My Rageful Memoirs — circa 1976

Anger, Memoir, Rage

My parent’s rage killed them — part 1.

My mother was a rageful jealous young woman.

She got pregnant when she was eighteen.

Since she was Catholic, it was inconceivable to have an abortion.

So, she and my father rushed to the Pittsburg courthouse to get married.

They moved into a small apartment, and she had me two months before her nineteenth birthday.

In my baby book, she told the nurses that I would only have a first name and not a middle name.

Vanessa was enough of a name.

The only gift she received for giving birth came from her mother, Mama, some flowers, and a card.

Nowhere was my father mentioned in my baby book.

Sometime after I was born, my father joined the military.

He’d send my mother monthly checks, but suddenly they stopped.

My mother repeatedly tried contacting him to find out what was happening.

She even wrote to his commanding officer but never heard back from the officer or my father.

…

Eventually, she decided to move on.

She ended up falling in love with the landlord’s son, John.

John was older than her and spent time in prison for attempted murder.

Even though they fought a lot, my mother was starstruck in love with him.

She couldn’t get enough of him and would do anything to keep him.

Anything.

One day she found out he was cheating on her.

In her fit of rageful jealousy, she made sure to end that.

She confronted the other woman, dragged her into the street, got into a fistfight, and won.

…

Less than a week after my mother turned twenty-two, she and John were in a nasty fight.

He wouldn’t stop cheating.

She didn’t want me at our apartment, so she took me to Mama’s house.

Later that day, she called Mama to tell her that she and John had made up.

“Mama, me and John are going to the Antioch fair. I’ll pick up Vanessa so she can come with us.”

In Spanish, Mama replied, “No, Mija. Vanessa’s sleeping. You can pick her up tomorrow.”

I was playing on the living room floor.

Mama lied because she could tell that my mother had been drinking.

In the wee hours of the morning, Mama woke up and jumped out of bed to someone banging on the door.

When she opened the door, she saw a police officer standing there to deliver a mother’s worst nightmare.

“We’re sorry to inform you that your daughter died in a drinking and driving car accident.”

My mother, John, and another woman in the car were drunk.

John drove onto the wrong freeway side and smashed into another car head-on.

My mother flew through the windshield upon impact.

The glass mangled her face and body.

According to her autopsy, she had a heart attack and died from internal bleeding.

Everyone died, including the man who was driving the other car.

Her daughter’s death brought Mama to her knees.

The entire household woke up because they thought Mama’s wailing was laughter.

Grief ravaged and consumed her.

Shattered and heartbroken, Mama went into a depression.

…

It was too much for Mama to get on with her life, so she decided to take time to heal in Mexico.

She left me in my paternal grandparent’s care.

While with my grandparents, it hit me that my mother was gone.

I had no idea where I was, who I was with, and what had happened to Mama and my mother.

I suddenly was out of control with confusion, panic, and fear.

My grandparents, not knowing what to do with my frantic cries, put me in a dark room alone and closed the door.

The room kept getting darker and growing in size.

Ferociously crying, I searched and screamed for my home.

I searched and screamed for Mama.

I searched and screamed for my mother.

Everything around me kept getting bigger and bigger and bigger.

What did I do?

Why am I here?

Where is my mother?

Abandoned and helpless, I was waiting for the raging demonic darkness to swallow me whole.

After hours of sitting in the void of an isolated icy hell, I left my constricted body.

Hovering above, I watched her sitting on the floor in the corner, clenching her knees.

Terror, dread, and anxiety riddled her crumpled face.

Violent agony racked her body while tears gushed from her eyes.

Her screaming went unheard.

Her cry for help went ignored.

Her mother wasn’t coming to save her and soothe her.

She couldn’t take the raging pain eating her little body alive.

Knowing that never again would she connect with her mother, she died that night.

As she lay dead, rage engulfed her three-year-old spirit and devoured her broken heart.

~~Vanessa Alfaro, San Francisco