F- Him!

I was angry that we had to move. I had spent my entire life in one city. I went to the same school from pre-school through junior high followed by high school with 40% of the same people. My social life was set. I had more friends than anyone could ever want. So, moving was not an option.

We moved to Atlanta that summer. Not only was my mother in love with a doctor who had just moved to Atlanta to head up the bone marrow department , but she had also been recruited to work for the ‘96 Olympic Games, and establishing residency was mandatory for employment. Knowing what I know now about women and love, I know it was more about the man and less about the job. At the time, I was determined to sabotage their relationship. If I had to suffer, we would all have to suffer.

Our townhouse would not be ready for another four weeks, so we moved into his space. It was a small two-bedroom condo with only two windows looking out onto the hospital he worked at. He was a nice, attractive man–over six feet in stature, graying beard, mid-50’s I would guess, and well built with broad shoulders. She loved him and I hated him–hated the way she looked at him, hated how he loved her in a way I could never love her. I used to be all she needed; we were all each other had.

My mother was a strong woman who not only taught me the ins and outs of being a lady, but also how a man should treat you. My mother met my father in college. They attended the same school but had very separate interests, however both shared a love for football and would attend the games each weekend. It took him months to ask her out. I don’t know much about their relationship after that. At age 26 while in medical school she became pregnant with me. By then they were engaged to be married and living together. I’m not sure of the date but I saw the ring–it would later be made into a necklace that she would wear nearly every day. During the sixth month of my mother’s pregnancy, my father announced that he was going to the store to get a pack of cigarettes.

“Going to the store, want anything?” he shouted.

“No, I’m okay,” she said.

He never returned. Well, at least that’s the only story I know–the one she told me. As an adult I know there had to be something more–some tension, some uncertainty, a fight. The group of friends they shared tried to help.

“You should call him, he’s just scared,” they would tell her.

“Fuck him,” she would say.

I never saw him, spoke to him, or knew anything about him other than this story. Later she taught me to never chase a man no matter how bad you think you want him or how lonely you are.

“If someone doesn’t want you, then fuck them,” she would shout.

I had to have been about thirteen when she first shared this knowledge with me. I had come home crying about some boy or another at school that didn’t like me.

In Atlanta I pulled out all the stops to make everyone as miserable as me. I learned early on from my grandfather that the quickest way to upset a man was to cause him financial heartache He was always complaining about how much my grandmother spent on jewelry, clothes, and furs. He once told me “She is the reason I’m going to have a heart attack.”
So I did just that. I made over $1000 in calls in one billing cycle on my mother’s new beau’s phone. I was punished, but what’s punishment in a city where you don’t know anyone? He stopped speaking to me the day the bill came. He could not understand why I would do something like that.

He told my mother “She is too bold–she didn’t even deny the charges. She is out of control–you give her too much freedom.” My mother would later tell him, “Well, at least she’s no liar. I hate liars.”

I saw his sudden withdrawal from me as another opportunity to cause a rift between them. My mother had always taught me that part of being an adult is about being the bigger person. “You better relish getting your way as a child,” she would say, “because when you’re an adult you will have to be the bigger person.”
“He doesn’t even speak. How childish is that?” I said one day on the way home from school. She didn’t respond. Later that night I heard them arguing.

We moved into our townhouse the next week. I loved the space–I never lived in a place with stairs. Northern city living was so different–condominiums and apartments didn’t have stairs. This was the first time I ever thought I wanted to live in a house.

“So where’s your boyfriend? I haven’t seen him in awhile, or does he just avoid me?” I asked while we were eating dinner one night.

“We broke up,” she said nonchalantly.

For a split second my heart stopped. I felt sad. It wasn’t sadness for me, it was sadness for her.
“Oh, what happened?” I asked, hoping she didn’t say “Well, you ran up his phone bill and caused us to fight constantly, so basically it’s all your fault.”

Instead she said, “I got a call from a nurse that worked at the hospital. She said she was in love with him.”

“What? How? We lived there. When? Wait…,” I said. How stupid of me . . . I knew the answers.

Let me explain. One afternoon I had forgotten my keys and went to the hospital to retrieve them. While wandering the halls looking for his office, I stopped a nurse and asked if she knew where I could find room 412. She looked shocked and asked, “Who are you, and why would the doctor have your keys?” “None of your damn business,” I responded as I walked off. As I was walking, I noticed him in the hall coming my way. He handed me the keys and as I entered the elevator, I saw her, red-faced and pointing in his direction. Shortly after he came to the house and questioned me about my interaction with the nurse. Damn, I wish I wasn’t such a smart-mouthed kid. Instead of giving him the information I said, “Oh, so you’re talking to me now?” He seemed really upset. This was actually the first time he showed any emotion to me. But instead of pressing the issue he regained his composure and just walked off. “Coward,” I thought.

I relayed the story back to my mom just as I remembered it. “How dumb of me!” I told her. “I should have known!”

Instead of asking a hundred questions she just said, “Yeah, that was probably her.”

“So what are you gonna do?” I asked

“Nothing. Fuck him. You can’t make someone want what you want.”

“But you love him.”

“So, I’ve loved plenty of men before him.”

“How do you know there will be someone else?”

“I don’t.”

“So?”

“So, it should not matter. Look, never settle for second best. Never allow someone to give you less than what you want.”

“Yeah, but what about being alone?” I asked, trying to reveal my own worries for her.


“Well, I’m not alone. I have my sanity, my self worth. and I have you,” she said.

I don’t know what made me remember this story, maybe it’s the constant thoughts I’ve had on just accepting whatever or whoever comes my way. I now know why it’s so hard for me, my mother’s words constantly haunt me.

Pleasure and Pain

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