There are many
shades of blue and each one elicits from me a different expectation and emotion.
I love looking out my kitchen window at our backyard, the gazebo framed
perfectly in the Carolina blue sky. If you haven’t seen the sky in Carolina,
you don’t know what true blue is: deep, scintillating, saturated, and infinite.
I feel my insignificance, but there is certain comfort in the knowledge that
nothing that seems life altering really matters in the bigger scheme of the
universe.
When we were
driving home from the store the other night we passed a house clad in blue
Christmas lights. They were cobalt blue and made the house look not
festive but like a dark sepulcher, a place to lay and mourn the dead. I was
overwhelmed with sadness, remembering the many times I rode in a funeral
procession to the cemetery: Dad, Ma, my grandmother-in-law Mama Mack, my
sister-in-law Sylvia, my uncles Rocco, Lenny and Punch, my nephew Yancy, and my
Aunt Josephine.
Soon after, midnight
blue settled in my bones, the kind of blue that leaves me wistful and wanting.
This week is the
thirtieth anniversary of my mother’s passing. It might very well be the cause
of my blue mood. I’ve understood for years that I carry the legacy of sadness
and unspoken words that I only wish had passed between us, and it sneaks up on
me every once in a while particularly during the holidays.
Ma loved
turquoise, perhaps because it reminded her of the ocean she had crossed to join
Dad in America and that separated her from her mother.
Our kitchen, her
favorite spot to sit with a cuppa and a good book, was decorated with turquoise
print wallpaper. Dad painted the metal cabinets turquoise and the refrigerator
was turquoise, too, in contrast to the laminate red countertops and red tile
floor. Ma was a study of contrasts, too.
Ma at the kitchen table circa 1982
My youngest brother Andy and I at the table in our turquoise kitchen circa 1967
The holidays often
left me sad when I was a kid. Maybe every person, including me, is under the
impression that everyone else’s holidays looked like the holidays portrayed in
the movies and on television, and we all suffer unrealistic expectations. But the
holidays of my childhood had a set progression that began with quiet enough mornings,
though the air was rife with tension. Then the tension mounted steadily as the
day wore on until detonation. Each holiday was unrelentingly similar. The
following excerpt from my memoir is typical of my holiday memories.
(Excerpt from
Chapter 3, Guinea Bastard, Shades of
Tolerance: A Biracial Love Story)
That
night Ma started in after dinner. She yelled over the running water in the
kitchen sink to Dad in the parlor reading the paper. “Goddamned little, beady,
brown-eyed Guinea bastard,” she said. “Your ignorant mother moved her bowels,
didn’t know any better, slapped a bonnet on it, and named it Francesco!”
Dad shook
the sports section he held up in two hands and kept on reading. When he didn’t
respond, Ma continued.
“You have
a woman on the side, don’t you? You don’t care about me. I’m fat and old,” she
said. Then she threw one of her precious bone china cups across the kitchen and
it smashed against the cellar door. I knew that in short order Dad would
explode with anger and frustration. I headed to my bedroom and turned on my
transistor radio. I sat on the floor, my legs folded under me, and rocked back
and forth, my eyes staring straight ahead, my mind pulling me to daydreams far
from home.
The
daydreams had me dressed in glittery gowns on the red carpet outside Grauman’s
Chinese Theater with crowds of adoring fans asking for autographs. Men lined up
to ask for my hand, leaning toward me like the men on the front covers of Ma’s
romance novels. Sometimes I saved the town by dragging large dinosaur bones
(amazingly still in one piece in the large, hulking shape of the T-Rex) into
the town square where the attention of the media and tourists stopped the town
from closing down and blowing away in the dessert dust.
Dad
reached ignition. “Jesus H. Christ! “ he yelled, and I knew he had thrown the
paper to the floor and jumped on it.
“Can’t a
man sit down and enjoy his paper after a day’s work? I can’t afford to have a
goddamned woman on the side,” he said.
“Your
eyes are brown because you’re full of shit! My mother warned me the first time
she saw you sucking raw eggs on her front porch. You’re a barbarian. Your
children are barbarians. All Italians are barbarians. I left my mother for
this!”
“There’s
no rest for the wicked,” Dad said, “I work hard. I put food on the table. The
house is a mess. You’re all a bunch of prima donnas.”
“Nothing
works! I burn my hands at the sink every time I wash dishes.”
“I ought
to get a room at the Y and get some peace and quiet,” Dad said.
“I’ve
bloody well had it. I’m going to kill myself; I’m going to slit my wrists,” Ma
screamed, and I heard the bathroom door slam shut and the lock click. It was
not the first time she had said this, nor the last, but each time felt fresh
and raw. I raced out of my bedroom to the bathroom door. Andy had beaten me
there. We banged on the door. We were both crying.
“Please,
Ma, don’t do it!” we screamed in seeming unison. My fists ached from hitting
the door over and over and my breath was ragged with terror.
I could
hear her jagged sobs. Soon the door opened and she pushed past us into her
bedroom. She took a suitcase out of the closet, put it on the bed, threw a few
housedresses into it, then slammed the lid shut and lifted it by the handle.
“I’m
leaving,” she announced, brushing past us again.
“No, Ma,
please,” I wailed, “I’ll try harder to be good.”
Andy
grabbed the hem of her housedress, but Ma pressed on. She went out the front
door, and we watched her walk down the driveway and out into the street.
Dad went
into their bedroom. He shut the door, and Andy and I were without parents at
that moment. Suddenly I felt flat and tired. I turned without a word, went into
my bedroom, and shut my door.
###
Dad in the parlor, 1968
(Excerpt
from essay Mother Mother)
I was twenty-five
when I lost Ma. She had a series of heart attacks over the Christmas holiday
that year, and her heart finally gave out. Dad had died eighteen months before.
They did not live to see my twin daughters.
But I lost them
long before they died and had only begun to get them back in my life before
they each left me for good. There were all the years I wished for Ma to step
in, invoke structure and obedience, and demonstrate unconditional love. She did
not until I was already eighteen, a young adult, entering into an interracial
relationship. That would have been the time to just sit back and watch me make
my choices, but she could not do that. Causing a breakup between Ronald and me
became her obsession, perhaps fueled by late stage alcoholism. Her obsession
would cause me not to speak to her for almost three years. When I might have
appreciated some well-placed encouragement and perhaps even joy that I had
found love, I instead found myself, once again, figuring it out alone.
Then she was gone,
and we both lost our chance to right our prickly, intermeshed relationship.
I look at my grown
daughters today and marvel at how wonderful I think they are. They are
accomplished, confident, intelligent, beautiful, young women who seem to know
exactly who they are and what they want out of life. Their twinship, unlike the
weirdly ambiguous one between Ma and me, is their strength, one complementing
and supporting the other while still being a strong individual.
The three of us
are close, but I still worry about my maternal inadequacy. I know that as much
as I tried not to, my mothering damaged them in ways visible and invisible,
just because I am human and flawed, and so are they. I once told a counselor,
sobbing as I said it, “I feel terrible for all the things I didn’t get right as
a mother.” She assured me all mothers feel that way at one time or another. I
realize my overwhelming sadness was for what I didn’t get right as a daughter,
too.
Ruth Alison
Elliott Liuzzi, a daughter, a wife, a mother, and an alcoholic, still lives
within me, right in the center of my being, a twin in situ. I feel her stirring
within me whenever I feel anxious or afraid but also when I feel brave and
accomplished or when I think about myself as a mother. I know we did our best
to be good daughters and good mothers, in spite of ourselves. I hope Ma
realized that, too.
###
I still feel the
decimation Ma left behind when she departed thirty years ago, her
suitcase sitting empty in the closet, as she had not prepared for that journey.
I am still that
barbarian child, the one that was not good enough to make her stay. I am still
abandoned and continue to feel the hurt that comes from wondering if I will
ever be found and reclaimed, despite being surrounded with a loving husband and
daughters. That wonder is manifested in the fragile and estranged relationships
I have with my siblings, some of whom experienced Ma’s alcoholism at its worst,
and others who didn’t because they had already left by the time the late stage
alcoholism consumed those of us left behind.
Yet I don’t blame
Ma. I’m not angry with her. There is nothing to forgive, though I sometimes
feel I am the one needing forgiveness.
Ma did what she
could in life. She was courageous in ways I’m not so sure I could ever be and
she made me courageous in ways I am sure she never imagined. At the end of it, I
truly miss her, and I don’t question whether or not she loved me, but wonder if
she ever learned to love herself.
The many shades of
blue are the colors of sadness and hope and distance and healing. I revel in
their contrasts as surely as Ma did.