My White Supremacist Mom Part Four

(After Beach Aunt had her Trump-renouncing moment last month, I let myself hope a little that Mom would do the same. That’s why I opened her Valentine card over the weekend instead of writing “refused” on it an putting it right back in the mailbox. It could be, I thought. It could be an apology, a pledge to do better, a request to be mailed a copy of The Mueller Report. Hope is dumb sometimes. What WAS in the card was information on the masses my mom had paid for, to be said for me and Sweetie. I know that Mom would have seen this as a kindness, but this card honestly made me sick to my stomach. My mom thinks we should have a national religion, that we’re off track as a nation because not everyone is Catholic. So, in addition to donating to her child-raping church in my name, it was also a donation to fascism. And always, always, the feeling sorry for us—as queer folks, as fat people, as liberals, as people who believe in science and history and truth. She thinks that makes us less-than. She thinks the only thing that can save us is donation-funded prayer. And because the card was pretty, she can feed her idea that she is a good, loving person instead of a sinkhole of narcissism and pain. So I took the “I miss” off this series of posts. The shittiest-Valentine-ever made me let go of just a little more denial, a little more stupid hope.)

 

Anyway, back to that apple picking weekend back in early October. Mom and Stepdad are grousing about masks. I’m just trying to stay out of it and play Animal Crossing, but Mom asks me what I think.

 

“I’m on the side of the TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE WHO DIED. I want to help in whatever way I can.”

 

And I’m yelling. Sweetie rushes in from the other room to help out. I don’t want to be yelling, I know it’s wrong, I know I’m bad but six months and also a lifetime of gaslighting brings up the same awful childish helpless horror I felt when I was eight and Mom was beating up my doll Cindy with a wiffle ball bat because she knew it would make me feel worse than getting hit myself. I know I’m 46 and not eight. I know it’s all wrong. But I’m yelling.

 

It’s hard to track the conversation on my end or on hers, so here are some points she made:

 

-“Some people HAVE to die! Wouldn’t the world be a terrible place without death?”

-But also “masks make people sicker” and she wants to save us.

-Russian disinformation doesn’t exist or have an impact, but she might be willing to see what Mueller has to say because he was appointed by Trump.

 

-“Do you actually know anyone who has died from coronavirus? Because I don’t.”

 

(Apparently, Sweetie’s at-that-moment-hospitalized sister was not evidence enough.)

 

“At least I’m not a baby-killer.” I sort of wish I’d asked if she meant this in the Lizard People/Qanon way or just in the regular misogynist sense. Maybe both!

 

Next time: So much racism.