11 May 2014


For a couple of late 80s/early-90s-Summers straight, my parents used my sister's and my vacations from school as opportunity to haul us up and down the East Coast to see the Atlanta Braves play. We would stay in the same hotels as the players and get our baseball cards autographed in the lobbies before and after the games. Some families go to Disney World; this is just WHAT WE DID.

On one of these trips, over breakfast, I caught glimpse of a fat bruise on my Mom's leg. I asked her what it was from and she told me, matter-of-factly, that "Bruce" had been in town the night before. She'd gotten a ticket. The bruise was from falling off the seat she'd been dancing on.

The most important lesson my mother ever taught me had nothing to do, at least implicitly, with being a woman. Fuck proper mascara application; fuck how to cook; fuck social graces; fuck it all. My Mom would blast Metallica's Black Album while driving me to after-school activities. She'd blow through AA batteries playing Aerosmith tapes in her Walkman while mowing the lawn. She'd venture out into an unknown city in a denim jacket - leaving her husband and two-children-under-twelve safely ensconced in hotel rooms - to sing along with THE BOSS until it literally hurt. That bruise was an ethos. That bruise is in my blood.

a version of this post originally ran in December 2011.


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Blogger by BUN said...

your mom sounds like one bad ass woman. loved reading your lessons from her...I can relate (my mother is very very similar).

4:15 PM  

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