and then…

my paternal grandmother had already begun teaching at the young age of sixteen, when my grandfather, whose first wife was dying, saw her and told her father that he was going to be his next wife. She didn’t teach anymore, she bore children and pretended to be better off than she was, just so that she could hobnob with those who could match her wits. My grandmother became more and more inhumane as time went on, until she represented for most of her children and grandchildren, the epitome of evil.

my maternal grandmother became a wife and mother, the year that the U.S. Navy began the WAVES program. It had been her dream and then it was nothing more than a cloud in her coffee. She worked as an office manager for L.A. City Schools and met famous child actors and professional football players who subbed during off seasons. My grandmother loved Hollywood and football, but it wasn’t the Navy, so she turned her sorrow into fundamentalist Christianity and suggested to single mothers that they lie and say that the father had died, that they had been married, that their child wasn’t a bastard.

my maternal great-grandmother didn’t want children, she wanted a beautiful, powerful, and wealthy man. But sometimes the beautiful, powerful and wealthy men want children. Sometimes those children die. Sometimes those men die. Sometimes we grow older and no more beautiful, powerful and wealthy men pursue. My great-grandmother didn’t get her dream romance, it made her cruel, because even though dreams might not die, sometimes the drive, the determination to fulfill those dreams…sometimes that dies.

my mother wanted one thing in life. she wanted to be a lounge singer. She didn’t want to be famous, she wanted her adoring fans to come to a smoky bar and watch her writhe on a piano while belting out covers of Joan Baez and Johnny Mathis. She wanted her pay to be in Long Island Iced Teas and five dollar bills in a crumpled into a fishbowl, matchbooks with numbers scrawled in drying ballpoint ink. but her mother, who before my mother was even born, gave up her own dreams, crushed my mothers and convinced her that it was a sin. So my mother became a wife and mother and turned her song into something that was tied to her depression and anger, a salve for her emotional turmoil.

I am descended from the same human condition that you are, descended from those who gave up their dreams, whose dreams were crushed, who just didn’t have anymore fight left.

Every fucking day, I fight my laziness, my pout, my moping, my blues, to remember that nobody else need to respect, believe in, agree with, my dreams. There will be roadblocks because nothing worth having comes easy, except my children. They came out pretty easy. Just saying.

Whether I fulfill my dreams, or whether those dreams change, whether they die, I don’t want to be at the end and think, maybe if I just tried one more day. So I’ll try one more fucking day. Come on, if I can do it, you can definitely do it, because you are a bad ass beast.

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