One Month In

Here is the pic from my evening, prime with prime rib and my husband of nearly twenty-three years.

It can’t capture the tears that leaked out of the corners of my eyes, mascara and all, leaving black streaks down my cheeks.

“Do you remember that conversation we had, when I was nineteen and just a baby, in the Boston Market on Mississippi and Colorado?” (no longer there, I don’t add).

“Well…”

He doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t remember it. “I remember…”

“What I said was true, and I said it to scare you, one month in to our relationship. I shouldn’t have jumped into a new relationship so quickly after the last, but I also meant every word of what I said.”

Those blue eyes could pierce you through Prime Rib Night at Bull and Bush, our semi-favorite place, marred by COVID and patio seating (his mar, not mine).

“And…?”

“That I wanted to have two kids, but really, I wanted to have one kid and adopt one?”

“Ahhh… yes.” The recollection of the moment is vivid in his expression. He is there with me now. He is here with me now.

“And you said…?”

“…?”

I fill him in: “I can’t wait till I get to do that with you.”

One month in. Age nineteen.

And was I going to send those blue eyes sailing? Or grab on and look into them for the rest of my life?

“You know that’s not how it worked out.” (Three biological girls later). “But this is what I have now. And I know you will never see it because I’m the only one who has him, the only one who knows him.”

“But…”

“And I know it’s about the damn money, it always is with you.”

Blues pierce me again. “It’s not about the money. God knows we have the money.”

“What then?”

“It’s about your heartbreak. You took him here, you brought him there, you didn’t like his appreciation, his lack of appreciation. He breaks you. He hurts you. And we all feel it. And I just can’t stand to see him hurt you.”

What I don’t say: I cried for two hours the other night when you told me not to buy him a ski pass for next year. When you said, again, not to include him as a part of our family. When you walked downstairs and abruptly ended the conversation. When I couldn’t put into any words how much I hated you.

And now we sit in your non-favorite seat, in the 16th-century English-Americana pub, chewing our prime rib and drinking our home-brewed beer, and you’re killing me with those baby blues.

And I was so mad at you and so hurt that I couldn’t see straight.

And the whole goddamn time, you weren’t thinking about money. You weren’t thinking about how he felt about a goddamn ski pass. You weren’t thinking about the hassle or paying for college or anything but.

Anything but.

Me.

And to have that kind of love, when a just-turned-twenty boy says, “I can’t wait to do that with you,” and twenty-three years later still says it (in so many words)…

There is no cut of meat sufficient. No house full of kids. No price tag.

There is just. Love.

One month in, 6348 months later.

Just. Love.

Tirador. Throw Me a Line.

I learned a new Spanish word today. It’s the story of my life, really, the story of any language learner. The learning doesn’t end. It doesn’t end with a high school diploma or a college degree or a summer in Mexico or a year in Spain. It just builds, like bricks on a wall, one word after another.

Tirador.

Before I learned the new word, this is how I tried to say it, in my mind combining the word matar with the suffix –dor, knowing, of course (the year in Spain??) that matador means the person holding the red cape for the bull. The person who KILLS the bull: “¿Has oído del matador en Boulder?”

His response? “¿Matador? ¿Como la persona con los toros?”

No, not like the person in the ring with the bulls. Like the person with the AR-15 rifle who killed ten people two days ago thirty miles from our house.

How can I say this to my child who, two days ago, for the third time, left a slipper in the laundry room sink where the washer drains and flooded my basement?

How can I say this to my child, who, two years ago, crossed three borders to find his way into my home?

How can I find the right word?

Google Translate. Shooter: Tirador.

Tirar: Throw. Suffix: -dor–person who…

Person who… throws?

The word in Spanish for SHOOTER is person who THROWS?

He was in the living room and I couldn’t see his face. And though we have an agreement that I speak to him in English and he responds to me in Spanish, I didn’t mince into English this time. Because he might hear some cockeyed version of this story somewhere else, and sometimes things get lost in translation.

El tirador? Quien mató diez personas en un supermercado treinta millas de aquí? El asistió nuestra escuela por un año.”

His response: “¿Es un gringo?”

Me: “No…”

Him: “¿Latino?”

Me: “No…”

Him: “¿Árabe?”

Spanish gone, I whispered, “Yes.” I didn’t want to say it out loud. I didn’t want to say out loud what the world might be shouting right now. I didn’t want to tell this boy that yes, like you, he came to this country hoping for a better life, and yes, like you, he faced racism and prejudice wherever he went, and yes, like you, learning a new language was a struggle.

Instead, the word hung between us. Tirador. Like someone holding a baseball, ready for the pitch. Someone holding a Koosh, ready for a classroom game of Silent Ball. Someone who didn’t know what to do with his anger or fear or loss, someone who walked the same hallways I walked, as a teacher in this high school, as a student in the same middle school I attended, a lost boy who couldn’t find his way.

My son had no other response. His childhood consisted of practically everyone he knew dying of poverty or gang violence, so the shock just isn’t the same.

Instead, I went to work. He came to school. That same place where the tirador walked, that same bubble where I thought the world wouldn’t come crashing down all around me. That glorious Italian architecture wooing me into an imaginary perfection.

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My colleague, teaching with me at the same time, seven years back, brought me a poppyseed muffin this morning.

“We’re all just processing this. Baked goods are always good.”

And how it popped in my mouth, that sweet and perfect bread.

And my daughters, my three daughters where this school has been the center of their lives, as daughters of the teacher, as students of the school, as children of the world?

“They shouldn’t sell guns to anyone with a penis. Obviously, that’s the best way to eliminate mass shootings.”

And how will we walk in these doors? How will we walk into a supermarket? How will we face the world that we have created?

How will we shape our boys?

The boys who leave slippers in sinks and put FIVE blankets UNDER a fitted sheet and spend a year blasting a space heater instead of wrapping themselves in the warmth that exists under the covers?

The boy who comes home to me and screams, “You allowed our daughter to pay a 20% tip to a carpet cleaner??? What were you doing??”

“Well, the soccer practice got moved, and it was only an hour, so I was walking the dog…” (If only I had the cute pic to demonstrate):

“So now you’re a soccer mom, huh? A mom to him. When, a month ago, you said you’d separate yourself, that he needed to figure everything out on his own, that he’s a man, a tenant, that he needed to take the bus or sign up for soccer or buy the cleats or ride his bike or…”

“Are you done?” I ask my boy, my boy I married at twenty, well before my prefrontal cortex was fully developed, well before I knew what it was to be an adult, just like that 21-year-old boy who was allowed to buy a mass-murdering rifle?

“Well…” he won’t finish, knowing I am done.

“Well, I guess I am. I’m a fucking soccer mom.”

What I don’t say: Better a soccer mom than … Yet the sentence falls flat. It is as empty as the hallways of my high school in the midst of a pandemic. The thoughts are dark, behind the stage, behind the social media, behind those fucking bullets, and broken and cruel and loving and hopeful all at the same damn time.

Better a soccer mom who drives him to every practice and spends $300 on soccer gear and $464 on carpet cleaning because my eighteen-year-old daughter thought a 20% tip was better than pissing off her mama than…

Than a tirador?

A tirador?

A shooter?

Throw me a line. Because this world is fucking drowning me.

And worse, it’s drowning these boys who are just searching for a line to grab onto.