The Middle of Nowhere #11
Welcome back. Mother’s day is here. I miss my momma. I recalled many memories for you all, the mundanities and the major, all the same. As I write this before Mother’s day, I’m staring outside this boba shop, watching the wind sway these palm trees, fragments of my memories flying away as I strain to complete them. Nothing in The Cut this week, I’m sure y’all understand.
To My Mother, In The Wind and At Sea
The Summer of 2021 was the beginning of my descent into madness. I felt so useless, a man trying to control fate amidst the fog COVID left. I had no job, no car, restless that I was a directionless 21 year old stuck at his dad’s house. The internet was a toxic form of sanctuary where I held my thoughts and ambitions close. I tirelessly wrote because what else was I to do? Jobs weren’t anxious to reply to my applications, no matter how eager I was to make money and live some semblance of life. I felt like an intruder in my own home, never quite belonging because I could never contribute to my own independence or my desire to explore LA. I wasn’t a confident man, a depressed wreck trying to cobble up something presentable to the world. Me and my father would bicker our frustrations and I grew restless, exhausted by the arguing, as if I didn’t know the dilemma I was facing. I resented Los Angeles because even in my worst days, there was the sun, condescending towards me, scoffing at the notion that anyone could be sour in the place Raphael Saadiq said never rained. I needed a change of scenery. My mother booked me a ticket to see her and my little sister.
Momma never aged in my eyes. Her gaze was always a weary one, physically spent from cutting hair all day or mentally exhausted, casting away the idea of coping with sadness and trauma from her mind to survive. There she stood by baggage claim, tattered denim jeans and a tanktop with those same sleepy eyes. I was anxious because I hadn’t the slightest clue of what lays in store for me in the midwest, what I could find for myself in the middle of nowhere. I adopted the aux cord as we drove past the border of Iowa towards Monmouth, Illinois in an early 2000s junker. Those two hours in the car was spent doing our normal shit talking, the mundane to the powerful, the typical to the spiritual. I spun Tevin Campbell and Mary J Blige in the midst of spotty reception and mom echoed the saddest sentiment after I asked what she listens to at the time, “I don’t listen to R&B anymore. It just makes me too sad now.”
It was the R&B that made the man I am today. If it wasn’t for rap and R&B, I would not be here today, let alone writing. My first favorite albums were Get Rich or Die Tryin, Hunger For More, Trap Muzik, Straight Outta Cashville, and Beg For Mercy. I was always inclined to have mom and pops repeat records like “Let Me Tell You Something” or “Wanna Get To Know You” or “Karma.” I was birthed into this world amidst chaos and harmonies. Any turbulence was offset by melodies of a perfect world. When mom and pops split, mom spent nights weeping or cleaning or frying chicken to Mary J Blige, Keyshia Cole, Fantasia. Their heartbreak was all too familiar. The first album I ever bought was Chris Brown’s self titled debut; mom was going to check out at Walmart and I begged for the record. My mom always supported my eagerness for music, a boy she raised on SpongeBob and 106 & Park, Blues Clues and every music video countdown you could imagine. Even when she didn’t have it, she made sure my passion was uplifted. Hearing that R&B had left her spirit sparked a deep sadness in me that night.
By the time we arrived at her house, there was her boyfriend and his kids, my little sister and a legion of cats. It was murky, dirty, beat down, and slowly falling apart. In other words, it was like one of my childhood homes, only meant for the poor and struggling. Mom always lit a warmth in these rundown houses and apartments. She’d always utter sentiments of “just because we live like shit doesn’t mean we gotta feel like shit.” Cheap flooring, dimly lit bathrooms, cat hair, it was all so familiar. For a bit, I felt free.
One night, mom came home from work, I’d spent the day roaming the internet, working on the Isaiah Rashad interview, beginning the promotion process of my podcast series. She worked her magic on the grease, baked some mac and cheese, and threw some green beans in a pot with salt and pepper. As I was grubbin’, she requested I throw on a movie. I’m almost certain I threw on an Adam Sandler flick on Netflix, her favorite actor. She took one of her weed pens from the dispensary and puffed on it as I laid my head on her shoulder, my little sister in my right arm. I’d begun to dream that this was the life I was supposed to lead. We were meant to have this kind of peace. For the first time in my life, my mom seemed closer to that peace. I recall Chris Orrick on “Windows,” “It’s hard to hope without a window open, I’m living broke but I’m not living broken.”
The last week I spent in Monmouth, I wandered around outside and experienced a rich connection with the earth. Before, I loathed Los Angeles for its gross artificiality, how the sun was relentless, always shining no matter how you feel. I always joked that I could only experience an overcast is if the city was on fire and smoke blocked out the sun. Most days in Monmouth, the sun had a nostalgic haze, like experiencing life through the lens of a Kodak camera in 2007. When it rained, I would sit on the porch and just take it in. One day, I was walking through the town and embraced its largely mundane, strictly essential destinations. I felt the sky sprinkling rain on me as I trekked to Taco Bell, Dollar General, the train tracks, and the local gas station, scavenging for drinks and snacks I couldn’t find in the big cities. The town was this strange mix of rustic and conservative, gothic and withered. You had hicks, small town Tik Tok kids, and meth addicts lounging around. I felt like the people took advantage of how green and fresh the city felt, so many trees, nothing felt plastic or strategically placed. For better or worse, Monmouth was natural. I thought it was my first step in finding myself. To a certain degree, it was, even if I spiraled out of control and lost my mind months later.
Where I find tranquility in Monmouth, my mom was eager to leave. She saw death in this place, struggling addicts, blue collar workers, farm hands all dragging their feet to whatever the finish line. Where I find a small piece of life, my mom did eventually fall victim to all her worries. Thinking back on those times, I can remember feeling the death in the air. But I just thought it was vital in shedding the old skin and coming back with a new vision. I thought my mom was slowly getting better, inching closer to the stability she longed for my whole life. For both of us, it was never that easy.
My mom loved living in Pensacola, Florida. It was a real big piece of shit but it was cheap and it allowed her quick access to the beach. I remember one time when my little sister was still a toddler and I was in 5th grade, we were at Navarre Beach, and my mom heartily laughs, “It’s not fair! I try and get tan and we get burnt up! Your sister turns or’nge!” Even with her reasonable complaints, she wanted to spend the rest of her life at the beach. It was usually quiet or filled with families serving as white noise. She was free from pain and sorrow. When she died and my uncle had to organize all the proceedings, he asked me what I wanted to do. I could only ever bury her at the beach. We dug a small open ditch to pour her ashes in and the water would eventually take her away. She was finally free. It couldn’t be taken away from her this time.
Every month or so, I would go out to the beach and stare out into the ocean, listen to the waves wash on shore. I spend those times muttering to myself, talking to mom about what’s going on in my life, how I’m feeling. I’d apologize for past mistakes. I’d bear my soul, pleading for forgiveness to anyone that would listen. I like to imagine mom listens. She was always good at it, even if she was stubborn in her own beliefs. She always understood. I’m sure she’ll be with me in spirit this Mothers day.
