In the thick of Uranus transiting Venus the thrill is beginning to wear off, and the reality of cleaning up after all the excitement is bearing down. Though I'm constantly reminding my son of the debt we're carrying, every time I fill the tank to take him to the skate park, or enter a store to buy him a pair of shorts, now that I have the customers I need I do feel confident we can pay it off. Most of the time.
This illness has affected my work schedule for the last four years, and even though my health is improved there remain bills to pay that I could not take care of when I was spending so much time in bed. Sometimes it feels like no matter how hard I work and how much I sacrifice, I just can't cover expenses. I feel like my Mexican friends slaving away for little more than minimum wage. But I'm not.
I am able to support my son and take him to the skate park. We have the luxury of living in our own home not crowded with two or more families to help pay the rent. Though I pray to the car gods when my little old Honda hesitates to start, "Please don't let it be time for another trip to the mechanic," I thank providence for the tension it generates in my son. He has too faint an inkling of the richness of his life, especially when his ugly mom drops him off at school, in front of all the adolescent world to see, in our squeaking, rusted Honda that was built back in the days when Americans still remembered the oil embargo.
He wants a camera, and I would love for him to have one. He thinks I do not understand his deprivation. He was thrilled with his haircut yesterday, a fifteen dollar deal that was delayed for over a month. I was thinking how much easier his life would be if I could afford to have a trim every eight weeks, if I could buy clothing to look like the 'other moms.' If I didn't know any better I swear it would choke me up. The truth is, I have moments of weakness when I fall for the same propaganda that's choking him, and feel like a failure.
Then I pick up a book by Noam Chomsky and all that sadness for myself and my son is turned to grief for the shadow people of the world who really ARE suffering in the crucible. The camera made in China can wait forever as far as I'm concerned. We still have a copy of The Unvanquished from the library; I will resume reading Faulkner to him at bedtime. He loves it when the forbidden N word pops up.
