was the wrong kind of mess, yes, the uncontrollable one; I went where I wanted and I dreamed what I would.
But I always loved the messy kind; I loved the messy man with all my heart and I loved that girl who never wore matching clothes. I loved the kid in the corner with socks that never matched. I liked the boy in the math room with numbers in his head. I liked the girl with funny pants on. I loved people, but I always preferred the messier ones, the lonelier ones, the wrong ones.
I'm sorry, Mama. I'm sorry for the fighting and the hatred and the sleepless nights I lost worrying over your love. At some point I had to realize I couldn't try to earn it anymore. You had the right kind of boyfriend and the right kind of wisdom. You made the right decisions and you wore the right clothes and you had just the right kind of job. So I'm sorry. I'm sorry for you and your shallow inconsistency and your blatant blindness to the nuance of a colorful world. I'm so sorry that yours is black and white.
Someday, I will marry the wrong man and fall in love with the wrong places and maybe I will be the wrong kind of girl who doesn't call her mother. I will curse all the wrong words, I will paint the wrong pictures, I will dance the wrong way, and entertain the wrong friends. I will have children at the wrong time and name them the wrong names, and someday you will worry that you do not have the right relationship with the daughter you abandoned. I was always the wrong kind of daughter, the wrong kind of lover. I am sorry for all the wrongness I grieved you. I only hope the wrong kind of ending does not take so right a life.
"We must," she crowed, "We must. It is our responsibility as females to make men comfortable."
But I wore all the wrong words and sang all the wrong colors.
I put silver chains in my ears and I wore jeans with frayed hems. I wore dresses that made me feel pretty but made my mother gasp and the boys feel threatened. I took pride in the curves she told me to cover, I swayed my hips when I danced, and I let my shirts hang scantily. I said all the wrong phrases; my vocabulary was as colorful as the paint that filled my free time. I wrote poetry and sang till she told me to shut up and "be quiet please." I didn't clean my room and I didn't make my bed or make it in the real world. I cried at math problems and cried at injustice and cried for all the love and cliches. I picked boys she said were not the good kind, but I loved them, yes, Mama, I loved him. I laughed with people she said would hurt me; she couldn't realize they loved far better than she ever taught me how. I kissed people she would have slapped and I cried into arms that gave me the home she took away. I called out in the night for some peace or relief. I woke up at the wrong time, I forgot to brush my hair, I used to hate to paint my nails. I liked to be on time but I never had enough of it. I loved the wrong people. I loathed the good ones. I loved the wrong kind of job, the wrong kind of riches, and the wrong kind of pleasures. I was the wrong kind of mess, yes, the uncontrollable one; I went where I wanted and I dreamed what I would.
But I always loved the messy kind; I loved the messy man with all my heart and I loved that girl who never wore matching clothes. I loved the kid in the corner with socks that never matched. I liked the boy in the math room with numbers in his head. I liked the girl with funny pants on. I loved people, but I always preferred the messier ones, the lonelier ones, the wrong ones.
I'm sorry, Mama. I'm sorry for the fighting and the hatred and the sleepless nights I lost worrying over your love. At some point I had to realize I couldn't try to earn it anymore. You had the right kind of boyfriend and the right kind of wisdom. You made the right decisions and you wore the right clothes and you had just the right kind of job. So I'm sorry. I'm sorry for you and your shallow inconsistency and your blatant blindness to the nuance of a colorful world. I'm so sorry that yours is black and white.
Someday, I will marry the wrong man and fall in love with the wrong places and maybe I will be the wrong kind of girl who doesn't call her mother. I will curse all the wrong words, I will paint the wrong pictures, I will dance the wrong way, and entertain the wrong friends. I will have children at the wrong time and name them the wrong names, and someday you will worry that you do not have the right relationship with the daughter you abandoned. I was always the wrong kind of daughter, the wrong kind of lover. I am sorry for all the wrongness I grieved you. I only hope the wrong kind of ending does not take so right a life.
Comments
Post a Comment