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Posted by Maria on November 03, 19101 at 02:18:15:

In Reply to: Re: Lessons from my mother/Looking into her mirror posted by megirl on October 04, 19101 at 16:14:24:

not all men. It was my mother's sorry luck that she ended up with some losers
and then consequently couldn't see the diamonds among the rough rocks.

I've met some lovely men....smart, sensitive, outspoken, beautiful
: ) *grin* but that doesn't mean I would trust them with my life.

::It is interesting what we learn from our mothers.

::That men are wanted and needed but not necessarily, necessary.

::“No crotch is worth that much,” my mother would say, shaking her head at some
::cousin or aunt, who had taken up with a man who was shiftless, an adulterer,
:an
::alcoholic, a woman beater.

::And yet, most of my childhood was taken up observing my mother trying to
:secure
::love for herself and financial security for my brother and me. There was my
::stepfather, a cowboy hat wearing, dark skinned, pot bellied construction
::worker. He brought some stability to our lives, made my mother happy.
Except
::when she became terribly ill, he didn’t pitch in. She had to have family
from
::outside come in to take care of us. She divorced him soon after, refusing
::alimony, temporary child support, anything. We whined about it for years
::later. Especially my brother who looked so much like him, who needed a
father
::so much. It was 11 or so years after that, that my mother, in one of my
::delinquent brother’s many family therapy sessions, that she revealed the whys
::and wherefores of the divorce. At 11 years of age, he wanted me to quit
::school, to stay home and cook and clean while and he and my mother worked.
He
::wanted to take my 9 year old brother to the construction sites, “That’s the
:age
::I started working at,” he reportedly said. Our education was everything to
my
::mother. The thought that ‘some man’ would prevent her children from
attending
::school was beyond her, beyond her need for security, for love, for physical
::warmth.

::There was the white man, who loved baseball, and whom I absolutely detested.
::Understand, I was 13 or 14, assuming the pose of a tough ghetto gang girl.
::What part of “Brown and Proud” would a white man understand? My brother
::readily accepted him, since he freely gave my brother money, while any such
::offers made my stomach turn. He was a needy man, telling my mom, how his
:birth
::mother had abandoned him, disrupted his life, visiting at late night hours,
::until a kind childless couple adopted him. He forget to mention that he was
::manic-depressive and a paranoid schizophrenic. I firmly believe that he once
::assaulted my mother, while I was away. I was, I am, a big girl and have a
big
::mouth. He would never have attempted such a thing when I was around. She
:made
::him move out soon after. He came around, late at night, whispering at the
::windows. Except he didn’t know my mother had given me her room and I was the
::one who heard him. So, one night, when I had had enough, I calmly went and
:got
::the biggest knife I could find in our kitchen and kneeled near the partly
open
::window. I hoped he would lean in a bit, so I could lop off his ear and his
::ridiculously long hair that curled at his shoulders from underneath his
::baseball cap. I don’t know if my mother heard him or me, or my brother told,
::but the next thing I knew, she pulled the knife from my hand, cranked the
::window closed and sent me to bed. He would never be back. As it turned out,
::my brother hated him too, and only liked the money that he so freely gave.
::Several years later, my mother, in her Mother Theresa mode, was volunteering
:at
::a homeless shelter.
::When she informed my brother that the white boy was coming around there (his
::parents had kicked him out of their home, too), he insisted my mother quit.
::Which she did.

::There were others. I just watched, and listened, and learned. Her best
::friend’s husband, who came around late at night, like some he-cat yowling
::during mating season. I’ll never forget, have never forgotten, her comment
as
::she slammed the door in his face: “Some men, because they see you alone,
::think you will take up the offer of any man, for a roll in the sack.” She
was
::right.

::But there were some too, with good intentions, that she pushed away, at the
::slightest sign of anything untoward. She must have had some vision of what
:her
::ideal mate should look like and act like. What it was, I’ll never know.
::Imagined slights, minor personality flaws, were held up to the light,
::scrutinized, criticized, dissected, before he was so quickly, triumphantly
:cast
::away.

::My mother was no beauty. But she had a rounded, hour-glass figure that made
::her the envy of her friends, an easy manner coupled with a shyness born of
::poverty, early orphan hood, low self-esteem. She did not lack for offers,
but
::was always scared.

::I am no beauty. Sometimes, my weight is up, sometimes down, but I only
lacked
::male attention when I doubted that I had any redeeming qualities. I am
::outspoken and shy, angry and so sad, all at once. I have not, in the past
::three or so years, lacked for offers, of any kind. Marriage, mistress,
:airline
::tickets, gold, anything. But I am always scared. You cannot let a person, a
::man most especially, into your life and walk away unscathed. I think of my
::friend, a male, and such a flirt, that I was surprised at him, when he
::said, “You can’t sleep with someone and not give a piece, not a physical
part,
::but the most intimate, emotional part of you, away.” “The choice is, “he
went
::on,” who deserves that much value?”

::Unlike my mother, I married well. At least at first. Now divorced, with one
::child and another on the way, I wonder if she knows how much my life has
::mirrored hers, that I, too, wander aimlessly looking for love for me and
::security for my children.

:MARIA, ARE MEN REALLY THIS CRUEL??? ALL OF THEM?

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Comments: :not all men. It was my mother's sorry luck that she ended up with some losers :and then consequently couldn't see the diamonds among the rough rocks. :I've met some lovely men....smart, sensitive, outspoken, beautiful :: ) grin but that doesn't mean I would trust them with my life. :::It is interesting what we learn from our mothers. :::That men are wanted and needed but not necessarily, necessary. :::“No crotch is worth that much,” my mother would say, shaking her head at some :::cousin or aunt, who had taken up with a man who was shiftless, an adulterer, ::an :::alcoholic, a woman beater. :::And yet, most of my childhood was taken up observing my mother trying to ::secure :::love for herself and financial security for my brother and me. There was my :::stepfather, a cowboy hat wearing, dark skinned, pot bellied construction :::worker. He brought some stability to our lives, made my mother happy. :Except :::when she became terribly ill, he didn’t pitch in. She had to have family :from :::outside come in to take care of us. She divorced him soon after, refusing :::alimony, temporary child support, anything. We whined about it for years :::later. Especially my brother who looked so much like him, who needed a :father :::so much. It was 11 or so years after that, that my mother, in one of my :::delinquent brother’s many family therapy sessions, that she revealed the whys :::and wherefores of the divorce. At 11 years of age, he wanted me to quit :::school, to stay home and cook and clean while and he and my mother worked. :He :::wanted to take my 9 year old brother to the construction sites, “That’s the ::age :::I started working at,” he reportedly said. Our education was everything to :my :::mother. The thought that ‘some man’ would prevent her children from :attending :::school was beyond her, beyond her need for security, for love, for physical :::warmth. :::There was the white man, who loved baseball, and whom I absolutely detested. :::Understand, I was 13 or 14, assuming the pose of a tough ghetto gang girl. :::What part of “Brown and Proud” would a white man understand? My brother :::readily accepted him, since he freely gave my brother money, while any such :::offers made my stomach turn. He was a needy man, telling my mom, how his ::birth :::mother had abandoned him, disrupted his life, visiting at late night hours, :::until a kind childless couple adopted him. He forget to mention that he was :::manic-depressive and a paranoid schizophrenic. I firmly believe that he once :::assaulted my mother, while I was away. I was, I am, a big girl and have a :big :::mouth. He would never have attempted such a thing when I was around. She ::made :::him move out soon after. He came around, late at night, whispering at the :::windows. Except he didn’t know my mother had given me her room and I was the :::one who heard him. So, one night, when I had had enough, I calmly went and ::got :::the biggest knife I could find in our kitchen and kneeled near the partly :open :::window. I hoped he would lean in a bit, so I could lop off his ear and his :::ridiculously long hair that curled at his shoulders from underneath his :::baseball cap. I don’t know if my mother heard him or me, or my brother told, :::but the next thing I knew, she pulled the knife from my hand, cranked the :::window closed and sent me to bed. He would never be back. As it turned out, :::my brother hated him too, and only liked the money that he so freely gave. :::Several years later, my mother, in her Mother Theresa mode, was volunteering ::at :::a homeless shelter. :::When she informed my brother that the white boy was coming around there (his :::parents had kicked him out of their home, too), he insisted my mother quit. :::Which she did. :::There were others. I just watched, and listened, and learned. Her best :::friend’s husband, who came around late at night, like some he-cat yowling :::during mating season. I’ll never forget, have never forgotten, her comment :as :::she slammed the door in his face: “Some men, because they see you alone, :::think you will take up the offer of any man, for a roll in the sack.” She :was :::right. :::But there were some too, with good intentions, that she pushed away, at the :::slightest sign of anything untoward. She must have had some vision of what ::her :::ideal mate should look like and act like. What it was, I’ll never know. :::Imagined slights, minor personality flaws, were held up to the light, :::scrutinized, criticized, dissected, before he was so quickly, triumphantly ::cast :::away. :::My mother was no beauty. But she had a rounded, hour-glass figure that made :::her the envy of her friends, an easy manner coupled with a shyness born of :::poverty, early orphan hood, low self-esteem. She did not lack for offers, :but :::was always scared. :::I am no beauty. Sometimes, my weight is up, sometimes down, but I only :lacked :::male attention when I doubted that I had any redeeming qualities. I am :::outspoken and shy, angry and so sad, all at once. I have not, in the past :::three or so years, lacked for offers, of any kind. Marriage, mistress, ::airline :::tickets, gold, anything. But I am always scared. You cannot let a person, a :::man most especially, into your life and walk away unscathed. I think of my :::friend, a male, and such a flirt, that I was surprised at him, when he :::said, “You can’t sleep with someone and not give a piece, not a physical :part, :::but the most intimate, emotional part of you, away.” “The choice is, “he :went :::on,” who deserves that much value?” :::Unlike my mother, I married well. At least at first. Now divorced, with one :::child and another on the way, I wonder if she knows how much my life has :::mirrored hers, that I, too, wander aimlessly looking for love for me and :::security for my children. : ::MARIA, ARE MEN REALLY THIS CRUEL??? ALL OF THEM?

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