The Angry Typist

A high-pitched, repetitive electronic chirping rang off in the distance, growing increasingly louder until I recognized that it was the sound of my alarm clock. My eyes struggled to open under the layer of eye crust at the corners and I rolled onto my back, stretching everything. A combination of comforters and throw-blankets cinched around my neck forming a barrier against the bitter New York winters. I let out an exaggerated yawn and sleepily watched the black garbage bags secured with duct tape over the window expand and deflate to the rhythm of the wind, giving the window the illusion of life and breathing. The standard oil boiler was never set above 58 °F in our brownstone. ‘Just enough to keep the pipes from freezing & bursting,’ Māmā would preach.

The house was always eerily still in the mornings – void of any homey vibes or fragrances of baked cookies or family meals. Gege had already left for his paper route and Māmā was long gone to work, and I would not see either of them until late in the evening. These were the days before the shock of Bàba’s passing had worn off.

I was 10 and Gege was 14 when Bàba died unexpectedly. Māmā became a widow at the tender age of 42 and her grief consumed her, swallowed her whole. She drowned her grief with work, never declining overtime. Māmā left the house every morning at 6 a.m. to accommodate her 2-hour commute into Manhattan and often she would not return until 8 p.m. Monday through Friday and most Saturdays until 3 or 4 p.m. she would work. Most days, I only saw Māmā in passing – when she walked through the front door and went upstairs. There’s a jingling of the keys at the top of the stairs when she unlocked her bedroom door. She closed it short of a slam then locked it behind her, getting lost in a small television in her room. On occasion, she would stop by the kitchen to complain about the dirty dishes in the sink, but mostly, she reclused herself to the confines of her bedroom.

I could usually be found on the living room sofa, alone, doing my homework or studying for an exam, with the television on. For the first few months after Bàba’s death, I attempted to engage Māmā in conversation between the time she walked in the door and before she retreated upstairs. I tried to be cheerful and inquired about her day, hopeful to be acknowledged, hopeful she would take some interest in my life, or what homework I was doing, or how I did on my spelling bee. But Māmā was too heartbroken to be a mother, all she could muster was to be the grieving widow. Eventually, I had grew accustomed to being invisible and barely lifted my head when she walked through the door and only followed her with my eyes until she disappeared for the rest of the evening in isolation, just her and her television.

I grew to be rather self-sufficient. I did my own laundry, signed my own school permission slips, reviewed & signed my own report cards, prepared my own meals, vacuumed the house, washed the kitchen floor, cleaned the bathrooms, trimmed the outside hedges, shoveled the snow, watered the lawn, the trees, and yes on occasion, washed the dishes.

Society had dubbed my generation ‘latchkey kids’ and it had never occurred to me that it was necessarily a bad thing. After all, I grew to be very competent, independent, and self-reliant. I never faulted Māmā for being unable to mother because as a 10-year-old, I just didn’t know any better.

It was something that I had long forgotten until Young Sheldon, Season 7, Episode 12, when George Senior died of a heart attack. It was an uncomfortable episode to watch as if I was watching my own family struggling through the death of a father. I identified with Sheldon’s twin sister, Missy. I shared her frustration, her disappointment, her need of her mother. But now as an adult, I also became angry with the character Mary Cooper.

There was a specific scene when Missy complained that her mother (Mary Cooper) was only had room for God & Jesus, but what she really needed was her mother which broke my heart completely. Like Māmā buried herself in work, Mary Cooper drowned herself in religion, both women hopelessly trying to find comfort where none existed. Both Māmā and Mary’s inability to overcome their grief, essentially emotionally orphaned their children.