Yeah, so, our mother always told us we were Venezuelan. She told some whoppers in her time but that one really represents some of her best work. I remember asking her about our ‘real’ father. She made the face, slammed herself down on my bed and asked what I would want to know about a terrible person who wasn’t interested in whether or not we lived or died. I took that to mean she didn’t really wish to discuss the issue. So I asked the cursory questions:
me: Where is he from?
mom: Falmouth. (In Massachusetts, where she’s from.)
reality: Racine Wisconsin
me: What nationality is he? I mean, we know you're Scottish and English but we have dark hair and eyes. What gives?
mom: He was Venezuelan. His parents were political refugees but I think they were guilty of terrible things.
reality:My father is almost completely Mexican. His father was a crop picker (is that the term?!) and my crazy grandmother's family had a ranch and she got pregnant by a migrant worker, my grandfather. One of my great great grandmothers was some sort of Native American Indian, I've seen pictures of her in full dress.
me: Does he know our names?
mom: He knows yours, not your brother’s and I don’t think he’d remember yours.
reality: Had his sister contact my mother quite often until mom changed our phone number.
me: Do you have any pictures of him?
mom: Why would I want pictures of someone who beat me and hates you kids?
reality: In a box in her closet. They looked pretty happy.
me: What if I needed to contact him someday, about some medical issue or something?
mom: Why would you want to break my heart like that? Do you really hate me that much? Have I been such a bad mother?
reality: Ah, no?
I think I’ll be honest with my maybe-kid. I’m even thinking of ditching the whole Santa/Easter Bunny/Tooth fairy/Painless Dentist charade. My maybe-kid will be savvy but I wouldn’t let him/her spoil it for other kids. So savvy, and considerate. Yeah.