My mother is a character.   She is the stuff that people talk about as eccentric, off the wall, a real “spit-fire” type of woman.   That is just the nice way to describe a overbearing, slightly racist, at times callous personality.  My mom walks around in her life like she has paparazzi following her.  I have often call her “a never has-been.”  She goes out in disguises,  she wears bright colors at church so God can see her better, and she always find a reason to hate every in-law for any reason.   Here is an example:  When the terrible Colorado theatre massacre happened, she called to ask me if I knew the whereabouts of my brother in law.

To get a better glimpse of my mother at her best, we should jump in shallow waters of my childhood.  Upon attending Catholic School as a child, my mother would dispense her Gospel to us at all the times.  The Gospel according to Mom.  In seventh grade, while in health class, we were speaking of babies in utero and how they are fed through the umbilical cord during pregnancy.  I was shy and rarely would raise my hand, unless I knew for certain the answer to the question or I had factual information to present to the subject.

Well the opportunity had presented itself, I sat there with my hand raised like Horshack from Welcome Back Kotter.  My seventh grade teacher, always pleased to see me participate, asked me to share.   I proudly told her, “I still have a piece of my umbilical cord.”  She went on to say, some parents choose to save them… I interrupted.   “No, I mean mine is still attached to my belly button.”   Imagine twenty-seven looks of wonderment, two looks of seventh grade- what the fucks and one look of I hope he does not show us.

You as the reader may need some clarity.  You see I use to pick at my belly button, my mother use to tell me to stop picking at it or I would starve because that is where she used to feed me.  She would say ” Stop picking at your belly button, or your supper will come out.”   She would go on to tell me that the dry skin inside my belly button was my umbilical cord and not to touch it.   The Gospel according to Mom.

So here I stand in all my pride in front of twenty two looks of wonderments, five looks of what the fucks, one look of I hope he does not show us, and one who started to careless doodle on his desk.   I go on to tell the story of me and my umbilical cord. How if I pick it at it you very well could have my hot lunch on my desk.  I raise my shirt as a defense lawyer admitting evidence. Exhibit A: my belly button.   Some gasped, others laughed, even the doodler dropped his pen.

What they witnessed was a normal belly button.  My teacher came in for a closer look.  “Why sweetie that’s lint, just pick it out.”   It took a full year before I raised my hand again.

Eight grade, nearly a year later.  We are reading To Kill a Mockingbird.  My eight grade teacher (she was a nun) is talking about the books destruction of innocence.   I raise my hand with no reluctancy.  I told my teacher that “my future wife will destroy my innocence.” The Gospel according to Mom.  My teacher’s response, “You’re probably right.”