Mother, You Hurt Me!

Ten years ago my mother died. I had been away from home for two years, and just when I thought I could make up for lost time, 37 days after my return she passed away. As a child and teenager she and I had a horrible relationship. I often resented her for not mothering me the way I wanted, and I would hurt so badly that instead of expressing my feelings and help her understand how I needed to be mothered, I would try to make her pay for hurting me. I never accounted for the fact that though there's nothing more perfect than a mother's love, mothers aren't perfect, for they are human beings too. As I entered adult life I begun sensing a sense of regret in her for not having the wisdom to understand my needs as a son. I also knew that her approaching latter part of her life-and me, her last son becoming a man, no longer a little boy-made her regret the moments she allowed herself to be distracted by other things or voices in her life, no matter how valid they might have seemed at the time. And she begun making a concentrated, consistent effort to mend and better our relationship. She would often come find me and silently say, in order to keep my brothers and father from hearing, "Hey, let’s get away from the house and go eat out. But without the others." At first I didn't think much of it, I was just happy to have some McDonald's, or Denny's, or whatever it was. But as I matured I realized this was our mother-son quality, bonding time. Some of the funniest jokes came during these meals as we sat in the car at a Sonic eating our burgers, but I also got a couple slaps in the same car for saying something incredibly insensitive about an undeserving stranger, and of course I also got some of the best advice and some of the best stories about her life. This Wednesday night I had a dream. My mother and I were eating at a restaurant. We were having a great conversation when suddenly things went south. I honestly can't remember what it was, but she did or said something that got me so upset, so offended, and so incredibly hurt... that I went back to my teenage years and set out on making her pay for hurting me so much. I wanted her to feel equally as bad! I got up from the table and said, "I'm gonna leave you alone at this table! Hope you enjoy it!" I left her there in public humiliation. In the dream, the next day a lady came up to me and said, "Juan, yesterday I ran into your mother and asked her about you. And she started crying inconsolably." I said, "Good, now she knows how she made me feel! And I'm not going to apologize!" I woke up in tears. The shame, the regret! Even writing this, days later, I can't help but tear up and feel so ashamed of my behavior. How could I be so cruel to my own mother, even if is just in a dream, ten years later! The last couple days I have been working very hard through those feelings, but more importantly to try and get a lesson out of it. When I finally thought I got it, I decided I would share the story with my father, who is still alive. This morning I called my father and told him about the dream. I told him that the immense pain and shame of my actions in the dream did have a meaningful lesson for me. As I worked through my emotions I realized that as adults we tend to lose the innocence and vulnerability necessary to tell our loved ones, "You hurt me so badly. Because I love you so much your actions and words affect me, inevitably. It hurt me because...." Instead of letting others be flawed works in progress, and forgive them with the healthy expectation of improvement, we find it easier to show who's "stronger." As I was sharing with my dad there was total silence, I figured he was just listening. I finished by telling him, "As cliché as it sounds, dad, my mother's dream visit taught me that even if we're right, when it comes to our loved ones its often better to realize enjoying our time together is more important. And no matter how strong we are, we're all vulnerable enough to focus on love." As my father finally spoke, he said in the most serene, loving tone, "Son, I can't tell you how much a father wants his sons to call him every now and then and just reminisce about their lost mother from time to time. I wasn't saying anything because I was in tears during your entire story. I know that dream wasn't something your psyche created to fill a void, I am certain it really was your mother. The lesson you say the dream taught you is great and I agree with you, you're right. But there's one more thing you haven't thought about: Your mother wants to have a meal with you from time to time. She too misses that quality mother-son time, not just you. Don't be afraid to be a 'nut job' from time to time and go out to eat and invite your mother along for the ride. She wants to hear about your life. She wants to be part of your life. Still." I told my father, "I must hang up now. The child in me who misses his mother is no longer able to speak. I need to cry tears of joy." He simply cried, "Thanks, son" as we both hung up. What makes my mother perfect is that she is always there.

Una basura de padre

"LO QUE QUIERO ES OIRTE RECONOCER QUE ¡FUISTE UNA BASURA DE PADRE"! Una vez que nos volvemos adultos es más fácil reconocer cómo nos afectó la crianza que nuestros padres nos dieron, para bien o para mal. Mi padre nunca me dio una vida de estabilidad. La mayor parte de mi niñez nos traía por todo el país durmiendo donde nos llegara la noche. Dormimos en el suelo de los parques, en la arena de la playa, en la caja de la camioneta, y nuestros vecinos siempre fueron los sancudos. No sabíamos donde o qué comeríamos. A veces no sabíamos si íbamos a comer. Muchas veces la comida llegaba por la caridad y bondad ajena. Parecería fácil suponer que si algo le iba a resentir a mi padre sería la pobreza en la que nos crió. Pero la pobreza para mí no es razón de resentimiento ni vergüenza. Lo que yo resentía era la razón de la misma. No vivíamos así porque mi padre careciera de educación para obtener un trabajo bien pagado, no porque careciera de salud para trabajar. Vivíamos así por que mi padre carecía de ambición, de mayordomía para con su esposa y sus hijos, de un sentido de responsabilidad en cuanto a las consecuencias que todos sufriríamos como resultado de sus decisiones. Efectivamente sus decisiones tuvieron efecto en nosotros, efectos duraderos. Entre otros, uno de mis hermanos ha tenido que lidear con sentimentos de abandono y un temperamento difícil de controlar, yo con la inhabilidad de creer que los hombros somos capaces de amar debidamente, y un hermano con las drogas y el vivir en la calle de manera permanente. Ahora como adultos son tantas las conversaciones que mis hermanos y yo hemos tenido sobre el padre que la vida nos dio. Cuando carecíamos de madurez siempre eran sobre lo negativo que vivimos, sobre las cosas que quisiéramos decirle en su cara a nuestro padre. Pero a medida que vamos aumentando en madurez igual nuestra memoria de cosas positivas. Tenemos muchos recuerdos chistosos, memorias que nos enorgullecen, y hasta memorias enternecedoras de las cosas que mi padre hacia. Recordamos que de niños cuando nos enfermabamos mi padre se despertaba en la madrugada a frotarnos el pecho con Vicks, nos sobada, y se quedaba a nuestro lado hasta que lograbamos dormir. Lo que más recordamos es la tradición de mi padre de despertarnos el día de nuestro cumpleaños con la canción "Las mañanitas". Uno de mis hermanos, Jesús, y yo hemos hablado muchísimo los últimos años, y poco a poco estamos logrando sanar los efectos negativos a medida que nos aferramos a lo positivo tanto de nuestras memorias como de nuestras vidas respectivas que ahora vivimos. En realidad hemos sido bendecidos. De hecho a mí me queda el gusto de saber que mi padre reconoce sus errores y que siente pesar por ellos. Pues el que le gritó a mi padre estas palabras hace unos años fui yo: "LO QUE QUIERO ES OIRTE RECONOCER QUE ¡FUISTE UNA BASURA DE PADRE"! También le dije, o más bien también le grité en su cara que lo que me hacía falta más que nada en el mundo era "QUE ME PIDAS PERDÓN". Después de un largo e incómodo silencio, y mientras vi sus lágrimas brotar de sus ojos mi padre me dijo lo que tanto esperé: "¡Mijo, fui una mierda de padre! No sabes lo mucho que me arrepiento por todo lo que hice. Por favor perdóname, Juan". Aquel día fue el día que supe que iba a vivir mi vida sin resentimiento y que poco a poco mi padre y yo desarrollaríamos una relación sana de padre e hijo. Y la verdad en gran manera lo hemos logrado. Amo a mi padre. Sin embargo, el tema de mi hermano drogadicto es uno que no hablo frecuentemente con mi padre. Uno, porque me cuesta morderme la lengua para decirle que es su culpa; y dos, porque en realidad me cuesta creer que mi padre lograría entender en cuanto a ese tema. Entonces ha sido un tema callado... hasta el día de hoy. Temprano por la mañana mi padre me llamó por teléfono. Hoy es 21 de junio, el cumpleaños de mi hermano que es drogadicto, y de quien por el momento desconocemos su paradero. El cumpleaños mío es tan sólo tres días después, el 24. Pues cuando contesté el teléfono inmediatamente escuché la canción "Las mañanitas". Sonreí en silencio y pensé, "Ay mi padre, tan despistado. Se equivocó, hoy es cumpleaños de mi hermano, el mío es en tres días". Pero seguí en la línea para corregirlo una vez que terminara la canción. Cuando la canción terminó, antes de que yo pudiera hablar mi padre dijo, "Mijo, Juan, no me confundí de fecha...." En eso pude escuchar el llanto de mi padre, e inmediatamente comprendí su tristeza. Después de un silencio, sin poder detener el llanto me dijo mi padre con palabras quebradas: "Si vez a tu hermano, dile que su padre no se olvida de él, que lo quiero mucho". Intentaba decirme más pero comprendí que esas lágrimas sostenían el peso no sólo de desconocer el paradero de su hijo mayor, sino de todos los años de errores cometidos como padre. Tan sólo le dije, "Apá, no te preocupes, yo entiendo lo que dices. Si lo veo te aseguro que haré que tus palabras lleguen a él". Nuestros padres, quieran o no, siempre tienen que cargar con esa enorme responsabilidad. No fue hasta hoy que logré comprender lo enorme y dolorosa que puede ser.

Thankful for Nothing

There once was a child who was poor. He had just entered that age when material things started to matter. He now had reason enough to wish for things, and he also had innocence enough to believe they’d come. He intuitively knew his family was poorer than the others, but it didn’t matter, he was taught that “Santa delivers gifts to ALL the nice children of the world. Rich or poor.” That year, Santa had a job. So even though Santa “Forgot” or was just “Too much in a rush” to fulfill every request on the nice child’s list, it was okay because empty handed he was not. Months passed by, and this child new that being nice paid off. But being extra nice would have to pay off even more next Christmas--perhaps a list of wishes entirely fulfilled. Santa, however, would spent most of the next year seeking work… ironic for such a busy fellow. On the next Christmas day, the young boy saw sadly out his window as other kids played with new toys, new clothes, and new joy. And all he had received was two things, emptiness and confusion. How could Santa do this if he was so nice all year—nice than last year even! Over the next few months he would work his young mind to figure out the mystery. He started to see that the idea of Santa Claus was flawed in many ways. And not just on Christmas day. It wasn’t always as simple as being naughty or nice. Little by little, the idea of Santa repulsed him. He wanted to no longer believe. But alas, he had nothing else to believe in. So he just made some “minor adjustments” instead to the idea called Santa Claus. The list would be shorter, the items would be cheaper. The definition of “Nice” wouldn’t be as strict. Santa’s income would even be considered. What a mature kid. But maturity and all, something still felt wrong. He wanted to continue believing, even if he knew he didn’t because believing feels good. It was an uncomfortable feeling. On the week of Thanksgiving, Santa lost his job again. On Wednesday, the boy’s best friend invited, “Hey, me and my dad are going to camp out at Best Buy for Black Friday. Wanna come?” There they were again, the boy’s most prized possessions, emptiness and confusion. No Black Friday. Little to no hope for a good Christmas. But Thanksgiving would not be held back--at least not by the calendar. On the morning of Thanksgiving, the young boy woke up and went to the fridge. Nothing. A bunch of nothing everywhere. And what made it worse is that he knew that in his entire block, his family had to be the only one with so much nothing. So he would not spend months analyzing again. This time, he just made it simpler on himself, “I don’t believe, period!” As the years passed he realized that gifts don’t just come out of the sky. Food doesn’t either. In fact, Santa’s job doesn't either, ironically. He realized that what he was taught wasn’t always right. He realized good intentions don’t always produce truths. And just as he was beginning to discover hard truths, he lost both his parents one tragic day. Now an orphan, but not quite yet an adult, he’d have to rely on another lesson learned as a child, “Heavenly Father.” Perhaps if that man were real, then he wouldn’t actually be an orphan. And as the years passed, on some moments Heavenly Father seemed closer, and on some not so much. He realized that the “Heavenly Father” and the “Santa Claus” he was taught about were really quite similar. They didn’t function magically. The requests to Heavenly Father were less materialistic of course. “Father, please take away this feeling of emptiness and confusion that has been with me over the years.” He would often say, “I find myself silently in the arms of my constant companion, loneliness. Take it away.” And some days those prayers seemed answered, others not so much. But he wouldn’t stop praying, until one day in the midst of all these prayers, he fell ill. The pain was excruciating. It was constant. It was uncontrollable. The doctors would check him physically and promise tests and results, IV’s and medications. But they didn’t know that he was carrying an illness inside that wouldn’t show up on any CAT scan. After all, how do you image loneliness? He felt misunderstood, alone, like a fake who could no longer fake it… and it was then that he realized, “I want to die!” He sat in that hospital bed thinking while the nurse stepped away, “Who am I kidding? I want to die! I don’t have a purpose here, I’m not needed, I’m not loved, I don’t love, I’m not essential or sincerely functional. And the routine keeps killing me every day!” But it was at that moment that the medicine flowing through his IV finally took full effect, and put him to sleep. After a couple hours he awoke. Still feeling silently unhappy, but at least the physical pain had seemed to go away. So he went home with medicine and with the doctor’s instructions. He managed to fall asleep for the next 10 hours. The next day as he got up to have breakfast and to take his medicine, the image of himself sitting on a hospital bed genuinely wishing to be dead kept flashing before his eyes and his soul. And the more he saw that, the more tears fell down his face. He finally realized, “I am nothing.” But nothing meant something. It meant he was not a child someone needed to mold. It meant he was neither a believer nor a non-believer. It meant he was not an orphan. It meant the God he was taught about was nothing, for if he was nothing, God was nothing. It meant the answered and the unanswered prayers were nothing. It meant he was not genuine, but not a fake. It meant he no longer had to willingly, unwillingly or intuitively live on a mold of ideas and morals which he did not help design. It meant he was simply there, with a chance to start from zero again. It was Nothing…on HIS TERMS. Thank you for nothing. Happy Thanksgiving!

Gay Dignity

When Rosa Parks stood up for what she believed in, it was not just for equality, it was for human dignity. When I decided to stop being Mormon, it was not just about Gay Rights, it too was about human dignity. I had to abandon my dream of being straight to embrace my inner reality. For nine years I avoided that reality to live a lie that slowly killed me. Until one day an extremely attractive married man--who to this day is an active Mormon--started flirting with me. I'm in my mid 20's and he's in his mid 30's. After I got over the initial feeling of attraction, I had enough courage to tell myself, "Wait, if I don't embrace my reality with dignity, I will be this man when I'm in MY 30's, living a double life, devaluing the worth of a woman, and teaching children that it's okay to lie. Ultimately a selfish, unhappy man." I had to stand up for my dignity.

Over the next few months I had some of the most emotionally painful moments of my life! As hard as I tried, I couldn't answer the question, "WHY did I allow myself to be put through such a damaging lie?" And the damage caused was not as damaging as the realization that I was the one who chose to be Mormon and effectively hide who I've always known myself to be. But, finally I found my response, "Because no one told me, 'I know you're in pain, but don't worry, you will be fine." That's all it would have taken. The world is so void of people who reach out. Not necessarily because we don't want to, but because we don't know how. My world as a 16 year old teenage boy was void of anyone who had apt knowledge of what homosexuality was and how to deal with it. And the two people who came to what I then called "My rescue," taught me that practicing homosexuals were not approved of by God. If we don't stand for those around us living in pain and anguish, someone else will.


What I have learned in these last few months since I left the Church is that I am not the only teenager scared to admit he's gay, that that married gay man in church is not the only man who flirts with other men behind his wife's back. But I have also learned a devastating truth, that there are men and women, boys and girls out there willing to commit suicide because their feelings are not approved of by the masses. Because I've been lucky to live and realize how great and beautiful life--even my own--can be, I want my life to have meaning from now on.

As Rosa Parks teaches us, sometimes standing up for what matters is better done sitting. There are far too many children and adults who need someone to sit with them and let them know, "You are understood, you matter, and you deserve what every other human being deserves, to live a happy life with dignity." I want to be that someone. May you be too.

A Daughter to the World

Recently, a friend posted a picture on his Facebook page. The picture was of an alcoholic man who was asleep on the sidewalk outside my friends house in Guatemala. (The above picture is not my friends pic--gotta respect his privacy--but it's close enough.) In the comments that followed, a debate developed on whether alcohol is bad in and of itself. Here's my response:


ALCOHOL VS ALCOHOLIC

As far as the specific point you're trying to make about alcohol, I'd rather not comment on it. I do, however, want to say something more on the topic of the ALCOHOLIC. On my mission I came across a man who was asleep face down on the porch of his house. After awaking and turning to us, we (my companion and I) saw he had a dog bite on part of his eye and cheek. There was blood all over his cheek, some of which was starting to dry. (I promise this is not a Halloween story.)

Despite my companions argument that "There's no way our message will get through to him," we went into his house and taught him. A few minutes later, his little daughter quietly walked into the living room, walked to him in little, innocence-filled steps, hugged him, and said, "Papá, al fin llegaste. Te extrañé." ("Dad, you finally came. I missed you.") He started crying and said, "Por ella voy a cambiar." ("For her I'm going to change.")

Months later, a different man ran into me while I was serving in another area. He was a well groomed, clean, and healthy man. (I can't say a Latter-day Saint man, but that's not my point anyway.) He said he knew me and he was treating me like I was one of his life-long friends. After realizing I simply did not recognize him, he said, "Hermano, yo soy aquel hombre con la mordida de perro en la cara que era alcohólico." ("Brother, I am that man with the dogbite on his face who was an alcoholic.") It was then that I realized, "This really was the man the little girl (his daughter) could always see."

My point? The picture posted is of a person, not a bottle. So easy to forget that. And even easier to believe some people are beyond hope. While we don't all demonstrate it, we all want a better life. I hope that man found a "daughter" on time.

Smile Even With Your Liver

Recently I've had a heartbreak that has caused a lot of sadness, confusion, and loneliness. If you know me, you know I am one of those people who realizes happiness is not an event, but the result of real, personal, conscious effort. So to say I'm working overtime to get over this heartbreak is an understatement--I want to be happy again! HAPPIER THAN I WAS BEFORE!

It's been said one can smile with the liver. At least in the book I am currently reading, "EAT, PRAY, LOVE" by Elizabeth Gilbert. While being taught to meditate, an old, happy medicine man teaches her "the most easy way to meditate." He tells her to sit and smile--smile with all her being, "smile even with your liver." So today, I sat and smiled with my liver.

I had originally planned to go to the nearby track and run a mile under the sun--(you know, Vitamin D gets me in a good mood)--but then it started raining as I was walking there. Then, I thought I would go sit at the middle school right next to the track, and read (since I took my book with me anyway for after the run.) I figured I'd just sit in a covered area. Then, I saw there were a bunch of kids there doing who knows what. So I had to walk home without my run, without my read.

When I got home, I realized that what I was looking for at the track--being in nature, relaxing by reading, and meditating--could all be done at my house. I have a beautifully green front yard, and two large trees. So instead of coming in my house, I sat under one of those treas and started reading. It was great to read this book I love so much, but all I could think was, "I need to smile with my liver." I put the book down, and started what at that moment I would call, "quote on quote 'meditation."'

Not thinking it would be real meditation, I still did it because I just wanted to FEEL a smile that powerfully. I smiled with my mouth, and really tried to feel it in my gut. Then I realized, "wait, I need to smile with ALL my face, not just the mouth." So I tried to smile with my forehead and my eyes, then my cheeks and even my chin. As I was all smiley, I started looking around me, observing.

There was a large mountain ahead that never seemed so captivating. Though it was far, it was close. But even closer to it were some lush, green trees. They were the trees on the block next to mine. Then, even closer, I noticed the soft, cushioned green grass in my front yard. The grass I was sitting on. Then, as I looked up, I saw above me a powerful, strong-willed tree, "planted" in its path in life. And I was leaning on it. I couldn't help but feel how beautiful this Earth is... and all I could think was, "I bet God feels a sense of accomplishment for sticking with it for so long."

I begin trying to find the lesson in all this that is around me. Knowing that I am at the epicenter of beauty and that I must be changed by it, I begin trying to find the parallel between myself and this Earth; between my pursuit of happiness and Gods beautiful Earth. Still not realizing what it means to be at the "epicenter," a good amount of knowledge does come, "It took God hundreds of years to create this, but, damn, look what resulted! Like the tree I lean on, I must remain planted in my path in life. Happiness. Love."

Still smiling, but now in a real way, I decided I wanted to continue observing. I had already looked in front of, behind, to the sides, below and even above me. So, after taking another glance at the grass near me, I realized the only place left to look at was... me. The epicenter. I started by looking at my legs. Somehow that was enough to observe all of me. And without even realizing it, a thought from outside of me came, "This beauty is in me too."

Smile even with your liver.

"Oh Mom, It Was So Easy."

Oprah, who happens to be one of my heroins and role models, share's a story of a dying son who's last words to his mother were, "Oh Mom, it was so easy." The son and mother had been suffering with his illness for one year until it overtook him. Yet he lets his mom know it was easy. I'd like to talk of two very powerful things this taught me about living.

For the living, we often think our life is too hard--or better yet, that we are too week. But regardless of how many times we wonder why us, we need to realize its not that hard. In other words, we need to realize how easy it is... if we only realize how strong WE are. And its not even about being optimistic, it is about being REALISTIC.

For years now, I have regretted greatly not trusting my mother with... me. I did not allow her to be the best friend of the real me. I never communicated to her as I really am, and I have truly and profoundly regretted that. Lamentably, I realized that after she died. I realized she would have been the only person to understand, accept and adequately support and befriend me. But today, that lamentation has changed.

As I heard Oprah say the words of the dying son, I heard them said in the voice of my mother, "Oh son, it was so easy." As I type this, I find myself crying tears of relief. I KNOW she is in this room with me. Madre, te quiero.

And my mother has told me, "Instead of living in regret for not having a better relationship with me, realize your problems are 'so easy.' BE happy! Realize your so-called problem is meant for your happiness. And most of all, realize it is so easy NOW--not in hindsight!"

Mother, it IS easy. :)