Leaving by Mordecai Martin

                      ​ Jaroslav A. Polák



Leaving

Ma is scared. It's the Cossacks' fault. The Cossacks scared my great-grandma real bad back in the old country, and now everyone in my family is still kinda jumpy. Personally, I take pills for it. Ma says, "No, you're not going to Mexico, that's crazy." I remind her that I am 33 years old, and I have already purchased my ticket. She reminds me that there is a global pandemic. I remind her that my wife is in Mexico. I remind her that my wife needs to be in Mexico, as her abuela has cancer. I remind my mother that I sort of fall apart without my wife. Ma sighs. Ma whines. Ma grumbles. Ma agrees that my father will drive me to the airport.

My wife is the first person in her family to get a PhD. She was the first one in her family to have a passport. She's studied in India, Denmark, back home in Mexico City, New York, where we met. Sometimes she jokes, and sometimes she cries about the same thing: her family doesn't understand her. I laugh with her when she jokes about it. I hold her when she cries. I remind her, "Growing up is a process by which we leave. Leaving is a process by which we break our parents' hearts, and in doing so, our own."

My parents drove down to Philly and picked me up a week before my flight from New York to Mexico. It was the first time I had seen them since April, when they risked coming down after I had to have my appendix removed. My mother was still upset with my decision, and continued to grumble. My father put on his most cheerful face and sang songs from 1776 and Hamilton.

I thought about highways, all the ones my father has driven me on. It's mostly I-87. Up to Boston for school, down to North Carolina for my in-patient therapy residence. Over and over to the house in New Rochelle. I thought about a trip my father told me about, where his father drove the whole family down to Florida. It's mostly I-87. On that trip, somewhere in Georgia or South Carolina, my father saw a sign that said "No Dogs, No N*****rs, no Jews allowed." My father belted out "We're waiting for the chirp, chirp, chirp, of a nation being born." My father rapped, embarrassingly slow, "I'm just like my country, I'm young scrappy and hungry, and I'm not throwing away my shot."

Later that week, I got tired of my mother's grumbling, and pleading, and insinuations that I was taking my life in my hands by going to Mexico, by leaving the USA. I lost my temper. I screamed at her. I am a large man, and despite my appendix and my shaky mental health, I am hale and intimidating. My mother is a small woman, and despite her boundless energy, she is grey-haired and suffering from diabetes. I am not proud that I screamed at my mother.

I screamed: WHY DO YOU THINK THIS COUNTRY IS BETTER THAN MEXICO?!
I screamed: YOU'RE RUINING MY MARRIAGE!
I screamed: THIS PLACE IS A SHITHOLE AND I'M TRYING TO GET OUT!

After the fight, after the tears, after the making up and the laughter that my family and I use to diffuse tension, whether or not the tension is really gone, I watched Hamilton on my parents Disney Plus account. It's a fun show. Exciting in moments. Good emotional beats. My dad asked if I liked it and I said yeah. My father loves patriotic musicals, loves learning civil war history, loves this country. I don't know why. He saw that sign in Georgia or South Carolina. He knows what this country can be.

My father and mother drove me to JFK. It's mostly the Hutch. As we slowed down in Queens, my mother said, "It's funny." I said, "What's funny, ma?" She said, "It's funny to think that this is a bad place now."

At the airport, I hugged them both. Ma was crying. I said, "I'm so sorry, it's just, I need her." Ma said, "I know you do, go to her, tell her we love her." I got on the plane, and thought about what it means to grow up. It means leaving. It means breaking my parents' hearts, and in doing so, my own.

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Mordecai Martin is a writer and noted bearded man. He has work in the Daily Drunk and Hypocrite Reader, and work forthcoming in Sortes, Toho Journal, Gone Lawn, and the Bitchin' KItsch. He blogs at http://mordecaimartin.net and tweets @mordecaipmartin.

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