So I read this prompt in my email this morning and chuckled. I immediately jumped to rage. Then the propensity for violence. A big smile into our eyes. The singing voice…the one the good Lord himself crafted from honey and white oak boughs curved to make whiskey barrels. Beauty. Bullshit. Bat shit crazy. Tortured. Passionate. Headstrong. Independent out of necessity. Obstinate. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I do exactly what the fuck I want”. Liar. Saint. Loving. Loyal. Tortured. Physical. Commanding. Unrelenting. Loving to a fault. Ashamed. A fist slamming on the kitchen table. Eyes that hold galaxies. Teasing. Fucking smart. And that’s just a 2 minute info dump.

I am equal parts temprance and temper. I am beauty of mind, body, and spirit. I am the meanest son of a bitch you will ever meet. I am wild and wildly creative. Tiny pores and a quick mind. I am both a lover and a runner, and I got all those qualities from her. With maybe not all of my SOB-ness coming from her (Have you heard about my dad?).

Josephine “Jody” Biskey cannot be easily summed up. Honestly, I don’t know her-really know her-in the way my brothers and son might. From the time I was small Mom had to work non stop to keep a roof over our heads and healthy food in our bellies. She worked 2 full time jobs until finding out I was pregnant with Brian. By the time Brian came along Mom and I felt more like colleagues than mother and daughter. By and large she missed out on raising me, save erratic discipline doled out with a heavy hand and some super fun adventures.

All this lead to a result that Mom never intended: An alienated, bitter, rage filled woman. Which she was as well. I do not think that my mother was ready for the kind of human I am, meaning some of the things that make me, me. You know…sensitive, dramatic, outspoken, emotional. Those things drove her crazy about me. That shows me that she didn’t like those qualities about herself. Nothing got me yelled at more than my tears of frustration. I can’t help it. I’m 48 years old and I STILL cry when I’m frustrated. So what? I remain ashamed of that “weakness”.

My mother loved me. Of that I have no doubt. And I love her ferociously. I think sometimes she didn’t like me much. That feeling was also mutual. She was so stressed she didn’t have the energy to deal with me being out of control.

In the discussion of parents, a subject that so rarely comes up: Mom was in a constant state of fight or flight. She didn’t have the tools to do what she did after the motorcycle accident she and my dad were in. Nor had she learned mothering skills from her own mother, who had let Mom go to whichever family member would take her and eventually to the Indian Residential Boarding School in Pipestone, MN. (If you are following current events, you’ve heard about what went on there) My mother had been horrifically abused by more than one person. The adult me is so so sad for that child. The young me doesn’t think any of this is fair and wants to fist fight everyone and everything all the time.

When I think about being like my mother, I am proud. She made me tough. Mom always told me that if people didn’t like me it was because I was so pretty and smart (it was really because I’m weird. And that’s 100% okay now). It also makes me go back to sucking my thumb and wanting soda. It’s very very complicated.

Song references: “You’ll Accomp’ny Me” by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band

The day I married Brian’s dad, the SMU