The title of this blog post comes from the last pages of Beloved. When I read it I paused to try and identify a laugh from its laughter. I opened my mouth slightly to help with remembering. Not laughter as in funny, but laugh as in energy slipping from one ledge to another. Through Denver's (daughter) description of Sethe (her mother), Morrison took me to the place of my own Bengali kindred. I thought of my mother and father whose laughs live an extended life through me. Not laughter as in funny. This laugh is birthmark and a burden. And I wonder if this is the first of many times I will be reminded that I have little choice in my reflection yet am wholly responsible for it.
In 2011, I wrote that there lived a stunning leopard inside me that was preparing to leap. Today, while I'm visiting my parents and Durham for a few days, I think that leopard did leap but not in the sexy way I imagined it would. This morning I was involved in an argument with each of my folks, the irritation I felt toward them just too simultaneous. My dad is criticizing the meditation talk I am listening to, telling me to beware of extremism. He is having a conversation with himself. I am annoyed. My mom is telling him to be quiet and suggesting I be understanding of his belligerence. I am annoyed. Her comment is enough to tap me into a timeline of harmful and familiar reasoning. Later in the day she tells me that despite what British colonizers did, she is thankful they built railroad tracks in India. It sounds like when she says, despite my father's 'faults' (aka acts of violence), he is still a 'smart' man who has shown her many things in life. Imagine watching that hot, round thing in a pin ball machine knock itself into the smaller barricades a few times before falling through in the end. My spirit is swerving and bruising and falling through to the end. As I write I feel somewhat restored because this is a reminder of the dark, fertile things that move me towards feeling free. Amidst the meditation rant, my dad points outside the kitchen window and tells me his spirituality is rooted in the trees, earth, birds, and his connection to all other beings. I say Wow that's something we share. He laughs and my mom smiles and asks me if I think I was made from mud or from my mom and my dad. I laugh and that hot, round, bruised thing rises inside and wishes they would get away from me.
Transitioning from his rant, my father asks if we can eat breakfast at McDonald's together tomorrow. I tell him I don't want to spend time with him. He laughs and looks at me horribly when I say he acts disrespectfully and then wants to be friends. The day before, he laughs when telling me he believes my brother who says I'm not An Actual Gay but Mentally Gay. He smiles and searches for recognition in my face because he is the laugh; I am the laughter.
After a little more pin ball fighting occurs, I go to my old room, close the door, and start to cry. I wonder if I can change my bus ticket to tomorrow and debate whether they will drop me off at the station without too much drama. I am a few beats in when my spirit reminds me that this is my unsexy, growth moment. I pull my wet-nose, leopard body up from the bed. It takes a few more moments because the wallowing feels easy. In the meditation, Thich Nhat Hanh suggests when the person who you love hurts you, that your 'mantra' can be, "Darling, I suffer. Please help." This lands on me. I consider if I am suffering and if the idea of her help feels good. I'm not sure but it sounds hopeful. I go to her and tell her I'm upset. I lean into the most sensitive part of me and her whole demeanor changes. There is a clearing and we speak calmly to each other about the car and dropping her off at work.
my mom smizing in a pre-sumi world.
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