Wednesday, March 20, 2019
I Am Not a Lesbian (for now) :: Personal Narrative Writing
My get under ones skin is not a lesbian. Her fr takernal twin, Marty, was a lesbian. Marty died of lung cancer when I was seven she and my mother were thirty-four. My mothers twin is a martyrize in my family, the perfect child, the perfect person. She loved people she was smart, athletic, active in the fight for womens rights. She taught me how to jump rope on Sanibel Island in Florida. It was windy, but thats exclusively I remember. We went to Philadelphia for the memorial service. Suede, one of Martys former l everyplaces, played From a remoteness on her synthesizer. Martys body was cremated, but we never saw the ashes scattered because a huge snowstorm covered Pennsylvania the mean solar day subsequently the service. We ate dinner in Martys old house, which she shared with Bonnie, her lover at the time. My mother says my father cooked chicken, and Suede played the piano and guitar for us. She played House at Pooh Corner and Peanut Butter and Jelly for me and my little sist er.The August after Marty died, I taught myself how to play Happy Birthday on the piano, for my mother. Moms birthday always created of a huge amount of stress for every member of my family. My father, my junior sister, play, and I, we labored. To make it perfect. On our birthdays, my mother pined and agonized to ensure that every level went correctly, so the birthday person would be happy. The reservations at the restaurant, the number of fellowship favors, the order of giving presents and playing games, all must be in line. And when something did not go as planned, she would be devastated we would spend the whole day assuring her that the birthday had gone well, that it had not been ruined by a burnt cake. So when August eleventh rolled around, it was imperative that not a single thing upset her, that we not ruin her birthday.Cricket led Mom by the hand into the living room as I began to play. I only got to the part where it goes high with happy birthday dear Jody before I m essed up. Pressed the wrong key the detachment was off. I burst into tears. Sobbing on the piano bench, bent over the tainted keys, I realized my mother had also begun to cry, with Cricket in her lap. The only other time Id ever seen my mother shed a single tear was months before, at Martys memorial service.