When I hear myself using one of my parents' pet expressions, I try to stop myself mid-sentence, sometimes choking on the words. When my mother or father channels through me, I terrified-tremble and get more than a little sick to my stomach. I feel like melting into a little puddle of myself and seeping into the ground, so much irrigation.
I will not be like my mother and father! I will not subject my daughter to the pain and shame my parents brought me. Praying, and swearing to all my angels and saints, I long-ago promised myself I would be all the parent my own parents were not. And when I hear my own mother's words issuing from my lips, I feel as though I have betrayed something more than sacred.
My father, Senor Patrick O'Neill, a hard-working, hard-fighting, hard-drinking Irishman as perfectly Irish as Saint Patrick himself, married Veronica del Carmen Gonzalez just after Veronica turned 17. I arrived precisely nine months after their wedding, right on time. My father kept my mother barefoot and pregnant for several years after I arrived. After three straight miscarriages, though, the doctors tied my mother's tubes, instructed my father to take it a little easy on the little woman, and left me an only child.
More than an only child, though, the dead babies and the doctors left me an orphan.
At 21, my mother had no education, no big brood of babies, and no hope. My mother slipped into a deep depression for which my father had no sympathy, for which the doctors had no cure. Not even la curandera had a proper herb. My mother suffered a depression so deep only Jack Daniels delivered solace. My mother began drinking on her twenty-first birthday, and she kept drinking steadily until she couldn't drink any more. Then, she died.
When my mother drank, she rode an emotional roller coaster, going from giddy, flirty and girlish to maudlin, and then graduating in perfectly predictable and progressively more dangerous stages from melancholy to full-on bitch and then to full-on crazy. When my mother got to the lunatic harpy stage, she took-out all of her coraje, the repressed rage of the oppressed, on Senor O'Neill. When my mother no longer could have babies and build the family for which she had planned her whole life, her husband became not just a stranger but the enemy, and she manifest her hatred, for starters, in calling him Senor O'Neill. She put a great snarl into it.
When my mother acted-out her coraje on Senor O'Neill, fueled by Jack Daniels and turbo-charged by a passion for which she had no outlet, any object ready-to-hand became a missile ready for launch. One night, at the peak of her rage, my mother tore our heavy old-fashioned telephone out of the wall and lobbed it right at my father's head. A tiny little woman, barely five feet tall, my mother developed super-powers when she drank, and that phone hurtled through the air like it could go supersonic. Catching my father off-guard, that lucky shot knocked him out cold.
Standing between my mother and father, I felt so completely powerless I wanted to melt into a little puddle and seep through the floor boards. Years later I fulfilled a promise made in exactly that moment: That feeling of abject helplessness drove me to nursing, because like every child of every alcoholic everywhere I felt the whole mess somehow was my fault. I still can see my father, unconscious and bleeding on the floor, and I see my tiny mother suddenly grown huge, standing over Senor O'Neill laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Terrified and helpless, I just stood there, resolving never to feel helpless again, and vowing I never would become anything at all like my mother or like my father, not even close.
After the phone incident, around which my father developed an exotic story of bar-room domination, Senor O'Neill took a second job so he could support both a mistress and his "wife"; and my mother retreated to her "sewing room," where she could commune with Jack Daniels in peace.
Like all good survivors, I developed a knack for finding the silver lining, and I relied on my own resourcefulness to pull me through the crisis. I stoically accepted the fact that I was pretty much on my own, and once I had accepted that grim fact of life, I felt strangely liberated. Figuring that I probably had inherited my mother's powerful throwing arm, I went-out for softball, using my own coraje to fuel my fastballs and spin my change-ups. Naturally, with that combination of raw talent and unbridled passion, I quickly became an all-star. Lost in their own worlds, my parents had no idea of my diamond triumphs, and I became extremely skilled at inventing "normal"-sounding excuses for them.
When I started high school, of course I took my softball game to the next level. The coach promoted me to the varsity after my first freshman game, and I took my place in the starting rotation. Of course, word of this amazing accomplishment spread quickly through the neighborhood, and one of Senor O'Neill's bar-room pals clapped the old boy on the back, suggesting, "Y'all must be damn proud o' that lil girl o' yerz. What a arm she got, hunh? She'll take those girls all the way ta State a'fore she's through; that's what Ah'm sayin'. Yup, alla way ta State."
I imagine my father accepted the free drink that came with the slap on the back, and I figure he probably played right along with this revelation as though he was its author, my tireless coach and devoted fan. The news definitely had an impact on the homelife, because it inspired Senor O'Neill to march right into that sewing room and declare, "Get dressed, bitch, cuz we're goin' ta watch our girl play ball."
Sure enough, on a beautiful warm spring afternoon, Senor O'Neill and his tottering bride dragged themselves up into the bleachers along the first base line, and Senor O'Neill dedicated himself to proclaiming, as I took the rubber, "Yup, that's my girl, god dammit. That's my girl!" I had no "normal"-sounding excuse for that kind of celebration. I slapped-on my fiercest gameface and proceeded to mow-down hitters like the power-mower goes through tall weeds. Nothing like a good healthy rage to power a nearly perfect game, at least for about three innings.
As we took the field in the top of the fourth inning, my mother, who had been fortifying herself with strong waters from a thermos, knew she was going to be sick, frightfully and fiercely sick. Veronica delCarmen Gonzalez-O'Neill stumbled down five levels of bleachers, falling over and through the assembled faithful, staggering along the chain-link fence, and finally, unable to locomote any further, let her guts fly into the bullpen. Vomiting at least half her body-weight with God and the faithful as witnesses to her affliction, she passed-out right there along the chain links, face-planting into her own puke. Senor O'Neill calmly descended the five levels of bleachers, picked-up his unconscious bride and carried her away, calling-out, "It's okay, baby. You just keep your gameface and knock em dead."
Easy for Senor O'Neill to say.
Naturally, my perfect game went south about like the Marshall Tucker Band on their train all the way to Georgia, and Coach had the good sense to read my distress and send me to left field before I could do any real damage.
Can you imagine the depth of my shame? Once again, I wanted to melt into a little puddle and just dissolve into the outfield grass, so much fertilizer for a spring-green lawn.
Back in the dug-out, my teammates said nothing about the horror they had witnessed, but everyone clearly understood, as if illuminated by lightning brighter than noonday sun, just exactly how my life really must look, and they gave shelter and sanctuary to their orphan. For the next four years, my teammates steadfastly talked of everything except my family, and they cared for me as if I really were their sister. Often, they fed and clothed me. Every day, they supported and loved me.
My parents had the good sense to stay away from my games. Even when, as seniors, we did go all the way to State, my parents had the good sense to stay away from my games. And when his bar-room pals congratulated Senor O'Neill on his daughter's pitching prowess, he said humbly, somewhat shamefacedly, "Yeah, she's something, ain't she?" letting it go at that.
No one from my family ever graduated high school before I did. No one from my family, then, ever got invited to college before I did. No one in my family ever had held class rank #2 or was invited to speak at "commencement." But I was. Dreading what might happen if my loving family might turn-out for graduation, I tried to keep my life under wraps, managing all my paperwork and plans with a secret agent's stealth and cunning. For all my best-laid plans and good intentions, though, my father got wind of graduation. One of his bar-room buddies clapped the old man on the back, offered him a drink, and saluted, "So that girl o' yerz is gonna get er little self graduated and go off to UCLA. Y'all must be damn proud. Yessir, damn proud!"
Once again, my father marched into my mother's sewing room, declaring, "Get dressed, bitch. Our daughter's graduatin'."
Bereft of pomp and circumstance, my mother and father elbowed through the crowd about like UCLA linebackers plow through a USC offensive line, acted surly and downright mean with some innocent granny and grandpa, and muscled their way into front-row seats, my dad insisting, "My little girl's gonna speak, god dammit. Just get outta my way, cuz my little girl's gonna speak." My mother cuddled her thermos as if it were one of the dead babies. Seated, accommodated, pacified, Senor and Mrs. O'Neill drifted into some sort of pious reverie, and I felt a moment's hope that we might survive.
I prayed for our survival. I bargained for our survival. I even offered life in a convent in exchange for survival just one hour out of a tiny life, and the rest of my life is yours, Lord!
Not surprisingly, God had other plans.
I rose to speak. Summoning all the poise and composure I painstakingly had cultivated through my four years at my very proper and prestigious high school, I walked calmly and elegantly to the podium. "Faculty, Families, and Friends," I properly began, "I"
I didn't even get to finish my first sentence before my mother erupted in tears and wailing, the strangest ululation ever to come from woman born of woman, more like a feral cat in heat than anything human. Amidst the moaning, words formed: "Mi hija, Dios lo bendiga, mi hija! Dios lo bendiga!" My mother rose from her chair, crossing herself profusely, "Que milagro! Que milagro!" Attempting to genuflect, then, Mrs. O'Neill lost her balance, crumpled into a little pile, and passed out.
Once again, Senor O'Neill gathered his holy-spirited bride into his arms, carrying her out, proclaiming his gospel, "You just keep your gameface, kid, and knock em dead."
For a split second, I felt that same old puddling feeling, wanting to melt through the stage and into the dirt beneath, so much pure flatland spring water. This time, though, the feeling passed almost as quickly as it rose, and some new spirit possessed me. Extending my pitching arm and pointing a perfectly manicured finger toward Senor and Mrs. O'Neill, I grabbed the microphone, smiled from ear to ear, and announced, almost proudly, "My parents, ladies and gentlemen!"
Of course, everyone looked, saucer eyed and stunned into pin-drop silence, at me; then, they turned hateful glares upon my parents. And then they just sat there, stone-faced and still silent.
Resuming my perfect composure as my mother and father disappeared into the parking lot, I held onto the microphone and I held onto the silence. When I did begin, I found a voice steadier, more assertive than I ever imagined I could produce. "Faculty, Families, Friends," I intoned in a rich alto, "I am Aracelli O'Neill, and I am about to commence the life for which I have spent twelve years preparing. I know-with your love, help, and support-I will become a woman of whom you will feel proud"
My softball sisters spontaneously jumped to their feet, cheering uncontrollably; and, madre Dios! the rest of the crowd rose and joined the ovation.