This One Time At A Mexican Whore House

Do I have your attention now???

Well, my elderly mother certainly had my attention when those words came spilling out of her mouth like verbal vomit one heavyhearted evening in 2009.

Up until that point, the topics of discussion that day had been very somber as I was at my parent's home engaging in one of life's unfortunate realities that we all must face ~ the pending  death of a parent.

As my dad lie in his soon-to-be deathbed, not ten feet from where my mother and I sat watch , my mother took a deep breath and found the strength to open a dialogue and share with me a secret that had burdened her for over 40 years; a secret I had anticipated for most of my life. My mother was about to reveal to me that the man in the nearby bed was not my biological father...she was about to relay the identity of my biological father and the related details of my existence.

Although I had never let on to my mother that I knew my dad wasn't my biological father, it was, in fact,  something that I had known for a very long time. From a very early age I had always felt that something was missing; that I somehow didn't always "fit" in the overall picture of our family unit; like a square peg. Not to mention the fact that once I was old enough to calculate the gestational period of a typical pregnancy, I realized that my parents knew each other a mere 7 months when I was born.

The truth was inevitable... I realized it was only a matter of time before someone spilled the beans. But nothing...years and years of nothing until this very moment.

My mother started to relay the story of "ME" with bits of nostalgia; like the moment when she woke up in her hospital room, she asked my dad about "the baby" and my dad told her that they had a beautiful baby girl. About how much I was loved and wanted. How my dad felt that a baby needed a name, a father, and that was why he had married her.  How he was adamant that he was my father and the secret of my biological father's identity or existence was never to be revealed.

But she also told me of instances where I would approach strange men in church and asked them if they were my daddy; a practice that became a regular habit from the early age of three and would continue through my formative years. A child doesn't just do something like that unless they sense something is amiss.

During my adolescent and teen years I had my rebellious stages where I wished my dad wasn't my dad; but he remained a strong presence, despite my ever-growing hormonal-fed attitude and disregard for parental boundaries.

After she'd laid the foundation for her story of how my dad had loved me even though I wasn't really his, there was a long pause. And then she took me with her on a journey back in time. Back to 1960-something, when she had been forced into leaving her job as a nurse in Las Vegas and had ended up in Texas. She had been "deposited" in a little town just north of the Mexican border while going through a divorce from her first husband, who thought that after a year without him and his less than desirable ways, she'd gladly take him back; faults, girlfriend, and all.

She found a job as a private care nurse. Made friends who helped her care for my two older brothers so she could work. She was barely surviving on her own, but somehow, she made it work. And at some point, a year later, her prospective ex returned to salvage his broken family and reinstate  them to his idea of a state of grace. Or so he thought...

Little did he know that my mother had been involved in a love affair that would stand it's own against the likes of The Notebook! She had experienced what love really was and she wasn't quite ready to go back to her husband... or was she? He'd been gone for a year, still had his girlfriend on the side, and had apparently experienced no personal growth during their separation, yet when he came knocking on her door, she opened it and let him in.

While she's recounting the events leading up to the crucial pinnacle of her story, the identity of my biological father, she's looking at me with tired eyes. Eye's that are nearly completely blinded from a brain injury, each eye setting their own fixed course, making her just a tad bit cross-eyed; a trait I've grown to love and appreciate in an odd way only a child can appreciate. She just keeps looking at me,  with tears welling in her eyes, and I'm on baited breath to learn how I came to be. She's going to say a name, a moment, her secret...

...and it was at this exact point in her story that my poor mother's brain took a detour. Without warning. No segway from one story to the next. It's like her brain was experiencing something similar to channel surfing and just when you get sucked into Steel Magnolias, someone hits the button on that remote and switches the channel to Three's Company! This is something that happens often since her brain injury and subsequent brain surgeries, and although I can generally salvage and interpret the mixed signals , this time I was just at a loss.

Just when I think she's going to reveal to me the  name I needed to hear, she tells me about how one night long ago, when her husband had come back to Texas to get her....(long pause)

...and after my brothers had fallen asleep, my mother had been coaxed into a late-night drive with her ex. It was well after midnight and they were on a lonely little highway (another long pause and it is at this point that I logically conclude that I must have been conceived in a car...under an overpass ...Boy, was I wrong !!

She continues to tell me how she was driven across the border into Mexico, where she was taken to a MEXICAN WHORE HOUSE!!! Yep, you heard right,  a MEXICAN WHORE HOUSE !!!

My mother, who I've always viewed as a SAINT, who never drank or smoked or did anything remotely naughty in her life, is not only telling me how she ended up in a whore house, but also reveals to me the services that were offered by the proprietor!  I'll let you use your imagination here but it more or less involved any number of men, women, or combination thereof  that would join you in you hotel room.
(insert 1978 porn music here)

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM


Now, one thing you should know about me is this: I deal with stressful situations through humor; generally inappropriate humor, and I must admit that although completely shocked, I did manage to ask my mother if they had offered a donkey. She looked at me with a look that was a mix of shock, amazement, and curiosity. She was speachless. Just looking at me with her little crossed eyes. Silence...crickets...so I pipe up, "What, no donkey on the menu?" My mother was completely taken aback by my continued comment on the subject and said, "Do they have that? Really?"
I thought I was going to die! Not only am I having a mind-blowing discussion with my mother that I'm sure less than a handful of people have ever experienced (show of hands out there...who's had a discussion with their mother about a night in a Mexican Whore House??? one...two...OK, yeah, just two of ya), I am also reeling with the thought that my father may be Juan, Paco, Frederico, or heaven help me, Pepe the Mule!!! As my head starts to spin,  I conclude that I may NEVER know who my father is !!! Donde` esta mi padre, por favor!

Another long pause, and as quickly as she had gone off on that little detour south of the border, she returned to her original story without a hitch...like she'd never taken the detour in the first place.

She returned to her time in Texas and told me about how my father was a man she had carried on a wonderful love affair with; a man she had worked with in Las Vegas. A love affair that began as a long distance relationship and had survived the distance between Texas and Nevada, necessitating occasional secret rendezvous in Arizona from time to time, involving hitch-hiking, nights of drinking wine together and love.  It is my fervent belief that they had been each others true love. But, at some point back in 1966, their story took a detour, much like my mother's brain.

It was a wonderful story, and I was totally engrossed. All the while I kept one eye on my mother, one eye on my father, and blindly typed the info she was relaying into my phone, just out of her failing eyesight. The setting was one that I had never envisioned, never fantasized about when I was younger; wondering how the news of who I was would be revealed.

Some people question my mother's timing in telling me the identity of my biological father. They view her timing as cruel and heartless. I don't. I  know it was a difficult thing for her to do., especially with her husband of almost 43 years slipping away with every tick of the clock within an arm's reach.

Even more difficult, I would imagine, would be  to carry that secret for so many years. I can't fathom how heart-wrenching that must have been for her. She told me that there were many times she had wanted to tell me, but my dad would dissuade her.

So although some question my mother's motives, I know that  what she did that night was give me an incredible gift. She gave me the opportunity to mend the "holes" I felt regarding my relationship with my dad. She softened  the rough edges of this square peg...and I now knew who I was and how I came to be in this man's life. When nobody was around, I was able to lean over his bed, embrace him, and whisper in his ear what was on my heart about his role in my life. I thanked him for being a part of my, and my mother's, life.
(The story of my mother, my father, and my dad is a story I'll share later...it's a good one).

  That night, my mother gave me the gift of resolution. Not more than twenty minutes after my affirmation to my dad about his place in my life and in my heart he passed away while I  washed his face with a warm washcloth; a memory that still makes me cry.

But on that night, my mother also gave me the gift of the identity of my biological father whom I now am blessed to have in my life, along with an uncle and three amazing cousins, and a rich family heritage...

...and she shared with me a great story about a trip to a Mexican Whore House !!! (It is at this point in my story that I must restore my mother's virtue and report that she spent that entire evening at that house of ill-repute sitting in the corner, crying, while her husband was entertained by his guests that evening. He was actually upset that she didn't participate and enjoy his "gift" to her. But, she just wasn't raised that way. I think a box of Russell Stover's Chocolates and a break-up letter to his girlfriend might have been a better choice, don't you?)

                                  My Dad ~ Chicken Wings were his favorite
                                  RIP ~  CL Tucksen
                                 12/26/1926 ~ 9/27/2009