I fucking hate you.
What kind of mother makes an environment a pressure cooker,
An unsafe place where children are trained to perform before they are old enough to know otherwise,
Rationed on little food,
Tasked heavy with responsibilities.
And when the school system changed,
And God told you that maybe you ought to slow down,
And the people came at you with their thoughts,
You powered through,
So that your child would never attend a community college,
And your child would never be the stereotypical latino.
And what happened.
The child, well aware that the life he was living was not his own,
That his disposition and talents lied in other realms,
That his small voice would never be heard,
And when his father became aware of what was going on,
Came in to defend the poor helpless child,
You tormented him and held him hostage blaming him,
For the failures that your blind pursuit caused.
And when your dreams and aspirations were not met,
You completely abandoned the boy,
Withdrawing all love,
All financial support,
All emotional support.
Let him cry himself to sleep because he bothers me.
Ignore him because he will not do what I say.
Abandon him because he is not ready on time.
This was the fucked up mother that you were.
And not only did I lose out on the beauty and experience and relationships of scoring that winning layup,
I lost out on the opportunity to feel unconditionally loved.
To feel a sense of home,
A sense of belonging.
And when such a young boy is parentalized so young,
By a mother unaware of his needs or how to fill them,
He is forced to ask,
"Were you even human?"
<SI> Scott Izu, PhD
© June 2015