My Parents, Myself? Sort Of, But Not Really

Let’s face it – our parents shape us into the people we are, whether they were present or not. There’s no getting away from it, and I’m no exception. As I get older, I find myself understanding them more and more, and in some ways, less and less.

Both of my parents were born in Miami. My mother’s grandparents migrated from Screven County, GA during the depression to find work, and they did – the construction industry was booming, and my great-grandfather and his sons toiled in the blazing Miami sun along with thousands of other unnamed carpenters and craftsmen. When I go back to Miami (I haven’t been back in ten years; I need to do something about that) and see Miami Beach – the Art Deco District, the Fountainbleau Hotel (where my mother’s high school prom was held) – I feel immense pride that men like my grandfather and great-grandfather built those pastel palaces with their blood, sweat, and tears, and shaped the landscape we see today.

It was in this torrid atmosphere that my mother, Theresa (pronounced tuh-RESS-ah, not tuh-REES-ah) Louise Zeigler, arrived in 1954. She was the third child of my grandma Jenny, and the second for my grandfather, but the first one who lived (in his first marriage, there was an infant daughter who died soon after birth).

My mother always was (and still is) an attention getter, and she and her father Boby (his name was Quinn, but everyone called him Boby) became inseparable. I’ve heard the stories a million times, like the time Boby took her fishing in the Everglades . On the way back, Mom mentioned that she was hungry, hoping that he would take the hint and stop at the nearest fast-food restaurant. Instead, Boby pulled the truck off alongside a canal, popped off the hubcap, washed it out in the canal, cleaned the fish, and cooked them in the hubcap over a fire he built. Mom said it was the best fish she ever had.

It was soon clear that Mom was strong-willed; by her own admission she was sort of a brat, and her brattiness knew no bounds, whether she was putting ants in her sister’s stockings, or frogs in her bed, or ruining her perfectly sprayed and teased bouffant hairdo by messing it up with her hands. This continued with the arrival of her brother Rocky when she was nearly six; one day she upset him so badly that he chased her about the neighborhood with a meat cleaver, and when she went to the neighbors for help, they told her to go home and get what she deserved before slamming the door in her face. That’s hardcore.

Mom came of age in the 60s and 70s, but she wasn’t about the feminist movement (as much as that dismays my sister and me). Her goal was simply to be a wife and mother (not that there’s anything wrong with that); this would happen quicker that she probably anticipated.

My parents met in late 1970, I think, at a dance at the National Guard Armory in Homestead , south of Miami. They began seeing each other, and on November 20, 1971 they were married. My father had just turned 18, my mother 17, and both had left high school at this point. I guess it wasn’t so weird to be a 17 year-old wife and mother back then, but it was probably wasn't broadcast to the world that I was born exactly six months after their wedding.

It stuns me today to think about how young they were when I was a child; they were kids themselves. Some of the earliest memories of my parents are of them around the age of 20, but they seemed older to me. After we moved to Georgia, my father went to trade school, and Mom settled into being a wife and mother.

My parents didn’t get along very well, and that didn’t change after my sister’s arrival in 1977. When they battled, they battled, and it could be scary. They loved each other, but they were essentially immature kids playing house who didn’t know how to communicate in an adult manner.

Through all of this, I knew one thing: my parents loved me. My father, like most men of his generation, wasn’t good at showing it, and I honestly sometimes wondered if he wanted to trade me in for a different son. He grew up rough, and I don’t think he knew what to make of a strong-willed, bookish and freakishly articulate little boy who was an ardent pacifist and spent time reading newspapers and encyclopedias rather than roughhousing with other kids. I knew he loved me, but I was rather overly sensitive and easily offended, and I was afraid of his temper. Thus, the walls went up, and they’re still being torn down today, with much success.

I knew, however, that my sister and I were my mother’s world. She was rather overprotective, which would cause issues later, but I knew her love for me never wavered. Sometimes I wonder if she loved us too much, but I’m not sure that’s possible.

As the years wore on, and we grew up, my parents grew further and further apart. They fought, often bitterly and far into the night, leaving themselves (and us, because we couldn’t sleep through it) exhausted. I became increasingly angry with them; weren’t they supposed to be adults? Adults aren’t supposed to have temper-tantrums, but mine certainly did. Many times I felt (sometimes I still do) that my sister and I were the adults and our parents were the unruly children who my sister and I were stuck raising. When I was old enough to drive, I would flee the house as soon as the yelling started. I had had enough and decided it was time to save myself. My biggest regret is leaving my sister there, but she was a kid and they would have killed me for taking her from the house without permission. I still regret it, though, and always will.

My parents finally divorced in 1995 for obvious reasons (and for others that won't be discussed here), and I think it nearly killed my mother. Despite the near-violence of their marriage, my mother loved my father, and to have him leave after 23 years left her bereft. That’s something I’ve learned about my mother: she loves fiercely and too much, and she loses enormous chunks of herself when people she loves die or go away.

It’s taken me a long time to sort through my life, especially regarding my parents. I didn’t speak to my father for twelve years after the divorce; today, I’m not really sure why. When we finally reunited at my sister’s wedding, a floodgate was released – I realized he indeed loved me, and still does. Both of my parents complain that I don’t call them very often. I don’t, and it’s not because of them; I simply hate talking on the phone (working in call centers does that to a person). I’m no longer angry with them. Truth is, aside from my parent’s marital problems, my childhood was pretty good. I realize today that, at the time, they were doing the best they could. They simply weren’t capable of behaving differently because they didn’t know how. Despite the tumult, they were pretty good parents. My sister and I have a strong sense of right and wrong that was drummed into our heads from an early age. We were taught to respect everyone and to treat others as we would like to be treated. Both of us were exceptionally well-behaved and polite, and I credit my parents for that. When I came out to them, they said they loved me and nothing would ever change that.

Today it’s easier for me to see the traits I got from my mother and father. I never had a chance to avoid being opinionated as I got that from both my parents. My mother passed her ADHD down to me (thanks for that), and my sister is analytical like our dad. Emotionally, I think I’m more like my mother, which scares me a little. Both of my parents instilled in me the drive to Do the Right Thing, and to fight for what I believe in, which serves me well today in the political and social justice venues I seem to trip and fall into.

Of course we have differences, even now. Dad is an ardent Republican (fiscally, but still) which makes me throw up in my mouth a little (ok, a lot), so we don’t speak about politics because we don't agree on anything. Aside from that, we get on very well now, and I think we’re much closer than ever. We’ve both grown up and realized that life is too short to be petty and ridiculous. My dad is who he is, and I don't expect any more or less from him.

My differences with Mom erupt from time to time. I’ve worried about her a lot over the years. The divorce took a toll on her, and she had a slight heart attack a few years ago. The emotional bereavement from losing my father has never gone away, and now my sister is out of the house, and I am in another state. For someone who built her life around raising children, I imagine she feels like she has no purpose, and I think she’s quite lonely at times. All I have to say (which I probably won't say to her in person because it makes me uncomfortable) is this: Mom, I may not call you often, but that’s about me, not you. You were – and still are – a wonderful mother, warts and all. Thank you for raising me to be a self-sufficient adult, and thank you for your rabble-rousing (I had to get it from somewhere) on behalf of me and of gay children everywhere. Never forget that you are truly exceptional, and that the lessons you taught me – good and bad – are things I will carry with me forever. And for that, I will always be grateful.