Archive of ‘commune’ category

28
Jan
2016

don’t forget the rice crispy treats

categories: commune, family

My mom was not talented in the culinary arts. It’s a miracle I can boil water, really. Aside from her being a terrible chef, my father refused to cook and I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen to do any experimenting on my own.

There were three staple items my mom could get on the table if push came to shove: grilled cheese sandwiches with canned tomato soup; scrambled eggs with cream cheese; mashed potato pancakes with melted parmesan. The cheese theme is clear, right? I’m starting to see where my dairy obsession comes from. The sandwich was always burnt, always. The sound of her running a butter knife over the crispy bits and the ping of the charred toast hitting the tin sink, along with that acidic, dark musty smell of burnt bread and butter on the cast iron pan–smells like home. She would make the tomato soup with milk and it would get that skin on top–you know the way that happens when you overheat milk or let it sit too long? The potato pancakes were her leftover creation. We always had steamed veggies and baked potatoes in the fridge. So, she’d cut up the veggies, mash the potatoes and grate some cheese over the flattened balls, throw them in the oven and it was heavenly. My brothers would smother them in ketchup but I liked them plain or with a little sour cream.

Yes, we ate very well in our household.

For a while I was trying to eat gluten-free, upon my doctor’s recommendation (I will never do that again–I was absolutely miserable for a month) and in an effort to make myself some gluten and sugar-free desserts I experimented with rice crispies (or, rather the health food version of those). Which I don’t recommend.

Anyhow, I tried adding peanut butter and unsweetened chocolate and honey and coconut oil and all sorts of shit. And, really all I wanted was rice crispy treats. Nothing compares, let’s be honest.

Turns out they are the most ridiculously simple dessert to make. Like, hilariously easy. How had I forgotten the 3 steps? Melt butter and marshies in pot, pour cereal in, empty pot onto greased pan. Voila! A miracle dessert. Really, I’ll be making these every week from now on.

Rice crispy treats were the one thing my mom could “bake.” Every bakesale, every holiday event, anytime there was a mandatory contribution in school or at a sporting event, or for the community theater or my sister’s dance troupe, we brought rice crispy treats. Every. Single. Time.

It didn’t even occur to me that it might appear as some sort of cop out. Kind of a slap in the face to the moms who brought handmade, “chocolate, peanut butter, caramel crunch bars.” Or, that it might have been a source of embarrassment for my mother. A kind of admission of maternal failure to be unable to do the most basic of motherly duties: bake. Nowadays moms, dads, parentals, can show up to a bake sale and say, “I suck at baking. I’ll help with the cleanup.” And, I don’t think anyone would bat an eye. There might even be some sympathetic nods and confessions of having used the pre-boxed mix for brownies. But, back then and in our small little section of the world, it was not done. Every mom baked. Not every parent. Every mom. Oh yeah, it was nice and gendered back then. Who are we kidding? It mostly still is.

So, we made a lot of rice crispy treats. And, my mom showed up with our plastic-wrapped desserts and proudly placed them on the bake sale table, handing over our one aluminum pan to the downcast eyes of some volunteer, PTA, supermom. She’d give us a half-smile and place them amongst the m&m, chocolate chip cookies, and the perfect chocolate, pecan fudge squares, the beautiful coconut-cream layer cakes and vanilla cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles. They always looked so sad next to everything else. But, those suckers sold. I tell you what, we always went home with an empty pan–much to my chagrin.

And, every time my mom would look down proudly at that empty tin and say, “We did it.” As if she’d just discovered the Higgs boson.

I didn’t know that this could, or should, have been a source of embarrassment for me. In fact, it was one of the only things I felt confident my mother could actually participate in–like a normal mom. Her ability to show up every time with a handmade dessert, to participate, to contribute–that felt so normal to me. It made me feel like we were actually part of something. One of them. You know, one of the normals–not outsiders, for once. We’d all crowd into the minivan, screaming and pushing, calling dibs on the front seat and then fighting over it anyway and one of us would call out, “Mom, don’t forget the rice crispy treats!” and off we would ride. Believing that the minivan and the slogan t-shirts, the hand-me-down sneakers and thrifted jeans, and most importantly the rice crispy treats, were some symbol of normalcy. Believing that we might actually be fitting in.

28
Sep
2015

an anniversary

categories: commune, family

The reality–that her death was imminent, unyielding to the tonics and colonics and healers and herbs, that turned her shit tarry and black, that made her vomit everything she consumed–took shape in my body, growing and multiplying, like a cancer slowly taking over every cell of my insides. It was physical, my pain. A churning in my belly. A small seed that grew and took form and had to be birthed or otherwise disposed of. But, it stayed. It stays still. Dormant, retreated, hibernating through winter. I feel this tiny beast in my throat, in my chest, behind my eyes, under my breath, in my balled up fists–veiled but not gone.

The thing about your mom dying when you’re 24, and getting sick when you’re 17, is that you miss out on that adult relationship that happens later in life. I’m not complaining, I got a lot more years than some people get with their parents.

But, I know so little about her life–who she was before joining a cult and having four kids. I know so little about my own childhood or her choices as a mother–how long did she breastfeed, how old was she when she first had sex? These conversations were just beginning when we started noticing troubling signs in her short-term memory and daily habits. It didn’t take long for all conversations about the past or the future to cease. Every day was just about getting through that moment, that hour. We reminisced a bit and read the newspaper to stay up on current events but she couldn’t hold on to much and she would become confused and embarrassed quickly.

My mother was an elegant lady. Elegant and refined and brilliant. Not traits you would typically expect from a cult-follower. You envision women who follow their male gurus without question–into illegal activity, into immoral actions, into a life of pain and confinement and hate–to be astonishingly simple and broken. Women who are looking to fill hollow, emptied out spaces in their bodies with the weight of pain and suffering–women who are consumed by trauma, looking to forget or run from something more awful than the reality they so willingly sign on to. Or else, women who are just too naive, too juvenile and too feeble to realize before it’s too late.

My mother was none of those things. She was a college-educated woman. She was studying Neuroscience before leaving to join a commune. She opened a women’s health clinic in Vancouver, followed the Beatles through Europe, lived for two years in India. She modeled in New York City and had dozens of close friends. She kept in touch with her family, traveled as much as she could and made an effort to look put together every single day. I can still hear the cla-clink, cla-clink of her heels on our wooden floors as she rushed to grab the phone. She read–early in the morning and late into the night–with a voracity and focus I have yet to see replicated. She was smart. Whip-smart. And yet…so confused and so lost and so misguided. Even before her disease took over.

“They’re after me,” she said one morning. I was home from college for the summer and spending most days with her.

“Who? Who’s after you, mom?” I asked.

“Them. They’re after my jewels. They’re taking everything. They’re not good people.”

At the time, I assumed her paranoia was just another aspect of her dementia. One more exciting side-effect of losing your mind. And it was, for the most part. But as it turned out (I discovered years later during an ebay search) they had ransacked her room. Taken her jewelry–giant amber beads from India, my great-grandmother’s delicate pearl necklace–and pawned what they could. When I confronted my father (who returned both aforementioned necklaces–but sold who knows what before I found out) he said it was to cover the cost of her living there. Which was confusing considering they had happily accepted my mother’s inheritance (which my grandmother gave up prior to her passing because we had no money and no options, my sister and I, so we went to her family looking for help) as payment for “housing” and “caretaking” despite the fact that she had been a productive–some might argue, the most productive– member of the community for 25 years and had never previously been asked to pay for room and board. And, didn’t that cover the cost? Then he said it was just so he could assess the “street” value of the jewelry but he had always intended to return the goods.

My sister handled the finances. I helped, but she was organized and efficient and incredible with the details. We were disgusted to be paying the community for what we felt she had earned after 25 years of service, of servitude. But, we had no other options at the time. Until we were so sickened with her care, or lack thereof, that we moved her into a home with a specialized (and locked) memory care unit. $5,595 a month. Her entire inheritance (minus the cost of her funeral) was gone by the time she was in the ground.

“He’s not a good man,” she’d finally said toward the end. Just before she lost all speech.

“No, mom. He’s not,” I’d acknowledged with such immense sadness and regret. Part of me wanted to lie and convince her that she hadn’t wasted her life following a man who couldn’t even be bothered to say a final goodbye when she was on her deathbed. I wanted to tell her her choices hadn’t all been misguided, that she had found meaning and beauty in her life.

But, all I could think about were the bruises on her wrists when I had come home from school one day, the red streaks on her jawbone after a misunderstanding with one of the other women, the fists pounding on her back as I screamed, “Please don’t kill my mom! Please!’ I remembered hiding behind locked doors, with pounding on the other end, the blacked out windows, and crouching under tables hiding from the cops who’d been called for the umpteenth time by the neighbors–which, it should be noted were half a mile away, but could still hear the screaming. I remembered running for the woods, memorizing escape routes, lessons in suicide, rantings of World War III. All I could see was years and years of of her wilting posture, hearing the screams and the “bitch, bitch, bitch” mantra of my dad’s diatribes. And I thought, this is good. It’s good that your illness has brought upon something real. Something true amidst all the make-believe. He was not good to you. He was not good to me. He was good to no one but himself.

And yet. Through it all. She was the most congenial person you’ve ever met. A ray of light through the blackest of nights. A positive presence even in the absence of hope. She was a problem-solver, a negotiator, a wily little thing who could get absolutely anyone to do absolutely anything. She had star quality. People wanted to be around her. She emitted confidence and tenacity. And, that smile. It could light up a room.

As my sister and I sang her Silent Night, she smiled up at us–as if to say, “I’m okay. I love you. Live and love and be happy.”–her eyes fluttered, half closed, face upturned, one hand in each of ours. She took her last labored breath. Exhaled, and died. Ten years ago.

I miss you every day, mom.

04
Sep
2015

musical indoctrination

categories: california, commune, parenting

At dinner last night my daughter requested “Harry” which meant that she wanted to listen to Harry Nilsson. Of course I obliged —  he is, after all, one of my all-time favorite musicians. She recognized “Me and my Arrow” as being from The Point. She got particularly excited during the “Coconut” song, “That’s a funny song, Mama,” she kept saying. And, lost interest by “Without Her.” Which, I can’t blame her for. You really can’t dance to that one.

She then requested, “the corn song” which is code for Arthur Russel’s “Close My Eyes.” We listened to that song and a few others off the same record. We then moved on to Tusk, one of my favorite (underrated) Fleetwood Mac albums. Which, she adored. “Who’s this, Mama?” she kept asking.

“It’s Fleetwood Mac. Stevie Nicks is singing. She’s a really good singer, huh?”

“Mmm hmmm. Yep,” she’d say while vigorously shaking her head.

As a kid, I had zero exposure to my parents musical preferences, and no musical education. My life and the adults lives were kept totally separate. Separate bedrooms, separate dining rooms, separate kitchen areas. Separate worlds.

My dad fancied himself a humble and humorous person. And with those false conceptions of self, asked for a Birthday Roast for his 50th. I was nine years old. I didn’t hate him yet. I feared him. And, I didn’t understand him. But, I still craved his attention and love.

My sister and I decided to put together a little play for the party. Our “roast” of sorts. We came up with this skit in which we dressed up like flies and flew around touching things and making them “dirty, tainted, unclean, poison!”

“HP, HP!” we shouted. “Someone get the hydrogen peroxide and clean this! My daughter has touched it and now it is unclean!” we screamed in unison, flapping our arms wearing huge grins.

We thought it was hilarious. We didn’t quite understand the depths of just how twisted the whole thing was. His friends, community members, sat wide-eyed, jaws slackened. They could not believe what we were doing. Perhaps they were surprised and embarrassed that we had noticed how they treated us. Perhaps it highlighted for them just how messed up the dynamic between kids and adults was. Or, perhaps they were just struck by how sad it all seemed.

My kid got too close to my food, so now I can’t eat it. My child touched my hand so now I must wash it. My son sat in my chair and now it must be cleansed. My daughter entered the dining room, the door knob must be disinfected. My children dared pass the “invisible line” into the kitchen. They must be punished.

It took me years and years and years to feel comfortable going into anyone’s kitchen. And, when I did, I would wash my hands profusely before touching anything. I would get permission before opening the fridge or rummaging for a glass in the cabinet. I would linger, just at the edge of the kitchen and innocently ask for things. Like a wounded pet, begging for sustenance.

My mother’s hands were always red and rough. The skin on her knuckles would flake and peel and she had permanent callouses partly from the housework, but, mostly from how frequently she washed her hands.

We kept a bottle of hydrogen peroxide at the sink to spray on our bare hands every time we washed them. Dishes had to be separated by “mouth” and “stove” so that pots and pans were washed separately from things that had touched the human mouth. There were two separate dirty dish counters. One for kids and one for adults. Dishes had to be cleaned three times. Once, scrubbed in burning hot water and soap. Twice dipped in a bleach and hot water solution. And, thrice, run through the dishwasher on the longest and hottest setting.

Lettuce was triple-washed. Vegetables were grown only in our garden. No meat. No dairy. No processed goods. We baked our own bread. We ground our own flour. We soaked and cooked our own beans. This didn’t last forever. But, it was a long time before they started feeding the kids “typical” kid meals like lasagna and grilled cheese. The adults kept to a strict diet regimen. I was about seven years old, at a friends’ house for a playdate, when she opened a can of refried beans. She scooped the contents into a pot and heated it over the stove and I gagged at the stench. I thought she was playing a practical joke on me. Get the commune girl to eat cat food, that’ll be hilarious.

It wasn’t just food. It was exposure to anything outside of our 10-acre radius.

My dad was convinced that if you left the compound for any amount of time, particularly if you left unattended — without your designated buddy, who could vouch for your whereabouts and actions — you would most certainly return with AIDS.

He was sure of it.

You would contract AIDS and die of AIDS but not before infecting everyone else first.

Travel had to be authorized through him, activities required pre-approval, no adults were to leave alone (with or without kids) and anyone in his inner circle was not allowed to leave town for any period of time. Not for a dying father, the birth of a niece, a brother’s wedding, nothing. No exceptions. Or, you were out.

There were months, years even, where he was more lenient on these terms. He would concede some ground but then tightly pull in the reigns the next minute. There was no consistency from one year to the next. And, the women just had to keep figuring it out. Often through one of them making a mistake and shouldering the consequences.

I wonder how my life might have been different if I’d been allowed to go on some of the auditions I’d scored in Los Angeles or the family vacations with friends. If I’d been exposed to the outside world earlier and more fully.

Well, I wasn’t. But, I had my dream. My vision of life in New York. And, it got me through. Through elementary school, through the hellfire that was middle school. Through high school and into college. Beyond my mother’s illness and my own physical struggles. And, here I am.

Living my dream.

26
Aug
2015

snack shack

categories: california, commune

When we were kids we used to go to this awful, polluted lake. Of course, we didn’t realize how polluted it was at the time. But, we probably should have. It was a man-made lagoon inside a gated community. I don’t really understand how or why my family decided that this was the best place to go (or how we managed entry every weekend??). I suspect we went because it was the closest place to go. Never mind the fact that we were just a few miles away from one of the most beautiful rivers in California. Three forks of stunning views, giant, hot rocks, fishing, canoeing and general good times. Unlike the piss-warm water we swam in, the river produced nice cool, snow-melt from Tahoe’s Sierra Nevada’s. The river was filled with minnow, trout and suckers, all harmless and skittish. Contrasting the lake’s giant catfish who had zero fear of humans and would frequently nibble your toes as you swam.

Despite all of this, as a kid I thought it was the greatest place. Sandy beaches, a floating dock, a playground, boats…and the snack shack. Now, growing up we weren’t allowed to eat sweets. No soda, no candy, no chips, no processed foods of any sort. The problem with this kind of avoidance is that it creates what all abstinence-only programs create. Immense desire.

I would save up pennies, nickels and dimes — change from couch cushions, payphones, sidewalks and store floors — to get those small, individually packaged, plastic-wrapped jolly ranchers. Watermelon, sour apple, cherry, they were all exotic and bursting with flavor. The intense sugary sensation stinging my throat and bringing tears to my eyes. They were five cents a pop and I would buy as many as I could. The only problem was that they all had to be consumed almost immediately and, obviously, I had no intention of sharing. If not eaten by day’s end they would melt in the hot sun, or worse (because a melted candy is still edible) they would get sand in their plastic creases and become too gross, even for a junky.

On occasion, we would be treated to a meal at the snack shack. If money wasn’t too tight and we’d all been perfectly behaved that day. Chicken fingers, french fries, stale chips with oozing, orange cheese-product. We felt just like the other kids. Eating their hot dogs and listening to the top 40 over distorted speakers, sitting at the picnic table, talking about their favorite t.v. shows and who’s pool party was the best. We felt like we were part of some larger human experience, the childhood we might have had. Hell, we felt American.

25
Aug
2015

on grief

categories: commune, family

The funny thing about missing someone is that the sadness creeps in when you least expect it.

Last night I scoured the iTunes rentals for a fun Sunday night movie. On the hunt for a cheesy rom-com, as always. I love a good preview, so even after finding a few promising candidates, I continued to browse. About ten seconds into the preview for Salt I found myself tearing up. What is wrong with me? I thought. The Chris Farley documentary certainly, and rightfully, had tugged at the heart strings. But, an action film with some appalling rotten tomato score?

“We have to rent this,” I told my husband. “This is exactly what I want to watch tonight.”

My mom loved action films. And, that affection has definitely been passed down to me. Car chases can feel a little snoozy to me but otherwise, I am all in. I love the good guys beating the bad guys. I love a really well-delivered, cheesy one-liner. I love the exceptionally planned, choreographed fight scenes. The cinematography, the beautiful women, the exotic locations. I love the way vengeance is always a huge part of the plot line and how there’s always some super messed up character who’s flaws both get them into trouble but also, inevitably, help get them out of it.

I love the predictable arc, the (mostly) bad acting, the explosions and the being on the edge of my seat. I love the plot twists and the inevitable happy ending. I’m telling you, action films are really the best genre out there. They’ve got it all: mystery, romance, adventure. You cry, you laugh, you can experience every emotion in the course of two hours.

My mom and I used to stay up late watching Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and Beverly Hills Cop over and over again. The originals and all subsequent sequels. We’d re-watch all the Bond films and the variety of actors who played him over the course of the decades. Speed, Terminator, Total Recall, Enemy of the State, Bad Boys, Air Force One…she’d have loved the Bourne trilogy. Oh man, that would have been really fun to watch with her.

I don’t quite understand what it was that drew my uber-intelligent, sophisticated mom to the genre. Perhaps it was for all the same reasons I like it. Whatever the case, it was our special thing. Something we could do and enjoy together. Just the two of us.

Four of us girls had rooms in an upstairs space originally designed to be my father’s art studio. It had once been a giant, cavernous hall. When they built an entire barn (complete with a recording studio, library, three offices and a bright, open-plan painting space) to house my dad and his many obsessions, he graciously gave up his indoor studio so that five of us could move out of one room. The floor was divided into four tiny, strangely angular but glorious abodes. We got to choose which room we wanted based on age. I had third pick. I chose the “triangle room.” There was only one right angle in the entire space. And, it was full of small, unusable corners. It was amazing and I loved every inch of it.

There was a little lounge area — a living room of sorts — at the top of the stairs. It was probably about a 4×8 foot space. We’d squeeze in there, mom and I, squished up against each other on a beanbag on the floor, staring up at our small television screen perched (rather precariously) at the edge of the stairwell. There weren’t a lot of shared spaces amongst the kids and adults. This was a modest, carved-out space where we could just be. Together. Away from the chaos.

Inevitably, she would get called down for one reason or another throughout the course of the movie. Often, she would get into trouble because they couldn’t find her and no one thought to look up in the kids’ area until it was too late — dad had already lost his temper. She needed to (immediately) call so and so back about a painting sale, check the status of a bank account with her name on it, write a letter to my grandmother explaining why we needed more money, reach out to the local shops regarding donations, cold call the celebrity names (and numbers) we’d finagled out of a friend…there was always something that she needed to handle. Something only she could do. For whatever reason. And, someone was always in a rampage about it.

She would obediently head downstairs to put out the fire. Then, she’d sneak back upstairs, knock on my door and say, “Wanna watch a movie?” We’d put on a film — knowing she’d be called away half a dozen more times before the credits were rolling — and lay back, me eating a bowl of buttery popcorn and pretending, the both of us, that we were some normal family.

20
Jul
2015

truth // present

categories: commune, family

“Well, I grew up on a commune, so I’m pretty immune to embarrassment and shame. I’ve sort of seen and heard it all.”

“Wow, that must have been very difficult growing up.”

“Well, it wasn’t easy. But, I’m not sure I know anyone who can say they had a particularly easy childhood. You know? Mine just sounds really extreme. Except maybe Megan!”

“Who?”

“Yeah, my friend Megan had a great childhood. Only child, wonderful parents. She had it good. They were always…”

“Let’s stick to you. Your life,” my therapist continued. “You were saying that you aren’t easily embarrassed.”

“Right, I mean, is that significant? Should we be talking about that?”

“We can talk about whatever you like. There are no rules.”

“Hmm. Okay. Well, I don’t really know how we can possibly cover everything. It’s a lot.”

“Shall we start from the beginning?”

“Oh. Really? The beginning was so long ago. Can’t we start with, you know, more recent events? It’s just that we’ll be here forever if I have to go back and tell you everything. I’m not trying to hide anything. I’m just saying that, you know, I mean, there’s not much to tell. Commune, lots of kids, lots of women, narcissistic, god-complex of a dad, doormat mom. All the usual stuff. Felt like an outsider my whole life, never felt like I fit in…anywhere. Um, you know, got made fun of a lot. Obviously. Had to lie for years. That was hard. And confusing. Um, yeah, there’s more but..jeez, I don’t know. Can we just skip to the part where my mom dies? I mean, that’s why I’m here. I’m down with talking about all the other stuff. But, that will just take over. There’s too much. There’s always too much once you start telling the truth.”

17
Jul
2015

truth // past

categories: california, commune

“Where is she, where is she?” I wondered silently. She was always doing this. “Why can’t anything in my life be normal?” I murmured inaudibly.

It was half past six. Volleyball practice ended at five. Courtney’s mom had offered to wait with me until my mom arrived. This was a reoccurring predicament. I’d stay after school for something — volleyball, cheerleading, theater, track and field, chorus — anything to not be at home, and then I’d wait for two hours to get picked up. “This is what I get for not taking the bus,” I thought.

“Oh, there she is. There’s my mom,” I said, relieved. This was how it happened. Either someone would wait with me until she arrived or I would lie and tell them that she would be there in a few minutes and I’d wait alone. Ducking behind the payphone whenever a set of headlights came by. I could never decide what was worse — waiting there, terrified and alone in the dark, or having an adult wait with me asking too many questions.

“Oh, good,” she said. I recognized her tone — it reeked of disdain and irritation. “And, who’s the lady with her?” she continued, as though she were asking whether I wanted chocolate or caramel on my ice-cream. Sweet. Innocent-like.

“No one. I mean, that’s just a friend. Of my moms,” I lied.

“Right. And…where’s your dad? Does he ever pick you up? I’ve never seen him. What’s his name?”

“Um, he’s…his name is…I mean, he isn’t here.”

“Oh. I see,” she continued. “And, don’t you have sisters?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Brothers too? How many? Courtney said something about you having a lot of siblings.”

“Um, I don’t know. I mean, sort of.  I gotta go. Bye! Thanks for waiting with me!”

///////

The caravan door slid open, making a high-pitched squeak as it halted half way. I squeezed in, breathless. “Courtney’s mom asked me,” I paused to catch my breath. “about my sisters and brothers again.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just said I didn’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? What kind of an answer is that?”

“I don’t know. I just said, like, ‘no’, but then I said, like, ‘sort of.'”

“You can’t say that! You can’t say anything! What are you thinking, goshdangit.”

“I told you she shouldn’t be allowed to do after-school activities,” my mom’s “friend” chimed in. I glared at her.

“Mom, I, I , no one knows anything. She just said she knew I had brothers. It’s okay. She doesn’t…”

“Gosh darn-it-all. You can’t say that stuff. You can’t,” my mom yelled. She was starting to tap her foot. She always tapped her foot, a little three-part pattern, when she was nervous.

“This is why we homeschool. Public schools are trouble. Too many eyes. Too many ears. He says it could be our downfall. Just because your children want to go to school and play sports shouldn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer. Are you listening?” My mom was listening. But, she knew I needed to be in school. She knew I couldn’t stay home like my brothers and sisters. I couldn’t stand to be there for one night, let alone day after day. I joined everything. Anything. I spent weekends at friends houses. Weeknights even. Lord knows what they thought was going on. “You won’t be the favorite forever,” she murmured under her breath. “Then there’ll be hell to pay.”

“No, please. I didn’t…Mom. I just…I don’t know what to…I’m trying to do what you told me to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Please. Please let me stay in school. Please. I won’t say anything.”

“If they found out we would all be in big trouble. Do you want that? Your dad would go to jail and we would have nowhere to live. Do you want that to happen?” my mom asked.

“No.”

“Okay, then. So, you’ll tell her you were confused. Tell her that you have one sister and two brothers and that’s it. The rest of the kids just live with us. We took them in. Single mothers and their children.”

“Ha!” my mom’s friend interjected.

“We run a church. A non-profit” my mother continued.

“A nompromfi? What’s that?” I asked.

“A NON-profit. A non-profit. Say it out loud.”

“A NON-profit.”

“Good. Okay. So, you’ll tell her that when you see her tomorrow. And, Courtney too. Just tell everyone that. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” I whispered. “Okay, mom. I’ll tell them tomorrow.”