in the pot with the seafood. “They’re not even
from
here!” she continued. “What right do they have to give you advice? Just because they’ve got money doesn’t mean they can run everybody’s life!”
“Mom, Elsie isn’t running my life. She got me interested in art, is all. She knows I love it and she wants to help me figure out how to keep doing it.”
“Well, she needs to mind her own business. She’s not doing you a favor making you want things you can’t have. We’re not rich people, Jackie. We have to make the best of the life we were given.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do! Elsie’s helping me apply for grants and scholarships. There are ways to—”
“She’s giving you false hopes! And then what? When all your big dreams fall apart, you’ll be back here, crying on my shoulder. And I’ve got enough problems as it is.”
I liked to think I was anesthetized to my mother’s bitterness after years of listening to her complain. Still, it stung to be characterized as just another one of her many problems. But it also made me more determined. If I didn’t get into art school, or if I couldn’t come up with the money, I’d figure out the next step then. But I didn’t intend to spend the rest of my life sitting around this fish-stinking kitchen listening to Teresa Silva repeat her list of resentments.
“I know you think I’m hard on you, but I’m just trying to protect you from disappointment,” she said, sounding the tiniest bit apologetic. “I’m not saying you can’t apply to that Tiz-Dee or whatever it is, if you’ve got your heart set on it.”
“Riz-Dee. Rhode Island School of Design.”
“Whatever. You’ll see it’s way too expensive. You should apply to some regular places too. Cape Cod Community, or, if you’re determined to go off-Cape for some reason, UMass Boston or one of the state schools. That’s the kind of place people like us go.”
People like us
. What did that even mean? That you were born a certain way and could never escape it? That if your parents scraped by all their lives, you were never going to have an extra shoelace either? That you shouldn’t even
try
to make your life better?
My mother’s default emotion was hopelessness, but it hadn’t always been that way. When my older brothers were kids, Marco and Teresa actually laughed once in a while. The boys would roughhouse with each other until something got broken. “
You drive me nuts!
” Mom would yell at them, but there was pride in her voice as well as irritation. Dad would laugh off their bad behavior, saying, “I was a wild animal too at their ages.”
And then, just as I got old enough to join in the romping, everything changed. Uncle Peter’s fishing boat sank one miserably hot July day in a sudden squall, all hands lost at sea. For the next year Mom begged Dad to quit fishing.
“I can’t do nothin’ else, Teresa,” he’d say, sorrowfully. “What should I do in this town? Open a hot dog stand? Sell jewelry to the tourists? Fishing is all I know how to do.”
Finally she gave up trying to convince him and resigned herself to being mad at the world. My brothers graduated high school and two out of three joined Dad on his boat, the
Sally Marie
, named after my grandmother. Mom was worried sick every minute they were gone, and Dad, who was more susceptible to guilt than his children, took to stopping at the Old Colony Tap to knock back a cheap whiskey or two before coming home for dinner.
I was the good kid, the one who didn’t worry my mother, who did what she was supposed to. But I was tired of being quiet and invisible. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life standing in front of a kitchen stove just so my mother knew where I was every minute.
Mom had her back to me, stirring the simmering brew.
“How come Michael didn’t want to work on the
Sally Marie
too?” I asked, steering the conversation away from my own future. “Did he always want to go to college?”
Mom
from
here!” she continued. “What right do they have to give you advice? Just because they’ve got money doesn’t mean they can run everybody’s life!”
“Mom, Elsie isn’t running my life. She got me interested in art, is all. She knows I love it and she wants to help me figure out how to keep doing it.”
“Well, she needs to mind her own business. She’s not doing you a favor making you want things you can’t have. We’re not rich people, Jackie. We have to make the best of the life we were given.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do! Elsie’s helping me apply for grants and scholarships. There are ways to—”
“She’s giving you false hopes! And then what? When all your big dreams fall apart, you’ll be back here, crying on my shoulder. And I’ve got enough problems as it is.”
I liked to think I was anesthetized to my mother’s bitterness after years of listening to her complain. Still, it stung to be characterized as just another one of her many problems. But it also made me more determined. If I didn’t get into art school, or if I couldn’t come up with the money, I’d figure out the next step then. But I didn’t intend to spend the rest of my life sitting around this fish-stinking kitchen listening to Teresa Silva repeat her list of resentments.
“I know you think I’m hard on you, but I’m just trying to protect you from disappointment,” she said, sounding the tiniest bit apologetic. “I’m not saying you can’t apply to that Tiz-Dee or whatever it is, if you’ve got your heart set on it.”
“Riz-Dee. Rhode Island School of Design.”
“Whatever. You’ll see it’s way too expensive. You should apply to some regular places too. Cape Cod Community, or, if you’re determined to go off-Cape for some reason, UMass Boston or one of the state schools. That’s the kind of place people like us go.”
People like us
. What did that even mean? That you were born a certain way and could never escape it? That if your parents scraped by all their lives, you were never going to have an extra shoelace either? That you shouldn’t even
try
to make your life better?
My mother’s default emotion was hopelessness, but it hadn’t always been that way. When my older brothers were kids, Marco and Teresa actually laughed once in a while. The boys would roughhouse with each other until something got broken. “
You drive me nuts!
” Mom would yell at them, but there was pride in her voice as well as irritation. Dad would laugh off their bad behavior, saying, “I was a wild animal too at their ages.”
And then, just as I got old enough to join in the romping, everything changed. Uncle Peter’s fishing boat sank one miserably hot July day in a sudden squall, all hands lost at sea. For the next year Mom begged Dad to quit fishing.
“I can’t do nothin’ else, Teresa,” he’d say, sorrowfully. “What should I do in this town? Open a hot dog stand? Sell jewelry to the tourists? Fishing is all I know how to do.”
Finally she gave up trying to convince him and resigned herself to being mad at the world. My brothers graduated high school and two out of three joined Dad on his boat, the
Sally Marie
, named after my grandmother. Mom was worried sick every minute they were gone, and Dad, who was more susceptible to guilt than his children, took to stopping at the Old Colony Tap to knock back a cheap whiskey or two before coming home for dinner.
I was the good kid, the one who didn’t worry my mother, who did what she was supposed to. But I was tired of being quiet and invisible. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life standing in front of a kitchen stove just so my mother knew where I was every minute.
Mom had her back to me, stirring the simmering brew.
“How come Michael didn’t want to work on the
Sally Marie
too?” I asked, steering the conversation away from my own future. “Did he always want to go to college?”
Mom
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