Narcissus: My Mother's Reflection

Narcissus

My Mother’s Reflection

“THE HORSE IS DEAD - DISMOUNT!”

"Indeed. Dismount. Time for a burial and a nice graveside ceremony. Shoot a few rounds of blanks into the sky; shout a couple of hallelujahs and 'blessed be's'; offer a burnt sacrifice by way of dried narcissus and dehydrated garlic, but grieve it - and leave it."

Author Unknown

I was born on April 29, 1965 in San Francisco, California.  My mother took me everywhere, can you imagine what I saw in the 60s! 70s! Early 80s! This is my life, my story and I believe with all certainty, my salvation and freedom from the visions in my mind, the nightmares in my sleep and the horrible grip I feel around my heart.

My mother always wanted what she does not have, no matter the price to her or anyone around her.  She has been obsessed with sex, money and power since I can remember.  She took me into the Gay Bathhouses in San Francisco, so she could get a massage.  I would hang out with all the men, watching various acts being performed. The guys were always so kind to me and never hurt me, I do wonder sometimes if any of them look back and hang their heads, just shaking them back and forth.  Its not as if I saw complete acts of sex, but I do know how multiple men can pile up extremely close and laugh, smile, make noises and then fall into a pile of naked bodies. I never knew that this was not completely normal and part of everyone’s life, until the day that I learned to speak and answer questions that I was being asked. 

My mother used to frequent these places in China Town in San Francisco.  They were always in the basements, if you have ever been to Chinatown, they have numerous homes that have stairs that go up and another set of stairs going straight down.  So steep that is seems you will slide straight down.  Mom would hold my hand very tightly and down we would go, even when we reached the bottom she did not loose her grip.  She would knock and the door would open, once you entered there was a rather large curtain made of heavy red velvet.  A woman would greet you and pull the curtain back to allow you into the next room.  This room had booths all around the perimeter of the room.  You could not see who was there because the booths went all the way up to the ceiling and they also had heavy curtains that could be pulled to close you off from the rest of the room.  I was set down inside one of the booths; Mom let go of my squished hand. This is probably the moment I like to least think about, as she would let go of my hand, at that moment I felt the most alone.  Oddly, even today, as I write my stomach sinks and I feel left, left alone, a kind of desperate feeling, just like the one I felt then.  On my way to the booth that I was to stay in I would always look into each of the booths we passed.  Some of them would have the curtain drawn all of the way, some would be open just a crack and others had not really bothered to try to pull the curtain at all. In each booth, that I was able to see into, the scene was the same, one or two men, speaking very quietly, just waiting.  My mother proceeded on to another room that was also separated by a heavy red curtain.  I would be served a soda and some kind of snack.  There was only one time that I saw behind that curtain, I was very quickly escorted away but I will never forget what I saw and what I was told Mom was doing.  She was playing, the woman walking me back to the booth told me; she picked me up and sat me back up on the wooden bench.  Would you like some Ice Cream, she asked me, of course I said yes, please.  I was told, your mother would be done playing soon, just wait here.  A few different times I was sitting across from a man.  They were always kind and made me laugh.  Sometimes they would pull money from behind my ear and give it to me.  When Mom showed her face through the curtain she always looked the same, never happy, I would say the look was panic, but that is not quite it either, maybe it will come to me as I continue through the pages of my mind.

Often times when my mother and I would return into the world of light and busy streets she would immediately take me to the Cellar at Macy’s.  This was the most delightful time; I always looked forward to my prize.    Sitting on top of the counter were these jars aligned along the sides, filled with jelly beans, gum drops, assorted chocolate malt balls, taffy, you name any sweet and I bet it was somewhere in front of me.  A head would peer between the jars and in the middle of the counter and ask me what I would like today.  I loved this; even today it makes me giggle at the thought.  On the days we were unable to go to the Cellar, my mother would take me to a sweet shop on the way back home.  She would stop and we would go into this little tiny sweet shop, sweets just the same, the counter was not nearly as impressive, but the chocolates always tasted wonderful.  This tiny shop was located on the left hand side of Geary Blvd, between Van Ness Ave and Polk Street. My mother and I used to take the bus back and forth; she would always get off the bus for this stop and then get back on.  I remember when we started to drive and this coincides with everything changing for the first time, when Hugh first showed up in the picture.  I remember because she told him to pull the car over, it is a one way street and being on the left hand side meant that I had to scoot to get out of the drivers side door.  I jumped out and began to run for the door, I turned and Mom was not behind me, instead a hand reach out the window with money in it.  We did not stop to many times after that, which was fine, it lost the magic that it had once had.

My older sister Tammy and my older brother Eddie attended an elementary school in Chinatown, very near where my mother and I would go.  I do not remember why I was not able to go with my mother any more to these dungeon retreats, but I remember a few different men having very stern conversations about my presence.  They would have this look and pointing in my direction shake their finger at my mother.  This is around the time that I was left in the charge of a French au pair.  She was an older woman not to far away from Tammy and Eddie’s school but definitely not in Chinatown.  It was just on the other side of a tunnel that separated Chinatown from North Beach and Van Ness Avenue.  I was on the Van Ness side of the tunnel.  The old woman only spoke French and this made communicating rather difficult.  She lived on the second floor of two flats; I used to have to climb this enormous flight of stairs to arrive at the feet of a rather plump, always red-faced woman, whom I did not understand.  She had a daughter that was around my mothers’ age, the old woman and the daughter were always fighting when they were together, thank god, and the daughter had to work and was not always there.  To no surprise, they were fighting about me, the daughter was just like the men, red faced like her mother, pointing at me, shaking her finger at her mother.  I know that the daughter did not like my mother at all, I do not know why, but the passing looks would have made a healthy man fall over dead.  As time passed, I learned how to understand French and even speak enough to translate for my mother, times and dates.  The old woman was generally kind to me, she would take me to a park on the other side of the boulevard (entrance and exit for the tunnel going back to Chinatown and North Beach), and she would let me play outside with other children.  She would sit on the bench nearby and talk to the other old woman as they knit or sewed.  My only terrible experience at her house was when I went into her closet and filled all of her shoes with baby powder.  The look on her face as she opened the closet door is burned into my memory.  The red faced old woman became purple, the words that followed were loud, fast and not anything I understood, with the exception of one that I heard repeatedly, Merde!!  Of course, now I know what it means, SHIT!!  At the age of four I did not need the translation to know that I was in big trouble.  Sadly her daughter was home when my mother came to pick me up and she spoke English.  She told my mother what had happened in a rather snippy, obnoxious, snobby way.  To this day I do not know why the daughter was so pressed to tell the entire story, other than my mother kept apologizing and the daughter seemed gratified that she had made my mother embarrassed and apologetic.

I remember that we had just returned from downtown San Francisco and we arrived at a destination, I believe someone’s house.  The person asked where we had been, I began to answer and “wham” my mother’s hand out of nowhere met soundly with my head.  I grimaced and looked up at her, only to watch her look directly at the person and tell them we were someplace completely different. I desperately looked at the person thinking they could not possibly believe what my mother had just said, because we had never been or done anything like what she was being told, plus, how could she ignore the smack I just received and pass that off without regard?  They did.  This was my first lesson in “family business is family business”. I don’t remember the lecture that followed, but I memorized the look that came along with it because along with all of the words my mother was spewing out came all of these horrible pinches on the under side of my arm and inside of my thigh.  This was not pleasant and the first time in my life she had every acted so out of character.  What I did not realize at the time, what I had witnessed and all that surrounded her words and actions would now become one of many “Character’s of my mother” that I would witness throughout my life.  Life as I had known it up to now would be changing dramatically, again and again and again and again, in fact she still changes today, based on the circumstances and people that she is surrounded by.

I am not sure when the first time I was kidnapped, I believe that it was around this time.  My mother had to leave me with other people.

~

In 1969 my Mother started a church called “Christa Fuenta”, which is Greek and she later would change the name to “Christ Bearers Choral Congregation”.  This was a non-profit church, which would present itself as inter-denominational. 

Although the beginning of my life may have seemed shocking to most people, for me it was normal.  I enjoyed the company and direction of many different people from many different walks of life.  These walks may not have been traditional, but for me they were all I knew and all I would ever know.  I never experienced a parent tucking me into bed, dressing me for school, making me breakfast, or reading nursery rhymes.  At this time I implore you as a reader to not spend one moment being sad or feeling sorry for me.  The reason being, I do not feel sorry for myself, therefore you may not feel sorry or sad also.  As an adult I know that my early childhood should have been filled with anything other than what I was a part of, I do not however have any real feelings that I missed anything.  For you see, had I not walked my path in life I would not be the person I am today.  I like the person I am, I enjoy knowing that I will survive and not fall prey to all that which is a temptation to our mortal selves.

My mother used to spend a lot of time in the Haight Ashbury.  This is where most to her new flock would be gathered.  In the late 60s San Francisco was the bustling, rebellious capital for all who thought society as it was known was repressive and stifled.  My mother and I spent time in head shops, I would wait in the front and she would proceed behind the curtain, I never saw what she was doing.  When she returned she would always have a serene smile and a kind of glossy eyed look about her, she was always gay at that time.  We would walk out onto the street and as we passed people she would educate me as to the why you should never take or touch the stickers that people were holding.  The people would be standing up against the buildings with a sheet full of “Happy Face Stickers”.  To me they always looked very tempting, Mom would tell not to touch them or even accept one if I was offered.  She said that if I ever did, I would die.  That was good enough for me, no curiosity to this day has made me do anything but keep on walking when I see any sticker being sold on the streets in San Francisco.

The Head Shops, I came to know the name later, were always fascinating to me.  They too had candy counters but not filled with the same goodies, at least for me.  They were filled with the most interesting tubes, with the strangest shapes, turns and bulbs on them.  On the wall behind the counter hung bracelets, headbands, incense and other paraphernalia that I did not recognize. There was always a cushioned seat in these shops and they were painted with happy colors, which included rainbows, and every color in one.  The curtain in these shops was not made of the same heavy red velvet, rather a white cotton sheet, sometimes painted or beads dangled from it or came down from the top and filled the entire entrance.

These people were not as kind as the people I had spent time with in the other places we frequented.  These people were airy. There was no substance to them and I used to wonder if they even had a mind to own a thought.  They spoke about nothing, not to me or to each other.  I remember that they were floaty people, not good, not bad, just empty and lost, searching, but at the same time could not move.  This is how I would explain away their smell.  Oh my God, the smell, I think if I smelled it right now I would throw up all over these words.  It was gagging.  This went along with their hair, their nails and their feet.  THE FEET!!  None of them wore shoes, yes I know we were in a shop, but their feet had not seen shoes in what I thought was NEVER!! The dirt in their toes and on the sides of their feet, had creeped up from the bottoms of their feet.  These feet did not have brown dirt either; it was black, just like tar.  The thick yellowish skin was ingrained with pieces of dirt that I believed to be at least as old as they were, this had to be reason for the smell.  I used to try to hold my breath, to no avail, but it was always definitely worth the effort.  As I sat waiting for Mom I would stare at their clothes.  It seems as if the clothes started at the top of their head and hung all the way down to their feet. On their head was dangling beads wrapped like a head band, which was covered by the greasy long hair, which was short, long, ratted, torn and full of flowery stuff, weeds, I thought.

~

I used to be terrified that I would catch what my mother had, and then one day my little sister did.  That day was the beginning of what have become so many things for me, mostly the memories that once haunted me that I had so thoughtfully buried.  They have not only returned to my everyday thoughts, but they have returned with a vengeance.

My oldest daughter was on her way to New Orleans to visit her High School friend at Tulane.  Oh course, they would be going to Mardi Gras, I always had wanted to go.  I told my daughter Becky to be careful and be wise in her decisions.  There was of course a giggle and a Oh Mom, we both laughed.  What I did not realize was that Becky would be calling me back telling me what my little sister had said about her trip.  I could not believe what I was hearing, my sister told her there is no way she should be going because she would be going to a murder, drug and sex fest, this was said completely seriously.  I was stunned; those were the words of my mother, not my sister.  This caused a flood in my mind; it has been a confusing mudslide of the unbelievable.

Davy, then his name was Eden, yeap, Eden Sunshine, can I tell you I used to tease him all the time.  Every time he saw my mother he would vomit, projectile vomit.  It used to shoot way out there and it was totally gross.  Can I tell you it smelled, yuck!  So this is what I would do, if I saw my mother before him I would jump in front of him to block his view, this saved us a few times.  Or if it was to late, then I would grab his hand and hold on as long as I could, they usually would come after him and then all the yelling and screaming about him are full of demons.  After all of that we would go off and do our thing and I would tell Davy, look, my mom is just a person and you don’t need to puck, plus it smells and we can’t play.  I used to tell him, O.K. now when you see my mom, think of something happy, like baseball, Cinderella we would start to laugh and return to playing.  The most disgusting time was when Davy had to carry a bucket, this is so he could put his head into it and vomit instead of the customary see my mother open his mouth and out it would shoot, what a stinky mess.  Well he had vomited in the bucket, they were yelling and screaming and then they made him eat it, I had to turn away, I couldn’t stay with him for that because I was getting sick.  He was probably around 4 years old and I must have been 6 or 7.

Davy commited suicide we never talked about any of it.

My older sister Tammy is whimpering in the next room, I have to stay in my room, why is she crying.  I used to get scared so I would climb under my bed and stack up the stuffed animals in front of me.  I would wiggle as far back in the corner as I could so that when they swung there arm under the bed they could not feel me.  These shoes used to come in, big, black men’s dress shoes, just like the man’s on A.M. San Francisco.  They sat on the edge of the bed and began to pat the covers, the feet would shuffle a bit, and then the shoes would walk out of the room.  I would strain to keep my eyes open in case they came back, because I was afraid to go to sleep, I don’t remember why. The floor was hard and I was cold, I would tell myself I should remember a blanket and pillow next time.