Fam

I am the daughter of my mother.
She has created every being of my breath, my skin and soul.
She as harbored my insanity, abhorred my instability but cherished my constant critique.
I am the daughter of my mother.
My mother bathes in chaos. Pretending to run from it, but still keeping it close to heart, chaos is her lover.
With it she finds meaning, feeding it, clothing it.
Gifting it.
I take it eagerly.
The best thing my mother ever gave me is her chaos.
Because chaos lets my mother cry and chaos lets my mother speak. Chaos gives my mother the strength to explore, the willingness to ignore
Harsh judgment.
Chaos has created my mother; every blond hair on her head, every freckle on her cheek, every kiss hello—it’s chaos.
And it’s breathing within her, thriving within her, she feeds it and it feeds back—growing and moving—fermenting and re-seeding.
Chaos is my mother’s garden, her home, her husband.

I used to hate my mother’s chaos.
I’ve tried for years not to let myself cry, or feel, or read, or listen, or speak.
So many of the other people are chaos free, they watch their big screen TVs and eat chocolate chip cookies with the neighbors maybe a cup of tea.
The other people have two well-behaved children—pampered and presentable
-Inherited prestige.
They have live in maids and good china sets, big back yards and a collection of well-mannered pets. They read poetry and then put it back, they pay for private school and never eat buffalo barf. They watch football games and appreciate ballet, good literature, politics.

But I am a chaos kid, I cry to the NY Times, I suck at tennis and eat way too much junk. I am a feminist but blog about boys. Plaid shirts, booty shorts, chipped nails chapped lips. Rats nest on my head aint to presentable. I throw hissy fits and I’m unstable. I talk real loud and curse at the dinner table. But the chaos lets me breath and feel and shake and smile, it lets me scream and be obscene and major in philosophy. It makes me more like my mother and she’s anything but chaos free.