Mom Pimped Me Out

Mom Pimped Me Out
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Scroll down and Listen to Sweetest Girl by Wycelf Jean, Toy Soldiers by Martika, Or Lights by Kanye West
The nurse walks into the Labor and Delivery Room, there sat my mother and father anticipating my arrival into this world.
Ma’am, Sir “You will have a little girl, this is your daughter”.
That daughter was me. That infant, turned into a toddler, into your little girl. That girl took her first steps, had her first day of kindergarten , growing up as an innocent child, who looked to her parents as her world.
At what point did it become okay to kick her down, to slap her around with a back hand, to knock her out?
When did your little girl become the victim of hell’s fury and wrath?
When did her crys and tears mean nothing to you?
When did that daughter become an object of hate?
“Mom and Dad why wont you hug me? Why dont you love me? Please dont push me away”.
“Its me your little girl. Its me your daughter”.
“Look mommy and daddy I love you, Please love me back! Just apologize, we can be a family again!”
When did your daughter become “that whore”, “that slut”, “that bitch” you never wanted? When did she deserve such an ugly fate?
Mommy was I your competition? Daddy was I your enemy?
Mommy daddy its me your daughter why don’t you want me?
When did you decide to sell her soul, her virtue, her promising smile and bright future all away to the Devil? Sold her to a sex offender.
You exploited your own daughter. You demoralized, used and abused your own flesh and blood.
You deceived and destroyed your own lineage and heritage. Your own family name.
Your daughter became a product of hate.
When did you think being an accessory to your daughter’s rape, made you a parent?
What will we talk about over Thanksgiving dinner mom and dad?
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I chose Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd starring Angela Lansbury, the hottest tickets on Broadway in 1979, which in the end Mom did not enjoy because “Why would anyone like a musical about people eating people?”
She was in town for a business meeting with Coty cosmetics, offering her an opportunity to treat her struggling artist son who had just moved to New York. Before the show, we had dinner with my “friend” George, a figurative sculptor, who did not join us for the play because he was even poorer than I was. As we took our seats for Sweeney Todd , Mom mentioned how charming and handsome he was. I knew even then she was giving me permission to come out to her. For all the grief I gave George about his closeted double life with friends and previous lovers, I hadn’t the courage yet to come out to my parents.
Not sure when I did come out to them, officially. It was after George, in my late twenties, just before or at the beginning of my next relationship with a guy named Royce. My strategy was to wait long enough until it was obvious. I believe I did it in a letter before both my parents came to New York for one of my art openings. I do remember my mother chastising me when she saw me:
“Oh please, I’ve known for ages. What took you so long to tell me?”
Oh, perhaps it was because I grew up in the homophobic suburbs of New Orleans, where nearly every male near me condemned homosexuals, or because the Catholic church condemned me to eternal flames in hell, or because my state and country effectively condoned violence against me. Or perhaps it was because every external message in advertising, news, film, and TV at that time, made it clear that to be homosexual is to be abhorrent. Other than that, …
It must be said; my parents didn’t make a big deal about the news. Their fears for my future were expressed — it was the 80’s, the height of the AIDS crisis — but love for their son won out. My father could even show this. My mother, on the other hand, could finally add my homosexuality to her arsenal of passive-aggressive manipulations while making it all about her.
Not long after coming out, I received an envelope in the mail with an Ann Landers column cut out of the New Orleans Times-Picayune and paperclipped with a note. Landers was a popular syndicated advice columnist to which my mother was devoted. This particular column was in response to several mothers asking Ann how to avoid raising a boy-child homosexual. After describing homosexuals as entertaining, stylish, witty, artistic, most often effeminate, and with an extra special ability to do wonders with hair, Landers went on to advise that the boy-child have a strong and close bonding relationship with the father, such as sharing sports and hunting and other male-oriented pastimes. She noted, however, that the boy should not shower or bathe with the father after the age of four or five. My mother’s attached note was brief:
“Was it something I did wrong? Was it the doll I gave you when you were three? Mea culpa, Mea culpa! Love, Mom”
I don’t think the doll did it. Or my mother, for that matter. But Mom certainly did things wrong, some things seriously wrong. One was related to her early suspicions about my sexuality. I can’t prove it, but I’ve come to believe my mother pimped me out to an older gay man to find out if I was homosexual. It would explain how she had “known for ages” after finally coming out in my late 20's.
One of Mom’s unlikely best friends was an opera singer from Dallas named Mary. She was tall and thin with flawless, pure white skin and long jet-black hair always done in the same impeccable style — a mysteriously held-up forward bump or beehive and a rear bun. Usually, there was a decorative comb inserted somewhere in the hive, like a Spanish dancer. Her eyes were darkly lined in an exaggerated cat-eye style, her lips a deep red drenched in gloss that never lost its luster, something my mother could never achieve because she smoked. And Mary walked with a limp, the result of a serious taxi cab accident she had survived in New York when studying with her well-known voice teacher. Her chronic pain affected a perfectly erect posture, even when sitting. Mary also worked for a major cosmetic company when she was not singing. She and mom met during a training session that Mary ran in New Orleans when Mom worked at D.H. Holmes on Canal Street. Soon they were best friends and visiting each other in their respective cities.
Mom hated classical music. I was always told to turn it off when she was in earshot. And she cared even less for opera. But having an opera singer as a girlfriend made her feel and appear sophisticated to her friends and family, especially when flying off to Dallas to hear one of Mary’s recitals.
Childless, Mary was married late to a wealthy Jewish lawyer who had a grown son from a previous marriage, and they settled in Fort Worth. One of Mary’s favorite subjects, when not complaining about her husband or her stalled singing career, was her stepson. Apparently, he was terribly entertaining, stylish, witty, and artistic. For all I know, he was responsible for Mary’s extra special hairdo.
My mother informed me that she and Dad were going to Dallas to visit Mary and her husband for the weekend and that I would have to look after my 12-year-old brother Richard. I believe it was the summer after my senior year in my all-boys Catholic high school. My secret first-love had only just been declared with classmate Liam, the boy I had loved from afar since freshman year. Still, I was very much closeted and afraid. To be homosexual was to be depraved and immoral. Liam and I were not that, I kept insisting to myself. Then Mom added that Mary’s twenty-something-year-old stepson was coming to New Orleans to party and would be staying in our house and sleeping in her and Dad’s bedroom.
There was something contemptible about him from the moment I met him. His leering, knowing expression and attitude implied a prior knowledge of my secrets. He made it clear I had often been the topic of conversation between him, Mary, and my mother. With smug provocation, he announced he was going to the gay bars in the French Quarter that night and asked if I wanted to join. It was like trying to wriggle out of an interrogator’s spotlight. I was so relieved when he finally left for the bars.
Late that night I woke up to him naked on top of me in my bed, my younger brother asleep in the room next door. He still smelled of the cloying cologne that had lingered in the room behind him when he left, but now laced with sweat, cigarettes, and alcohol. All I can remember is how repulsed I was when he kissed me, his entitlement, the few choices I had, and the immense shame afterward, believing I deserved it for being a closeted gay teenager.
Later he told me that he had come out to Mary long before coming out to his own father, that he and Mary were practically “girlfriends.” I imagined on one of my mother’s visits before I met him, the three of them — stepson, Mary, Mother — sitting around the kitchen table laughing, gossiping, and, however unwittingly, plotting.
About three years after watching Angela Lansbury make fresh meat pies from the human victims of a vengeful madman, my mother informed me she would be coming back to New York. I had survived by then a year-plus of working and traveling with the internationally famous experimental theatre and opera director Robert Wilson, another older man I had difficulty saying no to. But because of Wilson, I had seen my fair share of opera. I had accompanied him to the Bayreuth Festspielhaus in Germany to see Wagner’s entire Ring Cycle, my first complete opera. On another occasion in Philadelphia, I had met, had dinner with, and heard a recital by the extraordinary Jessye Norman.
Mary’s rich husband had finally bought her a recital at Carnegie Hall, in one of the smaller for-rent recital spaces downstairs. With it came a cursory review in the New York Times that wasn’t particularly sympathetic, though it opened with, “A young American soprano, …” Mary, though in denial, was just past her prime and had been lying about her age for years. Her teacher and mentor, once a successful tenor often seen at the Metropolitan Opera in the ’50s, was dying, and this was a tribute concert to him, and a last-ditch effort to re-start her career. My mother flew in, and so too the repugnant stepson.
I remember Mary’s exquisite control and poise and barely perceptible limp as she crossed the stage in her glistening black gown before standing erect beside the piano. After polite applause echoing in the mostly empty hall, she thanked her teacher, introduced her accompanist, and began. Her voice, still fundamentally beautiful, was a treat to finally hear. But as she continued to sing, something odd about her face kept distracting me. Her vibrato warbled more than her voice — it shook the entire left side of her mouth and chin which appeared to spasm. The Times would mention her voice being a bit “hard and tremulous” particularly in Schumann’s ‘’Der Hidalgo.’’
After the concert backstage, I couldn’t avoid the stepson. As protection, I had brought the handsome George with me, even though our relationship was nearly over, in part because of Wilson and in part because of the attractive young men George and I kept running into on the streets over the years — men who knew George’s secret, but not his real name: “Billy, Billy Jones! Long time no see! When can we get together again?” Then a disdainful glance in my direction.
I introduced Mary to George, who was eager to join the group around her in flattery and praise. Seeing me outside the circle, my mother grabbed the arm of the stepson and approached.
“I believe you two know each other?” She said.
“Of course we know each other Carol!”
The stepson’s first-name familiarity with my mother and his wink in my direction made my skin crawl. So too did his embrace which left his sickly perfumed smell on my skin to linger. But not for much longer.
Visual Artist & Nonfiction Writer; New agented memoir: “ARTIST UNDERWATER, A Journey to the Surface”—From Southern Gothic New Orleans to the New York art world.

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