Teaching Me How to Swear

The One True Cure For 'Horse Talk'

I learned all about swearing at Other Mother's house. She wanted to be called 'Other-Mother' because she hated the idea that she was old enough to be a grandmother. She herself used the term 'Other-Mother' to describe her father's third wife when she was a child, and liked it. Before any of us were born Other Mother demanded that my mother made her children call her by that name. 

Other Mother was a short, round, angry little woman who dismissed her given names of Iris and Utahana to go by 'Pat', a nickname that she received for her obstinate and surly nature which reminded her family of her uncle Patrick. 

She was a woman  possessed of that uniquely southern morality that finds it quite unthinkable to come shabbily dressed to a lynching. One of her favorite teaching moments were lectures about 'rough talk' and 'horse talk' explaining that it was important to keep what came out of our mouths clean, considerate and respectful. One time when my older sister accidentally bumped the table knocking over my block creation and I called her stupid within the hearing of my grandmother. Other Mother stomped over, grabbed me by the hair, pulled me into the kitchen, sat me down and told me what damage a hateful word could do to someones heart. Then she showed me the damage a metal serving spoon could do to someones hand by giving me a few whacks. 

In my opinion the spoon whacks were worse but that was probably because I wasn't stupid like my sister. 

My First Memory

Trust No One, and Eat Ramen with Both Eyes Open

The first thing I can remember in my life is being robbed, robbed on my birthday.

I was 4 years old and it was my birthday and the party was at my grandma and grandpa's house in the Imperial Mobile Home Park. I can remember my brother and sister and the rest of the family singing happy birthday to me. I remember having some chocolate cake with white frosting.

What anchors the memory in my mind was the two toy monster trucks I got in a blister pack. They smelled faintly like sweet vanilla which was probably carcinogenic solvents off-gassing from their still curing bodies. Delicious. We had a one car asphalt driveway that my dad had extended to the side with a few stepping stones so that his work truck would not wear a hole in the lawn. This left a perfect mud divot between the road and the stones for playing trucks in. A neighbor boy and I were out playing with my new trucks, buzzing engine noises with our lips, and driving in the mud when my grandmother, who demanded we call her 'Other Mother' but would settle for 'O-Mo', came out to call me to dinner. I jumped up to come inside. She told me to bring my new toy trucks inside, but I was a generous soul and left them so that the other boy could keep playing. I went inside and ate my rice with crushed up ramen noodles in it, an O-Mo classic.

When I came back outside the boy and my trucks were gone. For good.

I ran the half block up to the road junction looking for him.  Then I ran back to the other junction hoping it was possible that he was still out and about. He was not and I went home weeping for my lost trucks and my betrayed trust. I sat on the steps and cried while my mom told me it was important to take care of my toys. Yeah, mom, I know that now.