Mama's Visit: SILENCE OF THE LAMB

When Mama talks, I listen. Part of that is because she talks so much about herself that she can just go on and on in pure self-righteous monologue. She makes Shakespeare quiver.

You can’t disagree with any parts of her speeches, though, because then you get accused of trying to make her feel like crap (her feelings are your fault) or of turning against her. Never does she stop to ask you what you think or to *gasp* ask how YOU’RE doing. When I was a kid our conversations were like strings of monolithic beads. I would talk for ever, then she would talk for ever--kind of confessional style. And she would "counsel me" on what I was doing wrong or thinking wrong or feeling wrong and she'd tell me how to perfect myself. Not very pleasant and not the kind of parenting that results in healthy self-esteem.

As an adult, I have learned that it's better if I engage in conversations by listening and asking questions. Since mamais willing to answer questions, and loves to talk, it works out. It's a tricky business this asking of questions because mama's paranoia causes her to believe that if I do nothing but ask questions I must be plotting something.

Once, in a conversation, er--speech, about her upbringing I asked “how did that make you feel when your parents didn't let you have any friends?” She paused and said, with a cross look on her face and water welling in her eyes, “I dunno. I feel like you’re trying to get me to cry. Why do you want me to cry?"

Another reason I don’t interrupt her monologues to give speeches of my own is that during the last presidential election mama forbade me to ever talk to her about politics. It’s the last thing she wants to talk about and I’m the last person she wants to talk about it with.

"Politics" in her mind doesn't just mean analyzing Bush’s latest fuck up. Politics involve anything that can somehow be tied into government and legislation: the environment, censorship, funding for the arts, theatre, literature—all these topics end up relating in some way to politics. Since these are the topics I like speaking about most, well, I just stopped talking to her about them.

Occasionally I forget and I cross the line and she accuses me of hating America and of having been brainwashed by communists in graduate school (uh, Yale, where Bush went for undergrad).

When she called me out on my "silence" during her visit this weekend I explained that I have learned that in order to get to know someone, you gotta ask questions of that person and then you gotta listen and then you can ask more questions. I secretly hoped that she would then ask me something about myself, but later remembered that she doesn’t approve of most of what I do and feel and think, so why would she ask about things she doesn’t like.

The whole reason for this post is that mama just called me at work. She went on about what she's done all day (not really asking me about my day of course) and then said:

“I called to tell you just one thing: You should not stop talking, Alex. People love to hear you speak. You speak beautifully and people are moved by the things you say. And you shouldn’t let anyone else convince you that speaking too much is bad.”

Knowing mama better than she knows herself (after all, I’ve been to therapy and she hasn’t), I bet she thinks my bf Rey has brainwashed me into silence because she’s always complained about how shy he is around her. She doesn’t speak English and he doesn’t speak Spanish, yet he’s supposed to engage with her in conversation and not making an effort means there’s something wrong with him. Mama’s always on the lookout for people who might wanna change me. Probably because that's what she's trying to do herself.

Until not that many years ago she was still asking if I was sure I hadn’t been brainwashed into being gay by all kinds of folk: friends, Madonna, my first boyfriend in high school. Oh yeah, the paranoia runs deep, and she’s never gotten professional help for it, although a few times she HAS, through tears, confessed: “Alex, I think I need to see a psychiatrist. I don’t feel right.” In each instance I asked why. A few outpourings later she has concluded, "You know...I don't need help. All I need is to talk to the son I love and for him to listen. You are my therapy." (Insert here the sounds of maggots eating my brain).