We Are Family

My childhood was greatly influenced by Fela. I don’t know when exactly she came into our lives. All I know is that my parents separated when I was a baby and my mom had to work. And then one day, voilà, there was Fela.

The relationship between my mom and Fela was a very complimentary one——two women with needs who were able to help each other out. Fela had found a home with us and earned money to send to her parents in Piedras Negras. And my mom had someone she trusted to care for me while she was working. Plus Fela kept our home clean as well as full of Mexican aromas coming from the kitchen and the sounds of the ranchera music she played full blast when ironing.

amusement park photo

This went on for a few years. Then Fela discovered she was pregnant and everything changed. For a while she went back to Mexico then back to San Antonio then she was gone again. For years we didn’t hear from her until one day my mom unexpectedly ran in to her. It made my mom happy to see Fela again and she wanted to share that happiness with me. So one evening we went to her tiny little house. The living room was dominated by a big TV set and on top of that TV was a huge photograph of me as a child. It was a shock—after all the years that had past and despite having lost contact with one another, Fela still kept the memory of me close to her. It was and continues to be one of the most touching experiences of my life. I left for Italy a short time afterwards but my mom kept up with Fela and even went to her son’s wedding.

When the Trump administration decided to use ICE to take small children away from their mothers only to lock them in cages, I was shocked and disgusted. But what I felt most of all was pain–—what if something like that had happened to Fela and her baby?

Separating a mother from her child is evil and against the laws of nature. It is also highly misogynist as it belittles the very foundation of motherhood. And it shows a total lack of respect for human life…the damage done to those children is irreversible. As just thinking about it all throws my biorhythms into tilt, I will stop here but with the invitation to read The Lace Collar  a post about Ruth Ginsburg and her fight for gender equality.

Related: Single motherhood has grown so common in America that today 80 percent of single-parent families are headed by single mothers — nearly a third live in poverty.” + Parents of 545 children still not found three years after Trump separation policy

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Johnny Jump Ups

My mom and I lived far away from one another so we looked forward to our weekly telephone conversations. We talked about everything although lately much of what we said was about the Age of Decadence we’re living in and how ugly the world has become. To keep from losing our balance, we decided to focus on beauty and began exchanging memories of things that had given us pleasure. That’s how I learned about the Johnny Jump Ups.

My mom grew up in the post-depression years. Things were tough. The eldest of ten children, my mom had the responsibility of going to the spring to get water for the family. Carrying a heavy bucket back to the house was not a chore she enjoyed. But that changed in the spring when Persephone returned to the earth again bringing with her blossoming Johnny Jump Ups (aka wild pansies). And when my mom saw them, she’d throw down her bucket and race towards the little violet and yellow painted flowers with laughter in her heart. So in love with their beauty, my mom would get down on the ground to look at them tenderly and caress them. The joy they’d given her had been so strong that she could still remember them some 80 years later.

pansies in a Roman courtyard

The other morning I took an early morning walk looking for johnny jump ups—that is, looking for the beauty around me. The village of Parikia was tranquil—no noise, no traffic, no people. Just me and the world. So as I walked, I carefully looked for beauty and easily found it everywhere.

Sometimes beauty is all around us and we don’t even see it because our mind is focused somewhere else. We are often too busy looking for what’s not there instead of simply enjoying what we already have. To keep alive that part of my mom I liked so much, I commit myself to spending more time looking for beauty in my everyday life and giving thanks for its presence.

So posted below are some of my “johnny jump ups” of the day:

Ζωοδοχος πηγή (Zoodochos Pigi) is our neighborhood church and plays an important role in the community. Its bells wake us up every Sunday morning.

“Ζωοδοχος πηγή” translates as “life giving source”. “Πηγή” (“pigí”) also translates as “well” or “spring”. The piazza of this church is a gathering point. Since the church is so small inside, on Sundays the piazza is full of people outside listening to the service. The church often celebrates religious feast days by setting up long tables of food…thus a “life giving source” in this sense, too. And, before covid, there were many festivities held here such as fish dinners with fish provided by local fishermen. After eating, the tables were cleared and the live music began with everyone dancing (myself included). What a thrill to see chubby old grandmothers dancing animatedly with their grandchildren!

Rocks and Ferry…the Golden Star Ferry in the port waiting for passengers to arrive.

The church of Agios Konstantinos that sits high on the hill reigning over rows of oleanders.

Windmill at the port that also serves as tourist info office waiting to be illuminated by the sun.

Part of my walk takes me past the little domed church of Saint Nicolas Thalassitis. On the right is a row of tamarisks where local farmers, protected by the shade, bring their produce to sell. In fact, I bought a watermelon on my way back home.

Taverna with Vines, Livadia…sometimes all it takes to transform something insignificant into something marvellous is to let nature be your interior decorator.

I’ve often sat in the shade of these tamarisks fixating on the horizon in front of me….

Sea view from Livadia…and the magic of the horizon.

Livadia Selfie

Sunrise…something that happens every day but so seldom seen.

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French Provincial

Her real name was Frances, a name that, in her opinion, lacked glamour. So she changed it to “Toni” as in “Antoinette” as in “Marie Antoinette”.

Several years ago, I published an e-book, “Bebina Bunny’s Cabinet of Curiosities”, and dedicated it to my mom:

“My mom came to visit my first year in Italy. The situation was stressed. Difficult. Weathered.

She wrote a bunch of postcards and asked me to mail them for her. Highly edited, she’d left out all the horrible stuff and wrote only the good. And in a good way. From the postcards you’d think that she’d had a wonderful time.

Aesthetics is a matter of selection.

“French Provincial” for my mom meant elegance and good taste. She’d read that Marie Antoinette’s bathtub was gold. Not being able to afford one herself, she spray painted ours. Only the gold eventually turned green. And so did our bottoms every time we took a bath.

Aesthetics begin at home. That is, the formation of personal taste begins with our mothers–the way they feed us, the way they dress us, the way they decorate our home. Childhood, like Proust’s madeleines, follows us forever.  That’s why this book is dedicated to my mom.

Only now do I fully realize just how much of my artistic training came from my mom and not from formal art training. She was the one who taught me: if you don’t like the way something looks, just paint it!

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Toni O.

My mom died a few days ago. Generally I try to keep private things private and probably would have continued doing so had it not been for those waves, those unexpected bomboras of grief that were breaking me down. A friend of ours posted photos she’d taken of my mom several years ago. The photos showed a mom I little recognized.  They were all taken on the same evening yet in every photo my mom projected a different persona as if she were a little girl playing dress up or an influencer posing for Instagram. The photographer had given my mom a chance to play make-believe and my mom was having a grand time exposing a woman full of flare, spontaneity, and imagination.

(foto by Moe Bauschez)

How beautiful, how glamourous, how playful she was. When I was a child, my mom didn’t have much time for play because she was a single parent busy working to maintain the two of us. But these photos made me realize that my mom hadn’t played for lack of desire but, as with many other women in her position, was left with few options because of her condition of possibility.

A condition of possibility is that which is indispensable for the existence of something else. For example, a plant that’s not watered doesn’t have the same condition of possibility as one that is. We can also apply this concept to people and, in particular, to women whose condition of possibility was radically changed with the male invention of the patriarchal society. Women, once permitted to be goddesses, were now considered inferior to men. And this, obviously, greatly reduced a woman’s condition of possibility. In essence, women have not been given the same possibility for success that men have been given regardless as to whether or not they deserved it.

When I was younger, I didn’t realized all of the struggles my mom had to face for our survival. Now I do.

Mark Twain once said humorously: “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”

The photos mentioned above provoked something inside of me that makes me want to show my appreciation for my mom’s efforts and for the efforts of all single moms. Thus “Toni O”, a new series of posts with the intent of changing my mom’s condition of possibility via storytelling so my mom can finally be the star that she deserved to be.

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La matriarca

The Way I Want to Remember Her

(foto by Brian Nowlin…thanks Brian)

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