76 lines
4.7 KiB
Plaintext
76 lines
4.7 KiB
Plaintext
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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #510
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`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
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888 888 888 888 888 "No Regrets, I Never
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888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8 Asked to Be Born"
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888 888 888 888 888 "
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888 888 `88b d88' 888 o by Meenk
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o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8 3/8/99
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I write this for my mother.
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I sit here, inhaling the hot, acid smoke from my Camel, thinking
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about the woman who gave me life. She wasn't even a year older than I am
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now when I became a part of her life. Carrying me inside her womb,
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re-shaping her life to accomodate mine. She probably sat, staring at her
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cigarette smoke, thinking about how she got where she was, exactly like
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me. We look a lot alike. I have only seen one picture of her at this
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age, her round belly, two-dimensional in the photograph, encompassing the
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world as I knew it. I would like to think that she thought fondly of me,
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the unconditional love for a total stranger inside of her permeating her
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thoughts. Anticipation for the chance to form a person capable of anything
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bringing a smile to her lips as she tenderly caressed her swollen abdomen.
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I don't know, though. She and I aren't close. She probably felt a lot of
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regret. Thoughts like this don't occur until a certain point in your
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life, if at all. I would ask her, but I am not comfortable with her
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anymore. To me, she is a stranger. Soon after she gave birth to me, she
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married my father.
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Maybe that is why I question her feelings about me before I was
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born. A child with a child, she suffered the pains of expelling me from
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her body, into this world. All I know of my early life has come from
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stories she has told me. The dawn of the 1980s, my mother still trying
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to find herself, she tried to make the marriage work. Stories of violence.
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I don't remember. She has hundreds of pictures of me, literally learning
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to stand, learning to learn. I looked happy. There were few pictures of
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her. No one wants pictures of sadness and pain.
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I just didn't know any better. She took me away, possibly saving
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my life. I never got to express to her my gratitude, how thankful I was
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for her courage. She worked hard, caring for me the best she could with
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hardly an example from her parents. Teaching me many things, the best she
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knew how. Answering my questions to the best of her ability, faking it
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when she couldn't, she brought me up with a lust for life. She liked to
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move, to experience. Creating impressions that would not be evident for
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over a decade she explored herself, raising questions in my developing
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mind that I did not know how to ask, yet. Though I wouldn't have thought
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so at the time, in retrospect, the unconditional love was always there.
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She faced the world alone, fighting not only for herself, but for me too.
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There came a time when the questions I had outnumbered the answers she
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could give. I was finally able to put into words the concepts developing
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in my head over the years. What kind of morals did I want? What kind of
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person did I want to be? The same questions my mother was trying to
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answer when I came into her life. The only difference was about 8 years.
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I knew that I was thinking about things which I shouldn't have had to
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worry about for a long time. She had no answers for me and I was not
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ready to be so independant. I felt an incredible longing for something
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which she couldn't provide and I hated her for it. I wasn't yet a teen,
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but already my life was headed in a direction her life could not
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accomodate.
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I left, barely speaking to her since. I became a woman having only
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the memories of her young, overwhelmed, yet strong and fearless progression
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into womanhood to guide me. With little guidance from anywhere else, I
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learned from the firsthand experience of my mother's mistakes. Not just
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stories, but living through the consequences of her choices. I held a lot
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against her. I blamed her for a lot of my anguish. Now, I look in the
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mirror and I see her eyes. Her wisdom, the lines carved by pain, her
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eagerness for life, and I realize that I love her too. Unconditionally,
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like she loves me. I hope one day I will have the chance to thank her.
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She gave me the tools to find myself and for that I will always be
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thankful. I love you, mom.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #510 - WRITTEN BY: MEENK - 3/8/99 ]
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