The Bad Mom

I got on the plane with blistered feet, my memory card full and my credit card severely maxed out. I would be returning to Portland a new person. Kat and Lily picked me up from the airport and gave me a choice of wigs to pick from and informed me that we were on our way to a friends wig party.

“I haven’t slept for the last thirty-four hours,” I said as I tried on a rainbow clown wig.

“We got that covered,” they laughed.

Apparently the new cure for jetlag is cocaine. I settled for the Santa Claus wig to go with my theme of being a Ho Ho Ho.

I learned that we have to take risks in order to build confidence.

Traveling alone in a foreign place without a clue, but I got myself from one place to the next using my gut as my GPS system. I consider myself a survivor. I made it back alive.

We have to allow ourselves to be uncomfortable in order to grow.

Letting my guard down, going topless that wall of insecurities I had carefully built up, was crumbling down.

Suffering develops strength.

It broke my heart to have my backpack stolen, but when I was stripped to nothing I was able to get a good look at what I have, I needed to be reminded of that.

Stop talking and start doing, it’s the only way to love yourself.

I had always talked about going to college; finally I got the courage to go. I always talked about backpacking, and finally just went. I’m proud of you, I say to myself. There are no mistakes, just lessons learned.

I got lost, I could have held my backpack in my lap, I should have locked up my camera but those experiences humbled me and allowed me to take the scenic route.

from my book  Scars of Paris  available at Borders  Barnes  & Nobles or Amazon

“A man has been calling here all morning trying to locate you,” she said in a frustration as she handed me a name and phone number. It was Momo, Paulo’s brother who I had met in Rimini. Paulo and I had our moment on the catamaran, however when his brother came into town for a visit, he and I had a better connection because he spoke very good English. We were given a weekend pass to leave the estate. Momo was calling to invite me to Pisa, where he lived. Momo picked me up on his Vespa from the train station. We went for a spin around town, toured the leaning tower followed by a gourmet dinner. Momo’s roommate was the chef of this five -star restaurant where they had prearranged a menu. I didn’t order anything; food just kept coming to me. We went back to his apartment and Momo insisted on giving me a foot massage. He must have really liked me because my feet stank! He leaned over and kissed me.

“I’ve been with your brother,” I reminded him, just in case he thought it would be wrong, not that the brother was anything more than just sex but back home we have a phrase: “bros before hoes”.

We removed our clothes and for the first time I witnessed a man wearing a thong. I’ve seen man thongs in Fredrick’s of Hollywood catalogs but never in person. I demanded he remove his man thongs because it was kinda grossing me out. He revealed his leaning tower of Penis. It really did resemble the leaning tower of Pisa, how ironic.

It only took me a few minutes to do that move you only see in cartoons where the stupid farmer steps on the rake and the handle swings up and knocks you in your teeth.

We had been warned that there was a boar problem on the property but that they were nocturnal and you wouldn’t see them during the day. It reminds me of the raccoon problem we had back in California.

Jack and I were camping at the beach one fall weekend; we were the only campers that night. It was getting dark and cold; we could hear the raccoons wrestling around in the bushes. We grabbed our grocery bags of cinnamon rolls and chips and retired to our tent. I woke up in the middle of the night with dozens of raccoons that had eaten through the tent walls; they fought over the bags of Cheetos and Doritios. I woke Jack up screaming he began screaming even louder like a little girl as we both tried kicking the raccoons. It didn’t faze them they were out for blood and Oreo cookies. When the food was devoured they left on their terms, after all we were in their home.

I got up early the next morning and hiked down the trail. I heard something running threw the forest when there they stood a mother boar and her baby. I starred the beast in the eye and went from Girl Scout to gang banger yelling, “Come on Bitch, you wanna Fuck with me, I’ll kill you and your Baby!” The beast backed down and ran away. That night we ate wild boar with a chocolate sauce, delizei!

“What’s your bear’s name?” I asked thinking that’s not a question you get to ask an adult everyday.

“It’s a monkey, his name is Monchie.” She corrects me as if I had just insulted her.

I turned on the TV; I’d rather watch Italian television than try to talk to this freak. My roommate turned the TV off, spooned her monkey and went to bed.

“Fucking American” I said as if I am now Italian.

The next day the group took a tour of Sienna, it was my first organized group activity I had participated in on this trip. It was pretty interesting to learn about the culture of this small town, which was divided into seventeen contradas or districts. It reminded me of my childhood growing up in gang territory.

My mom hired an OG (original gangster) named Sergio to walk us home from school, that summer he was promoted to full time nanny. I became a “baby” gang banger. Mom was naïve to his gangbanging ways, he was affordable childcare and she thought we would be safe. One of the 13 rules is to recruit from the neighborhood; we had just moved in, and were young and vulnerable. You have no choice but to join. Joining protects you; you were safer in the gang than out. Sergio taught us the 13 rules and brainwashed us into believing it was the only way to survive. Our family had fallen apart; the gang was my new family. I was jumped into the 408 Crips at age 13. For 13 seconds I was hit and kicked, not allowed to fight back. Afterwards my home girls hugged me and gave me a bandana. I proudly wore as a headband like a shield of power. You live for your mother and die for your gang. Your frame of mind changes, from caring about your future to not giving a fuck because the odds are stacked against you. One of the rules is to make money for your gang. I got a job at the local amusement park as a carnie. My job was to take admission tickets. Instead of ripping them up, I put them in my pocket then resold the tickets at a discounted price at school.

In the gang, women became property. When I reached high school I had become sexually active, not with a boyfriend or a person I loved. I was de-virginized by my gang. Two of my homeboys who had my back at school were rewarded with daily blowjobs in my closet. This has been one of those secrets that I couldn’t admit to anyone, in fact this is this first time I’ve ever admitted it. I was ashamed, my only outlet was writing in my journal; it’s what has kept me alive. I began carrying my journal with me everywhere writing about my feelings. People noticed me journaling in class and were curious as to what I was writing about. My journal was stolen out of my backpack during gym class. The student who stole it decided to publish and distribute my journal, which became a “best seller”. Everyone knew everything and the repercussions were deadly when Sylvia learned that her boyfriend was one of my closet clients. Sylvia had been locked up in juvy for the past two years for armed robbery she was recently released and began dating my homeboy, once they began dating I no longer serviced him but she wanted me dead anyway. One night I was walking threw a dark parking lot. I heard a voice say, “hey wait up smelly whore.”

I turned around and Sylvia shoved me to the asphalt. She stuck a gun to my head and said she couldn’t wait to kill me. Suddenly something spooked her. She pistol whipped my face and said if I see you again I will kill you. I confessed to mom that there was a hit out on me, when she questioned my bruised face. It was one of the few times I believed in God, only God could have saved me from being killed that night Mom packed up the family and moved out of town.

The condradas stick together as a family, they all have their own flag with their own mascot like the Owl or the Lion. A member of the Owl contrada could not associate with a member of the Lion contrada. Every year there is a huge horse race where the winner is given seniority in town. It’s like Italian gang banging, wait that’s the mob.

from my book  Scars of Paris  available at Borders, Barnes & Nobles or Amazon

Mia asked her dad if I could join them for dinner, “Of course,” he said.

At dinner I met a woman who taught high school Italian literature, she insisted we go Salsa dancing. We were the two old chicks that stood out on the dance floor off rhythm and looking pretty foolish amongst the young and restless. The trick to Salsa dancing, is all in the stomping, if you’re stomping you’re Salsa dancing. As the night got older, I kept asking, “Don’t you have to teach tomorrow?”

“No Problem!” She said. Italians love this phrase; everything is no problem.

I was really enjoying spending time with Paulo and Mia. Paulo and I went for a walk one night down to the beach. We sat on his catamaran and watched the sky for shooting stars. Having sex on a catamaran is similar to having sex on a trampoline, which I highly recommend maybe this is where the term “tramp” came from.

In the US, we have the dollar store, In Europe it’s the 1.80 Euro Store. Paulo took me to the 1.80 Store so I could replace some toiletries. I think it’s really funny to go into these stores and bother the clerk by asking how much everything costs. “Skoozee, how much?”

“1.80!” they would scream.

“Ahh, Gratzie, and how much for this?”

“Everything, 1.80!” they shouted.

For some reason I like it when they yell at me. Except at the Sistine Chapel, where I took a flash photograph of “The Creation of Life” An officer blew his whistle and shouted “NO PHOTO!” as he backed me out of the building. I thought they might cut off my hand or something.

I needed to buy a new backpack. Every corner has a man selling your choice of fake designer bags from Fendi to Louise.

The seller says, “Look, look” as he opens the bag “zipper inside.”

I want to say, “Whoa, a zipper! That’s a horse of a different color, why didn’t you mention a zipper.” As cheap as they were for what they were, I couldn’t bring myself to buy one without feeling fake.

I’ve found a new way to deal with aggressive Italian men. When they whistle or stare I lift my skirt and flash my penis boxers. At first glance, the penis looks real, the expressions on their face of shock and confusion…. Priceless.

Suddenly I felt something-wet land on my arm. I sat up and found a pub-crawler on the top bunk above me puking her guts up landing all over my bed. I went downstairs to the front desk and asked if I could have some clean sheets and told him one of his pub-crawlers had puked everywhere.

“Again!” he shouted as he grabbed a clean set of sheets and a mop. “I hate people who can’t hold their booze!”

The next morning I set out to see the Pope, he gives a weekly public sermon that really packs a crowd. I was surprised to see him in his bullet proof booth, which to me, shows a lack of faith in the Lord protecting you from evil and all that crap about God will take you to heaven when it’s your time to go.

Rome is a weird juxtaposition of really old and modern architecture. It’s as if when Rome fell, nobody bothered to pick it up. Walking down the street you’ll see a broken column that’s hundreds of years old just laying there now occupied by homeless people as a bench to sit on.

When I toured the Coliseum with my audio guide, I realized that life back in the Roman days was much more violent and barbaric than they are today. Here gladiators fought wild animals to their deaths for public entertainment, now that’s fucked up.

I had been warned that Italian men can be aggressive towards woman; however I grew up in a Latino community and found the assertiveness quite similar to the Italian men. Italians are Mexicans with better clothes and more money. I was used to the men who undress you with their eyes and whistle as you walked by. The best way to deal with this situation is usually to ignore and keep walking. Today I walked by a group of teenage boys who started in on the hoots and hollers, out of nowhere I reenacted in a monologue from a scene from the movie: “Dirty Love” where Jenny McCarthy grabs her breast and acts like a crazy person. The boys laughed and my strategy worked.

I worked my way to the Trevi Fountain to make a wish (to not be puked on again). I threw in my Euro coin, which legend says will ensure your return to Rome. A beggar woman came up next to me with a long bamboo stick with maybe a magnet attached to the end and fished out my wish. Tonight I will sleep on the top bunk.

from my book:  Scars of Paris  available at Borders  Barnes & Nobles  Amazon