Dead mom jokes (how i didn’t get picked for the Erma Bombeck Writers retreat).
Last year, I applied for a week-long writer’s retreat in Dayton, Ohio. I use a lot of stories from my childhood in my standup. I thought it would be neat to spend the week writing a bunch of short stories with an eye on someday maybe putting them out as a book or something. If not, it could be a way to kick-start ideas for stand-up material. Either way, I didn’t get picked, but much of what I wrote for my pitch made it into my stand-up. I figured I would share what I wrote here. Enjoy!
I'm going to change my name to motherfucker, and the first time you say it, I'm gonna mash your mouth.
These words from my mother were ringing in my ears while riding in the passenger seat down 3rd Avenue. Past Chapman's Mortuary, where I learned to ride my bike in the parking lot. Past the middle school where I would soon attend and where I played Little League baseball.
My relationship with my mom was complicated.
I was about ten years old and desperately trying to get her attention when she smacked the power knob on the radio and made that declaration. I wanted a happy meal or to tell her about how, at school that day, I got to be a hall monitor, and it felt badass. I got to wear a badge and EVERYTHING. To be fair, I was an entitled prick at age 10. You know, always wanting food or basic interaction.
It's not like she asked for any of this. The this, in this case, was being a parent. I came out a three-pound, cigarette smoke-induced-premature-birth surprise and got in the way of my mom's hopes and dreams. All her desires now had to be put on hold to care for a new, tiny human. Things like a career in country music, having friends, or finishing the 9th grade. I just wasn't part of the equation, you know? Which was fine, considering she only finished 8th grade Math. She probably wasn't that great at Algebra anyway.
I do have some empathy for my mom. Bringing a child into this world as a fully formed human adult is terrifying. I can't imagine what it would be like to do the same thing as a teenager. She didn't have a support system to navigate being a parent. She and my dad gave the family thing a go for a while. Strangely enough, the shotgun wedding between a 15-year-old high school dropout and a suspiciously aged elevator repairman didn't stand the test of time. Or the test of three months.
We bounced around a lot early on. Fuck that, we moved around pretty much my whole childhood until I got to high school. We were on welfare, and sometimes, the landlord would just decide that he didn't want us to live there anymore. Other times, landlords would determine that they didn't necessarily want their rental home to be the epicenter for all drug activity in a 20-mile radius. My mom had a type, that's for sure. All that relocating set me up for my early 20s, touring the country in a van with 4 other dudes in a band. You can take the kid out of West Virginia, but you can't take the chaotic, unstable living situation out of the kid.
The final straw for me was when my mom re-married for the third time and moved "out Wayne." For the uninitiated, that is what folks in Huntington referred to Wayne County as because it was definitely out there both in a physical and metaphysical sense. In an area that already felt ten years behind the rest of the country, Wayne County felt like you were in a black-and-white movie while the rest of the world was in color. Moving there would mean an all-new school with new people for my last two high school years. Hard. Pass.
I spent a while living with my ex-girlfriend and her family, sleeping on her floor. No lie. Her asshole new boyfriend was NOT chill about that situation at all, so I moved down to a spare room. That is until her dad told me I had worn out my welcome and had to move out. Her mom stepped in, though, and told her husband that if anyone would be leaving, it would be him. I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted. Chaotic, unstable living situations and all.
I did end up moving out, though. I ended up going to live with Mamaw, who was a constant in my life at this point. Moving in with Mamaw made a lot of sense. I adored my grandmother. I spent a lot of time staying with her growing up, and she had a spare room I could move into. This allowed me to stay at my high school for my senior year. I want to be clear: don't confuse Mamaw for Meemaw or Mawmaw. In my family, they are three different people. Mamaw was my mom's mom, Meemaw was my dad's mom, and Mawmaw was our neighbor in the trailer park with whom my mom traded Food Stamps for cigarettes.
My mom died this past fall. We hadn't spoken in almost 15 years. I moved away and took my own path. I joined a band, jumped into a 15-passenger van, and toured the country. I took that opportunity and didn't look back. Some best-selling authors turned politicians will have you believe that to escape this area, you only need to work harder. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Fuck that. I didn't work harder than anyone. I didn't even get out of bed before Noon most days. I didn't have bootstraps or boots, for that matter! If my shoes weren't of the Vans Slip-on variety, I wasn't wearing them. I got a lucky break, and I took it.
You may think, "Wow, you're really giving your dead mom some shit right now." That is entirely fair. People are complex and layered. My mom had some circumstances that may have been in her control and some that were not. However, this was my life experience, and I don't think dead people should get a pass for being shitty just because they are dead. Also, what is she going to do, come back to haunt me? She has been largely absent from my life for 20 years; I doubt she will show up now. Also, she would be the worst ghost ever.
"OoooooOooohooo! Can I borrow $1500? I owe a guy for some pilllllssssss. OoohOoooooo."
That didn't work when you were alive; it won't work now.
I'm now 44 and sitting in the same Chapman's Mortuary parking lot where I learned to ride my bike as a kid. My three brothers lived with my mom growing up. They're all in prison on federal drug charges, and I am left to handle this mess. I arrived to find that two strung-out addict friends of my mom had falsely filled out funeral paperwork, both claiming to be her daughter-in-law. They have left me off the paperwork entirely. One of them yelled at me and said no one wanted me there because I had abandoned the family. We're arguing over who is in charge of the estate since there is no will to speak of. Let's be honest, "estate" is generous. At this point, it's likely some fiber optic angels, a Travis Tritt CD, and some empty pill bottles.
Now, alone in my car, all I can think is:
Thanks for nothing, motherfucker.