I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids ate candy for
breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast. When others had cokes and candy
for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. As you can guess, my supper was different
than the other kids' also.
But at least, I wasn't
alone in my sufferings. My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did.
My mother insisted upon
knowing where we were at all times. You'd think we were on a chain gang. She
had to know who our friends were and where we were going. She insisted if we
said we'd be gone an hour, that we be gone one hour or less--not one hour and
one minute. I am nearly ashamed to admit it, but she actually struck us. Not
once, but each time we had a mind of our own and did as we pleased. That poor
belt was used more on our seats than it was to hold up Daddy's pants. Can you
imagine someone actually hitting a child just because he disobeyed? Now you can
begin to see how mean she really was.
We had to wear clean
clothes and take a bath. The other kids always wore their clothes for days. We
reached the height of insults because she made our clothes herself, just to
save money. Why, oh why, did we have to have a mother who made us feel
different from our friends?
The worst is yet to
come. We had to be in bed by nine each night and up at eight the next morning. We couldn't sleep till noon like our friends.
So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break the child-labor
law. She made us work. We had to wash dishes, make beds, learn to cook and all
sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid awake at night thinking up mean
things to do to us.
She always insisted upon
us telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and it nearly did.
By the time we were
teen-agers, she was much wiser, and our life became even more unbearable. None
of this tooting the horn of a car for us to come running. She embarrassed us to
no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us. If I spent
the night with a girlfriend, can you imagine she checked on me to see if I were
really there. I never had the chance to elope to Mexico. That is if I'd had a
boyfriend to elope with. I forgot to mention, while my friends were dating at
the mature age of 12 and 13, my old fashioned mother refused to let me date
until the age of 15 and 16. Fifteen, that is, if you dated only to go to a
school function. And that was maybe twice a year.
Through the years,
things didn't improve a bit. We could not lie in bed, "sick" like our friends did, and miss school. If our friends had a toe ache, a hang nail or serious ailment, they could stay home from
school. Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends' report cards had
beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing. My mother being
as different as she was, would settle for nothing less than ugly black marks.
As the years rolled by,
first one and then the other of us was put to shame. We were graduated from high school. With our mother behind us,
talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of us was allowed the pleasure of
being a drop-out.
My mother was a complete
failure as a mother. Out of four children, a couple of us attained some higher education. None of us have ever
been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate. Each of my brothers served his time
in the service of this country. And whom do we have to blame for the terrible
way we turned out? You're right, our mean mother. Look at the things we missed.
We never got to march in a protest parade, nor to take part in a riot, burn
draft cards, and a million and one other things that our friends did.
She forced us to grow up
into God-fearing, educated, honest adults. Using this as a background, I am
trying to raise my three children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean.
Because, you see, I thank God, He gave me
the meanest mother in the whole world.
Bobbie Pingaro (1967)