"Romantic Isolation "
I have never once introduced a girlfriend to my family. Not once. Not ever.
Well, I guess that isn’t totally true. When I was twenty, I met a girl in Dallas while I was shopping with my parents at the mall. So technically, they did meet her. I have to admit it’s kind of difficult to look cool when your parents are taking you shopping. “Hi! I’m a geek who can’t afford to pay for his own clothing. Wanna have dinner?” And I suppose they met a girl I was seeing while I was home for the summer in 1990. She went to church with my family and was a lifeguard at the pool they frequented, so they saw a lot of her. I never, however, brought her to the house. And they did meet my prom dates, and one girl I dated from the swim team, but that’s it. I figure anything prior to high school graduation was hard to avoid so it doesn’t count.
So other than those rare instances, I have never intentionally, formally introduced a girlfriend to my family. Not once. Not ever. I have always said that I look forward to my family meeting my future wife – after the wedding. I think my father is OK with this. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to pay for another wedding.
This is not because I am embarrassed about the women I date. Hell, I’m usually so excited to have a date I parade them around like debutants. I have been with some amazing and wonderful women. This particular point may justifiably be argued by some of my friends and anyone who has read my rant about dating disasters, but let’s not rattle any of those skeletons right now. Rest assured, I am not trying to protect my family and my reputation from the girl so lucky or, more accurately, so masochistic to hang on my bony arm.
I am trying to protect her from them.
I’m the first born of four, raised by two very vocal, dominant, intrusive, stubborn, tragically strict, Italian-American, New York, Roman-Catholic parents. My house was always the noisy one on the block. Italians shout a lot. I thought this was unique to my family until I took my first trip as an adult to New York City a few years ago. While I was there I watched parents dragging their kids along on the street by their ears. Mom’s routinely shouted at their kids. Discipline through volume. “Get over here! Get over here! What?! What do you think you’re doing? I’ll beat your ass if you don’t get over here now!” New York is a very “in your face” community. There’s no stern under-the-breath warnings common in the west. The parenting is just as severe, just as shrill, just as confrontational as the city. My parents are from this environment. Of course, few of my neighbors were aware of this, fewer still were from the east coast, so we were always the loudest house on the block.
This is largely due
to my mother. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m in deep, deep shit now. For those of you who do know me, and more specifically, know my family, please remember to say a prayer for me tonight. Cause I just might not live this little story down. Hell, I’ll be lucky if I live through it. (Mom, remember the tongue is planted firmly in check. Mr. Tongue, meet Mr. Cheek. Mr. Cheek, Mr. Tongue.)
Because, rest assured, my mom knows how to hold a grudge. I’m fully convinced the guilt trip was a journey first embarked upon by an Italian woman. My Jewish friend Jeff might argue that point (he’s a lawyer, it’s his job to argue), but even if he’s right, an Italian mother was a close second down that road.
Actually, my mother is a fully certified conductor on the train to Guiltville. Case in point. When I was thirteen years old and smack dab in the middle of that time when kids want nothing to do with their parents (unless of course it involves money, food, clothes, cars, friends or freedom) and the thought of being seen with them is as pleasant as an infected toenail, I left my mother alone for twenty minutes at my middle school graduation. She pulled the kids out of school and dragged them to Magee Jr. High’s auditorium to see her firstborn graduate. And I ignored her. She was alone, alone with my baby sister and brother in tow. Alone, all alone, while her eldest child selfishly hung out with his loser stoner friends. Hanging with friends! Left her alone! Alone!
I heard about this adolescent altercation until my college graduation. I am still occasionally haunted by the vision of my devastated mother, standing there lost and hurt with two little kids clutching her hands wondering what happened to their big brother. She swore (repeatedly) that she would never go to another one of my graduations. She never followed through with that threat, but she never hesitated to bring this story up at every opportunity. Usually at large family gathering. Or dinner. Breakfast. Lunch. Brunch. Snacks. Church. Dental appointments. During “The A-Team”.
Now that I have written about it, I’m certain to hear about it again. I don’t have any immediate plans for graduate school, so I don’t have much to worry about.
Guilt is a journey my mom, like all Italian mothers, knows really well. She has four kids, so she has had lots of practice. To her credit, her four ungrateful little cretins provide her abundant fuel for the guilt trip. My mom has been calling me since I moved out of the house to complain about the antics of her other three children. I’m a perfect little angel, so I’m rarely on the receiving end. Right. I suspect my siblings hear just as many gripes and groans about me as I hear about them. And if they don’t, this little diatribe will probably change all that.
Admittedly, I do get a kick out of her calls. She’s my Mom, and I love her so. Despite the fact that I have not lived within 1000 miles of her since 1989, I do talk to her weekly. The umbilical cord may be long, but rest assured, she has a death grip on her end. I did once go three months without saying so much as a word to her after she and I got in a little tiff (not surprisingly) about a girl, but other than that and the month I spent in Tanzania, I have spoken to her at least once a week since I liberated myself from her household. When she does call, I can parrot all her complaints and consternations. Drives her nuts. And driving her nuts is my prerogative as her child. I have all her greatest hits memorized by now.
“Money doesn’t grow on trees.”
“What do they think, I’m made of money?”
“My children never learn.”
“That’s it, I’m through. I don’t care anymore. I don’t. I mean it.”
“Where did I go wrong?”
“Let’s see if I help them next time.”
“I’m not long for the world. You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
Which ironically is usually followed by, “Hah. You’ll probably dance on my grave.”
“What did I do to deserve this?”
“No one appreciates all that I do.”
“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be able to do that. Remember who gave you life.”
My personal favorite: “Remember, I brought you into this world. I can take you out.”
And then there’s the old standby, “I don’t need this aggravation.”
Of course, she does in fact need the aggravation. Isn’t that why people become parents? Because as far as I can tell, once a kid is older than four or five, that awesome, heart-warming, gut-wrenching, uber-cuddly cuteness wears off. And then the kid is just a physical, financial, emotional, spiritual leach whose sole purpose is to drive his or her parents right up the proverbial wall. I know I sat behind that steering wheel more than once. And the rest of my siblings spent ever-increasing amounts of time in the driver’s seat as each one of us reached adolescence. The aggravation bus hit top speed when my darling baby brother told my parents to f*** off (and in those words I’m told) and subsequently, appropriately, got kicked out of the house.
Twice.
Of course, my parents had the last laugh. He joined the Marine Corp shortly after high school. I know my father must have been doubled over with maniacal laughter when he thought of my brother cranking out all those pushups. Amazing how a little time in the Corps can turn an obnoxious, profane little delinquent into a model citizen. Well, for a little while.
Actually, I know those were tough times for my parents. Kenny really was driving them nuts. But you know what? My parents were preposterously strict. Most of my friends regarded the rules under which I lived with the same pathetic sympathy that Americans viewed the way people lived under the Soviet regime. To be clear, Mr. and Mrs. Parisi were tough. No parties. No cruising. No sleeping over friend’s houses after age thirteen. No dating until sixteen. No pierced ears ever – for the boys or girls. I had 12:00 AM curfew as a senior in High School. I wasn’t even allowed to follow my varsity swim team to state because I had a “D” in College Algebra on a progress report. Ended up grounded for two months till I brought the grade up.
And my Dad was a tough little dude. He always made it abundantly clear that I was never to screw with him. “Just wait till your father comes home” rang quite clear in my household. That was no hollow threat. My grandmother used to spend hours telling me about what a little scrapper he was as a kid. Hell, all my friends were terrified of him, despite the fact that most of them outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. My favorite paternal moment? When I was thirteen I brought up the topic of drugs with my father since my junior high had a pretty severe problem with marijuana. About half the student body was stoned on any given day. We had three or four busts in the two years I was there. My dad, a product of the 60’s even, was surprisingly less than understanding. Although to his credit, his position was made abundantly clear. No gray area at all. He said, and I quote, “If you ever do drugs, and I find out, I will f***ing kill you.” I suppose it worked. I’ve never once touched any illicit substances.
Hell, to this day I get nervous breaking the seal on a bottle of Advil.
So when my parents called me in 1995 or so and told me about Kenny’s rebellion and subsequent exodus from the household, I was empathetic, supportive, and concerned. But internally, secretly, the seventeen year old kid who didn’t get to go to state was screaming, “Yeah! Go Kenny! Go Kenny! Go Kenny!”
I never had the balls to stand up to my Dad. Although I didn’t condone his behavior, I was impressed as hell that Kenny, at least by physical measurements the runt of the litter, did.
So my parents did have to put up with their fair share of frustration, aggravation, irritation, and exasperation from the four of us. And as I mentioned before, I doubt any parent in the world has it any different.
The irony is that by the time the child has grown up, grown old, moved on, moved out, the parents have become so accustomed to the aggravation, to the sacrifice, they don’t know how to live without it. They aren’t their own people anymore. They have been both slaves and slave drivers to the little brat or brats for so many years they don’t know how to live independently without them. The aggravation gives them purpose. It gives them meaning. Parenthood is the ultimate sacrifice of self. After eighteen years of sacrifice, most people need to find new ways to poke and prod and pry and search for ways for their now grown kids to frustrate them. Admittedly, most of the time they don’t have to pry to far. They look for ways to stay prostrate on the temple of their children. Most parents, of course, won’t admit to this. Can’t give the little cretins any more leverage than they already have. But the aggravation is a fix. And like it or not, my Mom is an aggravation junkie. Thankfully, she has raised a mini cartel of four really talented aggravation pushers.
So I digress. I was writing about why I have never introduced a girlfriend to my family. Some of my friends would argue I need to actually have a girlfriend first, so I’ll save them the effort and toss the obvious jab out there myself.
Well, as I mentioned earlier, it’s a loud home. My mother was (still is) the vocal and overtly dominant Italian matriarch you have grown to expect as cliché in movies. If you add my youngest sister to the fray, to volume at my family’s home goes up exponentially. My mom would claim so does the aggravation, but that’s a different story. My sister is, despite her passionate denials, like my Mom on steroids. With a bullhorn. And a temper.
Regardless, I remember walking home from school and hearing my mother yelling at us half a block away. “Kenny! Kenny! Put that down!” “Sherri! I told you to wash the dishes!” “Paula! Don’t talk back! I brought you into this world! I can take you out!” “Jimmy! Why isn’t he home yet?! Jimmy!” New Yorkers may not find this out of the ordinary. Suburban kids in Arizona wondered if my mom forgot to take her medication.
Not that medication would matter. My mother doesn’t like to take medication. Other than the occasional Tylenol to deal with her frequent offspring induced headaches, she never pops any pills, regardless of how she is suffering. She also hates going to the doctor. I’m shocked she went the four times she had to deliver us. This isn’t all that surprising I suppose. Lot’s of people hate to go to the doctor. The sterility of the rooms, the strange utensils, the infuriating waiting, the thought of things the poke or prod or stitch or stab or squeeze or suck or cause you to bleed. And all those sick people in the lobby. Hell, I hate to go to the doctor. I pretty much have to lose a limb to consider taking that trip.
This is not, however, why my mother doesn’t like to visit the doctor or take any medicine. She doesn’t like medicine cause it might make her feel better. And if she feels better, she will have less to complain to her children about. And if she has less to complain to her children about, she won’t have as many ways to play the noble martyr. Martyrdom is of course the final stop on the oft-traveled guilt trip.
Martyrdom is a common affliction found in Italian families. Italian moms feel complete through the many sacrifices they make on behalf of their children. And they usually can’t go a week without ritually sacrificing themselves upon the alter of their offspring. Must be a Catholic thing. All those martyrs and saints. My Mom did spend a decade in Catholic school in the sixties. Taught by militant nuns. You know that’s gotta leave a scar. I think compared to that, my brother had it easy in the Corps. So how can we appreciate our loving mother if we don’t hear weekly about the sacrifices she has made all for the benefit of her ungrateful children. The children who never appreciate her no matter how much she gives and gives and gives.
And she does give. I will never deny that. She has made countless sacrifices. And she does love her children. More than I can possibly comprehend. God help the person who tries to harm any of her children.
Example: When I was seventeen and living in Tucson, there was a mentally unbalanced woman who used to wander the neighborhood yelling at cacti, shrubs, cars, pets, the sky, and no one in particular. Anyone who has spent any amount of time in NYC or San Francisco wouldn’t be surprised by a poor soul wandering the streets working out their demons, but in suburban East Tucson, despite the maddening heat, that sight was rare indeed.
Back to the story. This woman one day decided to focus her psychotic ravings at my sister as she walked home from school. Sherri walked in the house visibly upset at whatever this sick and out of control woman had been shouting at her.
Enter Mama Bear.
My mother is about 5’2”, maybe 115 pounds. Despite my prior rant about the volume of her parental discipline, she is a pleasant, quiet woman in public. Outside the home, she never stirs trouble, never swears, and rarely gets confrontational. She is for all intents and purposes, proper, polite and reserved.
Until you threaten her babies.
My diminutive little mother charged out of the house like a rampaging bull on LSD. Damn near tore the door off its hinges. She ran up the street and began shouting threats and even the occasional obscenity nose to nose with this possibly psychotic, possibly dangerous, clearly unstable woman who was in fact about six inches taller and at least forty pounds heavier.
I witnessed this altercation from my bedroom window that looked out upon the street in front of our house. I was a senior in high school, a lettered athlete, and thought myself a stronger more capable adversary than my miniature mother. I donned my letterman jacket, puffed myself up, and headed outside to be the good son. Protect my mom. I’ll handle this. Keep her out of harm’s way.
I strutted up the street as my mother’s increasingly amplified shouts were echoing through the neighborhood and people began poking heads out of their houses to see just what in the hell all the fuss was about. I walked up behind my mother, made myself look as tough as I could, and in my most serious tone asked, “What was the problem here?” No worries Mom, I thought. I got your back.
That little woman spun on one heel, and with glowing eyes terrifyingly similar to those worn by Michael Jackson in his “Thriller” video and a chillingly demonic voice called forth from some dark, previously unknown corner of her soul, snarled through clenched teeth and a foaming mouth, “Get back in the house!”
I jumped back as the gentle albeit occasionally loud little lady that raised me and loved me and comforted me had been turned before my eyes into a snarling beast that would frighten a rabid wolverine. My over-inflated balloon of teenage confidence instantly burst, and I scampered off to my room and prayed the green-eyed demon didn’t follow me there.
I was also no longer worried about the safety of my mother. I was worried about the safety of the poor little crazy lady on my block. I figured I would see my Mom pummeling her into the sidewalk any minute. My sister’s deranged assailant might have been psychotic, but she wasn’t stupid. She backed away, mumbling about my crazy mother.
Now, I’m not concerned that my mother is going to pull a Linda Blair on my girlfriend. I don’t think she will be all that loud or rude in any way or obnoxious or embarrassing. Like I said, she is really a pleasant, reserved woman. She may be a bit intrusive, but that’s her prerogative as a parent. Especially an Italian parent. I suspect my girlfriend might be a little shocked at the volume and chaos of life in a big Italian home if all of us happened to be there at the same time. The Parisi household is about as private and quiet as Grand Central Station when four kids, two parents, one grandparent, three in-laws, three grandkids, one talking bird, and at least two immense, smelly, drooling German dogs are running around the place. Even then, I think my girlfriend could probably handle it.
As supportive and friendly as I know she will be with my chosen mate, I know that in my mother’s eyes, no one will ever be quite good enough for her baby. Her protective nature is apparent when it comes to her children’s romantic relationships. Especially with her boys. Despite the frustration and all to plentiful aggravation we provide, she loves us intensely, and I suspect the thought of some girl taking me away is, on a Freudian level, very unsettling.
For example, my mother has never actually used the first name of any girl I have ever dated. I noticed this pattern a few years ago. Now keep in mind, my mother rarely disliked any of these girls. She just never used their names. I find the psychology of this rather interesting. She gave them all nicknames. Some were cute. Some were not so cute. To be perfectly honest, most weren’t all that flattering. For example, I was seeing a woman who was a marine biologist a few years back. Every time my mother called and inquired about her, she would ask if I was still seeing “The Fish Lady.” Seriously. The Fish Lady. Then there was the time I was dating a woman who was about six years my senior who was unceremoniously blessed with the moniker, “The Old Lady.” My last girlfriend was saddled with “T2” on account of the two tattoos that decorated her body. My current girlfriend is horrified she might just get saddled with “T3” for fairly obvious reasons. She is not looking forward to receiving her new sobriquet. As of today, it hasn’t been finalized. Even girls with whom I haven’t been romantically involved have received nicknames. My friend Michelle has been referred to as “Mick” since I first mentioned she might come visit last Fall.
My mother is also remarkably intuitive and despite the lack of a proper introduction, can instantly tell when I am seeing someone who isn’t exactly good for me. These girls she definitely doesn’t like. One particular girl my mother didn’t care for (she, like everyone else on the planet, saw the chaos well before I did) didn’t even receive a proper alias. She was just referred to as “that girl.” “Are you still seeing that girl?” “Are you doing something with that girl this weekend?” “I hope you are not spending a lot of money on that girl.”
So I have never introduced a girl to my mother – or anyone in my family for that matter. I figure one day I’ll have to. Admittedly, I have been thinking about flying my girlfriend out for the holidays. And I have already told my mother to resist the overwhelming temptation to assign her a nickname of any kind. To her credit, she has complied (reluctantly I’m sure) with my request. But for the time being, I’m sticking with this policy. I’m reducing the aggravation level for all parties involved.
However, my policy of romantic isolation hasn’t been without it’s own negative consequences. About five years ago, and during one of my all too regular catastrophic droughts of romantic involvement, my mother called me and said in all seriousness, “Jimmy, be honest…(pregnant pause)…
Are you gay?”
