Bumping into my stepmom, Dad and brothers at Disneyland tonight while standing in line waiting for the final tram, was probably the most awkward, heart-wrenching moment of my life thus far. I knew they were at the park the whole day; it was one of those weird coincidences: Cynthia and I planned this out about a week prior, and then my brother informed me the night before that they were also going the same day.
I initially thought and prepared to bump into them right away, but as the day went by and as I was keeping track of their location via text messages with David and his friend, Steven, it seemed like we were frequenting opposite ends of the park at the same times and all was safe. So at the end of the night, waiting in a hoard of people during a mass exodus from Disney, I wasn’t prepared to see my family walk up in the same line where the trams pick us up.
‘Awkward’ hardly describes it, though luckily I specialize in acting calm during those moments of extreme tension and terror. I saw my Dad and went in for a hug, said “hi” to Monica and hugged my brothers. After seven minutes of waiting for the tram along with EXTREMELY strained conversation between David, Christian (who now thinks I’m the devil) and Steven, I said goodbye, got on the tram and held back the flood until I got to the the parking lot. Cynthia said, “In my entire life, I have NEVER seen an adult act like your stepmom just did.” (Monica basically ignored both of us, turning her back and whispering with my Dad.
Everyone keeps asking me, “Why don’t you simply apologize to your stepmom so you can see your Dad and brother again?” and I explained to Cynthia that the situation is sort of like the War in Iraq: I can pull out the troops and apologize until I’m hoarse, but bottom line is that there is still a huge fucking mess to clean up which will take lots of time and emotional wear-and-tear. I have the cajones to apologize for nothing, but I don’t have the balls to deal with yet another season of passion aggression, criticisms and disapprovals. Plus, it’s not like my mother’s family, where emotional abuse is sort of like our “grace” before dinner. Once when I was in 3rd grade I came home to find my entire bedroom on the front lawn– signaling that my grandma was pissed at me. We were all fine by the next day. But this isn’t how the Palomares family operates. It’s built around a complex system of passive aggression, grudges, patriarical control, Conservatism, and subtlety. It’s all very classy and mind-fucking. And this is where most of the conflicts have stemmed from. I don’t think either side is particularly “correct,” (being raised by Nana caused its fair share of damage) but since I have adopted more of the bing-batta-boom Ordunio punch, I’m always getting in trouble at the Gavotte.
This whole stalemate between my Dad and me is taking its toll, though I’m realizing that the most painful situations often leave you numb rather than impassioned. It’s only during random moments– driving to Target or editing a headshot– that I start to break down in random bursts of tears and remember that my Dad won’t be calling me in a week for my birthday.
I’m going to write a book… I don’t know specifics, but it’s going to be about life– my life specifically and my family tales of old. I figure, why not? It dawned on me that I have A LOT of old journal entries, saved conversations from AIM, tons of fucked up family dramas to exploit and sappy stuff that’s bound to amuse. If people don’t like it, screw them. I know it’ll be entertaining.
It’s all a matter of compiling it in an understandable way. I’m thinking it’ll be separated in themed sections, or it will go chronologically. Maybe I’ll just throw everything together for a big life collage. I want it to have photos, conversations, memoirs, poetry and stories. eew. It kind of sounds like a nasty soccer-mom scrapbook…
I need to think this through some more…
Anyhow, during the height of my hormonal teen years (wait–I’m still in them technically) custody battles and family warfare, I wrote these haikus. I think they are fucking brilliant for lost-and-found haikus. They sort of summarize my life experience from age 13-16.
DMV nightmare
waiting in bleak endless line
for “come back later”
Parents armed for war,
in child support battlefield-
with greasy lawyers…
Californian dreams!
Look! big time hollywood stars-
and overpriced rent.
Taco truck business
not producing needed cash.
Where are the tacos?
Permit sinks in sky
as mom says the dreaded “no…
“I can’t afford it”
Time, clicks by slowly
monotonous Mr. Guy
thinks his goatee’s cool
Mustang fantasies,
red and black within my dreams-
heat, in the back seat?
It’s warm, like the
Charlie Brown Christmas song–
shakers and snowflakes
resembling the sensation of
you and long hours of
front seat conversations,
trying to hide dog breath
and pimples while you lean in
close and tell me
about spirals and atoms.
And there’s so much there
to play with—tones and words
and tangible snowflakes, that
it’s overwhelming: the spiral
and your voice.I want to
hold it, traveling through
tunnels and the quantum abyss
together. (But it gets complex
when you’re channeling Miles Davis.)
Strutting down the speckled pavement,
clad in Minnie-Mouse-onesy
having happy two year-old first walks—
little wobbly paws and fuzz,
moving along in a
clear California winternoon,
down the block while dad
captures the moment for the books
and the tail drags along the cracks.
Mom right here close,
mushing high-pitched
words into the sky.
But, deep down it’s blue
and “agoo” and
about to whisk me up—
the long palms and then
dad’s gone.
Dee Dee with the thoughtful look of
something that’s just sorta
there beneath the wear and tear
of a Minnie Mouse onesy
with pointy, little ears
that are always listening.
Mom’s going to die
someday. While driving to school,
fiddling with cds and a sore throat
the thought suddenly chokes,
like the number of cars in front
of me, long-lines of cold
color. One call and all will
stop-short.
Childhood let’s us
float with Barbies
who don’t get grey hair
or lose mortgages to men in
dense offices.We fly
from markings on walls–
up and higher, until soon
we’re at the high school lot,
and mom’s nervous
in apassenger seat while snotty teen
whines, “I know, I know!”
Thoughts are postponed
and prepared until one day,
while 19 and soiled in traffic,
late to something (that’s really nothing,)
it dawns that there will come
a morning when we won’t be
able to push
button-number-two,
dialing away on the 405
and feel pacified.
There won’t be an answer
or help on how to drive;
where to steer.
I sob and pull to
the side.
