I never really felt seen or heard growing up in my home. My mom seemed to pay extra attention to the males in our family. She often acknowledged them showering praise for their achievements, while females seemed to occupy a secondary place in her attention. From an early age, I learned that my mother favored males, resulting in my hair being kept barber-shop-short and my wardrobe mostly consisting of pants and t-shirts. Despite my love for dresses and all things purple as a little girl, her preference overshadowed my personal style.
She often voiced her belief that men possessed greater grounding and intellectual stimulation, making it easier for her to identify with them, while she viewed females as more emotional and irrational. Sporting chestnut-hued baby-fine hair that cascaded down her shoulder blades, she preferred to keep it up in a bun, often accompanied by a stylish fedora and oversized owl-framed glasses. My mother had an adoration for fashion and an impeccable eye for interior design, eagerly transforming each new home we settled into.
Although she inherited the generous bosom genes from her mother, she defied the stereotype of an air-headed woman, shattering those expectations to pieces. Her friends lovingly dubbed her the "five-star general," a title that perfectly captured her presence. After all, she was the sole woman within her circle of friends and family who ventured into Yale Graduate School in 1978. My mother was a strong woman who did not need a group of women to affirm her. She was showing me how to stand proudly as a woman, alone. When the neighborhood girls ganged up on me in our childhood cul-de-sac, I came home crying looking for solace. My mom seemed angry or maybe she was just irritated when she told me to “Stick with the boys! Girls are catty bitches.” And sent me back outside. I was six years old.
My dad possessed an uncanny ability to dodge personal accountability, skillfully deflecting any flaws or shortcomings onto his bipolar disorder, utilizing it as a convenient "get-out-of-jail-free" card. With a mischievous laugh, he would declare himself a slippery pig, seemingly evading the consequences of owning his mistakes without ever truly facing the truth. In the midst of his manic episodes, he would exhibit moments of brilliance, captivating and enchanting potential investors with his boundless energy. Throughout the turbulent waves of his depression cycles, our lives were relentlessly punctuated by distressing and profoundly damaging suicide attempts. These agonizing episodes cast a long, dark shadow over all of our lives, leaving scar tissue to build-up on our collective journey.
By the mid-eighties, my dad reinvented himself as a venture capitalist, leaving behind his once-gifted touch in the field of physical therapy. Together with my mother, they ventured into the realm of sports medicine franchises, enticed by the promise of financial success.
