My mom took great pride and comfort in the color coordination of the guest bathroom towels, bathroom rug, and toilet lid cover. I suppose the perception of order gave her some sense of control, and distracted her from the chaos of her middle class domestic life, particularly that of raising three young children while her marriage crumbled due to her husband’s infidelities and alcoholism.
My mom has since passed away, but my writing continues to question the tension between the way things are presented, the way they actually look, and what they look like to me. It examines the attitudes, fears, and unwritten rules that forms one’s world and the behaviors within it, and brings to light the humanity and eccentricity of what someone builds to protect themselves, just to survive and get through another day.
Although I was paid as a communications specialist, my parents and I never really talked. Since the birth of my daughter, however, writing has become a natural expression of play and love between me and my little girl (there are post-it notes from her everywhere – some are silly poems, some are “words” you can’t find in the dictionary, some are love songs).
I write for me. But I write to her.