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I remember the first time alcohol touched my lips. Spending my usual weekend at the house of my friend, Sarah, we sat on the barstools next to the kitchen counter, while her mother, Pam, concocted the makings of strawberry daiquiris. Carefully slicing fresh strawberries that a migrant farm worker from up the road gave her, she added the juicy halves with the margarita mix we bought at Ralph's and placed them into the glass blender. She added ice. Waiting for all the ice to grind down into a smooth puree, we awkwardly danced to Mariah Carey's "Dreamlover," the version with Old Dirty Bastard. We all sang, "Me and Mariah, go back like babies and pacifiers." We laughed. Three white girls with no rhythm. I remember thinking how cool Pam was, shaking her big booty on the light brown wood floors of her always-fun house. The daiquiris were done. Because we were younger, she made them virgin. A fifth of Bacardi rum stood stately next to the blender, a few swigs short of a full bottle. She poured herself a glass, leaving an inch or so to add the rum. Swirling the rum into the red mixture with a long, glass stirrer, she walked barefooted out onto the porch. The sun was starting to hide behind the rolling hills of San Luis Rey - the hills that formed what looked to be the body of a man, a sleeping Indian, they say. The faint glimmer of the ocean disappeared over the hills. Crosby, the golden retriever Sarah failingly taught for the seeing-eye dog program, shot through the door behind Pam. Then, Pam popped her head back in the door. "Now there's rum next to the blender, girls. I'm out on the porch, so I won't know if you pour some in." Her auburn hair hung in front of her sun-tanned skin. A big goofy smile crossed her face. Laughing in staccato, she closed the patio door. Meanwhile, Sarah and I poured too much rum in our wine glasses of daiquiris. What I really remember, though, was that sensation in my temples; it really was buzzing. I felt loose. I felt like I could dance. I felt like I could drink more. |
My mother raised my brother and me to fear alcohol. On many occasions, my mother said, in exasperation with my consistently rehabilitated uncle, "I wish you kids could get genetically tested for alcoholism, and then have it taken out. Because Lord knows you two have it." She would say this after dragging Jason and me in tight clenched hand-holds to the rehab center where my uncle, Steve, was a regular. I remember the green of the walls and the Parkinson's shake of his detoxified body. She would explain to us, "Your uncle drinks too much beer. It makes him sick in his mind and his body. You guys should never drink that stuff. Promise me, you won't, okay?" In our obvious cluelessness, we, of course, said we never would. My mom preached like Jonathan Edward in "Sinners in the Hands of Angry God." Though she had no pulpit, she nearly infused the idea that drinking alcohol equated to eternal hellfire and damnation. Yet, I later found that her fear was rooted in the past - a lineage of disease-tainted blood. Her father was a drunk. Her brother was a drunk. Her first husband was a drunk - an abusive drunk at that. Footsteps fumbling down the picture-strewn hallway, the stench of alcohol permeated our small house in Chandler, Arizona. As usual, my curly haired father grasped firmly in his large, leathery hands his best friend - a Coors light longneck bottle. His day of horseshoeing was over. He sat brooding in the blue wingback chair in the family room while my mother ran from kitchen to stove to refrigerator to kitchen table, putting the last minute meal preparations together. She made steak, baked potatoes, a Caesar salad, and homemade garlic bread. Six Coors, though, already lay empty in the sink, as his blood churned hot as curry. The danger zone. Awaiting any opportunity to lash out, his temper revved. His voice, a groggy mumble, turned caustic, ranting blame and accusation for what he thought was a dinner not made promptly or tasty enough. Having been married for six months at this point, my mom sadly accepted this behavior as normal. She learned after the first three weeks of marriage when putting together a mattress frame that anything could anger him, setting him in a rage of physical abuse. Frail and weak in comparison, my mother, dressed in her red-flowered apron, cowered beneath my father's intimidating six foot two frame. Swinging unexpectedly, fingers balled into a fist, his thick hands raised . . . . The burning sting. The scratches seeping blood. The tears trickling down bruised cheeks. |
