THE BIRTH OF MOMMA...

This picture has nothing to do with the below essay. It is, however, another example of how dogs are better than cats. My dog is about 65 years old, blind in one eye, deaf in both ears, and has a strange, receding, lip problem, but he still humps my leg. That, my friends, is dignity incarnate.

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How I became Momma

I am an avid follower of the 'self-re-birthing process'. The 'self-re-birthing process' developed using ancient American Indian practices. When a person becomes of age, that's to say they do something indicative of adulthood, like living alone, or breaking out of a bad relationship, or defaulting on a student loan, then the theory goes that they must re-name themselves.

The re-naming process is not easy and no one comes to it willingly. Typically, a life altering, stressful event happens. You have to be lower than you can possibly go before you can rise to the challenge of renaming yourself.

For me, the renaming process began with a bad breakup and an outdoor, survival course. A word on the outdoor, survival course; I am now and will forever remain a city girl. I was born in a city. I love urban areas. I have always liked them. I was born with a cynicism that can only be found in city natives. People born with the cynicism are born with world-weary, bags under their eyes. I always thought the bags were from allergies, but upon seeing a photo of myself at age three, with those same bags, I realized they were from something else - the city gene. The bag inducing, cynicism is born from seeing one hundred saliva spitting Asians and Mexicans every day. It is born from seeing people clip their fingernails and engage in other self-grooming practices in public areas. It is born from witnessing the 'snap' over and over again. The 'snap' of course being the moment when an otherwise rational person is pushed over the edge by some seemingly innocuous event. We, of course, have not seen the other small details leading up to the snap: the demotion at work, the spilled coffee all over the new white shirt, the breakup over the voicemail, the inability to take twenty dollars out with your ATM card because you only have ten left, all of these small details pile up until the inevitable 'snap' occurs, usually over something benign like one passenger saying to another, "Do you mind moving your bag a bit, so I can hang on to that pole?" The 'snapper' typically replies with the following, "DO I MIND MOVING MY BAG?! DO I MIND MOVING MY BAG? Fuck, yeah, I mind moving my bag. This is my fucken' space. I came to this space first and I will defend this space to the death. Do you fucken' understand me? So, yes, I mind moving my bag. And I also mind your foul smelling, McDonald's bag and your loud, obnoxious ipod music, I MIND ALL OF IT. SO, MIND YOUR OWN GODDAMNED BUSINESS AND GET AWAY FROM MY POLE!!" This answer, of course, seems perfectly justified to the person deeply enveloped in a 'snap' moment, but to everyone else it seems crazy. In fact, everyone around the 'snapper' will immediately adopt a universal expression that says, "This guy is totally nuts." The problem is that the 'snapper' is now keenly aware of such nonverbal cues and they will force the 'snapper' even deeper into the undertow of the 'snap'. Upon seeing the expressions of the other citizens around him, the 'snapper' will often say, "Oh, I'm crazy?! I'm crazy! You want to see crazy?! This is crazy..." The 'snapper' will then drop his trousers to his ankles and begin peeing on the pole, in a primitive attempt to mark his territory. He will continue peeing and shouting until the subway car clears and he is carted away by local police. While in his downtown, holding pen, the 'snapper' upon massaging his throbbing temple, and getting a last whiff of his pee-stained suit, will probably begin re-naming himself with thoughts like, "I must start a new. And maybe I should get some therapy." This is how the re-naming process often begins. But, I digress...

I was a young girl with bags under her eyes who grew into a young adult with bags under her eyes. I had a shitty breakup and decided it was time to shed my clothing, paint myself with soil, and get closer to God. So, I went on a sailing trip. I assumed 'sailing' and 'roughing' it meant working out on the water and sleeping in a nice enclosed bunk under the deck at night. How wrong I was. How wrong. Roughing it meant, peeing and pooing in a bucket, sleeping on the oars, eating dehydrated hummus, and not showering for ten days. Perhaps, you believe dehydrated hummus does not belong in that last sentence. I say it does. Hummus is gooey, watery, paste made out of chickpeas. Hummus, in its wet state, is typically quite good. When you take all the water out of hummus, you take out all the love. What you are left with is the equivalent of a tissue/sandpaper blend that will not wash down even after gulping more water than is available in the endless sea. Hummus was indeed a factor in my downward spiral. It's not that I couldn't take the roughing it. It's not that I didn't like the outdoors. It was that I needed to complain. I needed to complain without being thrown over by my shipmates. I needed to complain through me, but not as me. Thus, Momma was born. I channeled all the downtrodden, show stopping, black women that I've known and admired over the years, Nell Carter, Florida Evans, Wheezy, Queen Latifah, and of course, Momma Cass, and I became reborn.

I shouted out to my shipmates, "Momma don't pee in no bucket! Momma don't sleep on no oar! Momma don't eat no dehydrated hummus! And Momma needs some coffee; toot sweet, because Momma has not taken a good shit for herself in ten days. This boat is changing course. Watch out, people. Momma is swinging that sail around." And with that I headed the ship towards Canadian customs where the captains of the boat returned with an enormous canister of Maxwell House.

And thus, Momma came to be. She has never gone back under. Momma and I are one and the same now. Some people find it interesting. Some people find it funny. Some people find it creepy. Some people will never understand the 'snap'. Thankfully, "Momma don't give one hell raising, god damn about them neigh sayers. Momma knows they will get theirs." And that's the important thing to remember...Momma knows. Momma always knows best. Long Live Momma.