[Part I, Part II, Part III]
“Lines In The Suit” was an essay on my parents meeting, but lying deeply rooted underneath was a story of how I never really knew my mother.
Everyone, ubiquitously holds their parents on a pedestal - they seem like god’s when you’re younger, and in a way, they are. They are the choice makers in your life, and the offerings of opinions and advice. Their word is nothing less than gold, mined in the seemingly purest of forms when you’re a child. They’re an enigma in your eyes; an expectation you should know everything about them from the minute you’re cognizant, lest receive embarrassment. How could they be damaged, fallible, or even human, when you look at them with awe for surviving the struggle of life so far; and having raised you to a degree. To vilify them, is a nothing more than admittance that you, yourself, are an imperfect individual.
Over time, you become aware of their shortcomings; their inadequacies are blemishes, and the pedestal is lowered. You begin to hold them in concept when you see those flaws developing in yourself. It takes a long time to realize raising you is all benevolence, more than of malicious intent.
Back in February of 2022, a month after my mother passed, I posted online about my past few months, including this passage regarding my thoughts on our relationship:
“My relationship with my mom has always been tumultuous & irregular, especially when I was younger, though over the last few years has thankfully leveled out. There’s still a lot of anger, confusion, and despair carried within myself for a myriad of reasons surrounding her life, and death. One thing I am thankful for though, is forgiving her when I had the chance.”
In retrospect, I don’t know if I ever fully forgave her; at least, in that moment. Looking at the last passage now, the words feel more like a performance; posturing to the outside world than actual forgiveness.
From encountered reading, embarrassingly, I admit, through TV, movies, and reddit threads titled “What do you wish you had said to a loved one before they passed” or some semblance of the sort, was always about forgiveness. Because, as those sources informed me, “do it now, as you will never get another chance”.
Maybe, in my own way, this is what I believed forgiveness to be for someone I could no longer call on the phone, or smell the swirl of rosemary & parsley emanating from the kitchen as she made my favorite lamb pasta dish (Even though I have the recipe, I still haven’t perfected it).
I don’t know if forgiveness can ever be fully offered in the first place. As cliche as it is, a wound will always leave a scar, no matter how deep the cut may be. These marks are stories, but also reminders of the past. Part of those reminders carry the emotions you felt when traversing the narratives we see in our memory.
During therapy, we’ve spoken at length regarding seeing my mother as a human being who exists with faults, mistakes, and insecurities. But those moments have selfishly translated to how those same insecurities are conducted and evolved within my own sense of self. How they’ve led me to becoming the person I am today; not in the ways I’ve triumphed, but as dark marks and negative lights. I’m blocked by my own inhibitions to see through the opaque boundary, to visualize a life where these faults are no longer hindrances, but calls to action. Actions to be used in the evolution of myself.
I wish I had known the complete story of my mother and father meeting before she passed. Tidbits, like their elopement and the Winnie The Pooh characters, had been passed down and gilded; shaped and smoothed over until the story is told without flaws.
There’s so much you never know about your parents until you’re either too old, or too embarrassed enough to have known to ask the right questions. You see them as these beings of eternal light, but they exist with their own deficiencies. They’re completely and perpetually human, at the dawn of day.
I’ve come to understand how much more of her I never knew; my two sister’s echoed the same sentiment after reading the series. How much of her own story is lost to time, especially now that her mother and father have now passed. My mother is as much of a mystery to me now, as she was when she was alive.
The one perspective I’ll never have for this story is that of my mother, and the shame and guilt is an overbearing weight. Reckoning this cataclysmic emotion within my wrestling heart has been quite a challenge over the past few weeks of compiling everything together.
Writing this story about my parents has given me another chance at forgiving her. Of alleviating my own stubborn inclinations and judgements. To be curious, as my therapist would say. Seeing her a just a fucked up beautifully flawed human being like the rest of us trying to just survive on this hunk of rock hurtling through space at literal astronomical speeds.
Then, of course, there’s my father.
While putting my finishing touches on part III of the series, my father sent over a picture of their marriage certificate. Scanning it over, curiosity struck, and attempts were made to see if I could contact the witnesses at my parent’s courthouse wedding; the ones who played the Winnie The Pooh characters.
Utilizing my internet detective skills, it didn’t take long to trace the witnesses to some public records website. My excitement quickly turned into defeated sorrow, as the words “obituary” in The Register Guard, Eugene’s newspaper, was attributed to both their public records. My parent’s two witnesses had passed, both at awfully young ages.
My wishful thinking believed another perspective on my parent’s fateful wedding day was waiting to be unearthed - maybe even a photo of the event could be procured! - was soon crushed. How this news was truncated into the depressive notion of mortal awareness. Like returning to a favorite restaurant you haven’t been to in years, only to find it shuttered; or worse, revamped into a crummy smoothie chain.
For a little while, I mulled over the idea of telling my father this news. Was it worth it for him to hear the people who partook on one of the happiest days of his life, were gone? Was I contributing to a vague confrontation of his own mortality? Was I even in the right to deliver this news in the first place, and would it change the discourse by any chance? After debating back and forth, looking through the various articles of his witnesses’ lives, I decided to tell my father. It felt wrong to keep this information to myself, and I wanted him to know I at least tried. Selfishness often prevails in the end.
My father was a great person to interview. He yielded copious amounts of calls from me throughout the few weeks this came together, all hounding for extra details during a scene or event. Plenty of pestering for digging through my mother’s old scrapbooks and boxes for photographs of the two of them. All of which was probably not easy for him, in retrospect, when it comes to remembering & reliving the past. My father deserves all the credit for making this story come together and be shared.
I have several more ideas to float his way as far as further insights into my father’s life pertains. Underneath the stoicism is a man I know is rich with a well full of knowledge and stories, waiting to be tapped and released. That is, if he’ll do me the honor of the conversation. Preserving these stories is something I’ve been connecting with lately, especially when it comes to analyzing the past, and my direct relationship with it.
The internal conflict and struggle with how I hold my mother was prolific throughout writing this story. Grappling with seeing her as nothing more than just a person attempting to do their best, juxtaposed against my judgemental critical memories of her, was not an easy task. Luckily, my father did a phenomenal job of painting her in the light of someone he deeply fell in love with, and still does, presently. All in all, this was simultaneously a challenging, yet fun, series to write.
To close things out, the title of the series is derived from the song of the same name, “Lines In The Suit”, by Austin-based indie rock band, Spoon, off their 2001 album, “Girls Can Tell”. Spoon has been a favorite of mine since discovering them in high school, and attending their concert at the Crystal Ballroom back in 2005. If memory serves, their concert was one of the first “actual” concerts I went to as an “enlightened” teenager, beyond seeing my friend’s band play several shows at the underage venue, the “Meow Meow” (RIP). Listen to “Lines In The Suit” below:
Thank you all again for reading this series. Looking forward to sharing more as we move into the new year.
Cory