I vigorously attempt to wipe the caked orange mud from my boots with no success. To my amusement, because of my attempt, the splattered mud spread further up my pant legs.
Mother's gonna love this.
It never failed; my appearance has always bothered my mother - even when I feel confidently "appropriately dressed."
I'm the second daughter of five in the Benito family - poor dad. Putting my clothing choices aside, I believe the main reason I'm the "thorn in my mother's side" is because of my father. I'm my father's confidant, his right hand, his go-to person. Lucky for me when I feel not good enough in my mother's eyes, at least in my father's I'm adored. He affectionately calls me 'Lil Coyote,' his trickster.
We live in the heart of Arizona. My father, a Mexican immigrant, came to this country at age 18. He was quickly recognized for his assertiveness and no-nonsense attitude. My father learned that to survive in a country that wasn't your own, you had to have gumption, a strong spirit, and stubbornness - especially when you had a demanding wife and 5 daughters. Sadly, my mother is the kryptonite to his Superman. It has always upset me that my mother could stomp the fight right out of him.
A loud thundering crack from the sky above startles me into attention. Stomping my feet and shrugging at my muddy boots, I continue to run not caring about the wet mud I collected.
Mother's gonna really love my appearance today.
With every running step, I hear the wet mud scatter in various directions behind me. I feel some of the wet chucks hit me in different areas along my back.
Confetti Mud Party.
This was my favorite time of the year - it's Monsoon season. The landscape/the scenery in front of me, always takes my breath away. I was in a real-life screensaver.
It took only 30 more minutes of hike-running when I felt it: Tiny raindrops peppering my face. I sigh heavily, I've already made my morning run quota and immediately change direction heading for home.
The party's over.
Arizona, my Arizona. I don't see myself living anywhere else. The vast desert emptiness isn't for everyone. You must have Arizona in your blood to truly appreciate everything this state has to offer. Even as a child, when I'd see pictures of beautiful Hawaii, Alaska, Montana, Sweden, New Zealand - I would stare in wonder; feeling sad for people who lived in places like that - too much green, too much bodies of water, too many clusters of houses, and too many big obstructing trees. It was never a dream to live or visit those places. I just wanted my empty desert.
I've always lived in desert areas. After finishing Marine boot camp, I was blessed to be stationed in Arizona – and during my three tours, I was sent to hot desert places; Iraq and Afghanistan, which reminded me of home (except war-torn).
As another crack from the sky above resonated, I quicken my pace. This was my favorite run. In my family, no one understood what it felt like to be a runner - yup, yet another thing to make me the black sheep of the family. None of my sisters were like me. I was the tough cookie; the no-nonsense daughter that handled everything my father could not. I'm the bossy opinionated sister. My 4 sisters on the other hand, are a different variety of wackiness, except Jean - Jean: the beautiful sweet delicate sister. Maria: the quiet God-fearing people pleaser. Kathy: the loud obnoxious annoying sister and Linda the flirtatious irksome party girl.
Sometimes I felt sorry for my parents - having to deal with each of our personalities - that could drive anyone crazy during the best of times – but then dealing with someone like my mother was difficult in-and-of-itself: No wonder we turned out the way we did. After a couple sessions of "secret" therapy (shhh no one knows I'm in therapy), I've come to the conclusion that everything I do in life I do opposite my mother.
At age 36, and 'GASP' still unmarried, my mother singles me out as the corrupter of my sisters. The chances any of us have to marry well - or at least "well" in my mother's eyes are very slim according to her. So, because of this, my mother blames the only person she can: Me. According to my mother, "Who will want to marry into a family with a crossdresser like you? Go put on a dress Rocky."
That comment always upsets me. For one thing, I wasn't a crossdresser - not that there's anything wrong with being one. And two, I'm pretty sure the term Crossdresser consists of something more than a woman who prefers wearing jeans and her old military fatigues.
In my mother's defense, she comes from a different time and place. She grew up on an Apache reservation in New Mexico. She grew up only wearing camp dresses and to this day I've never seen her wear pants or shorts. She was also brought up to marry early (because all women who are worth anything in life MARRY—and marry young) and more importantly, soon after you marry you have children (plural). Having more than one child was tradition. To us Native people, it was a must because death came hard and fast to younglings on the reservation.
Sadly, my mother clutches to her traditions/upbringing still believing a woman's place is in the home. My mother is a housewife in every sense of the word. She has never worked a day in her life. She expects us to marry VERY well for a couple reasons. The main reason is the wealth. If we marry into wealth, this will entitle her a life of luxury and comfort at our expense without the worry of losing her house or her pampered ways. My mother's desperation became unbearable after my father's accident. The accident awakened a desperate fear inside her. The fear of losing everything. Her greatest fear is that we each marry men that are not well off. She is frightened that she'll eventually loses everything she has grown accustomed to. She fears she will end up living with us in a desert hovel.
Sadly, to my mother's horror with her daughters ranging from ages 28 to 37 being unmarried and childless was very disappointing. We were not living up to her gold-digging plan. It also didn't help that her friends and family always questioned our singleness. We'd hear gems like, "What's wrong with them Betsy?" or "Do they even like….men?"
In my opinion, I do NOT need to get married or even be married to have children. AND I, certainly, don't measure my worth by how much money I make, what kind of car I drive, my marital status, or how many children I have. BUT of course, I keep this information to myself. As my therapist always tells me, "A secret's worth depends on the people from whom it must be kept."
My time in the Marines is also something my mother wants to not exist in her life. To my mother, my deepest disgrace was when I joined the Marines at the ripe young age of 18. I mainly joined the military because: 1) My ancestors fought and died for this country before it was even a United county. 2) Because I needed money for college. And 3) because it got me out of the house the fastest.
I let out another exasperated sigh as the huge black and white sign ahead of me grabs my attention. I focus on my marker and quicken my pace jumping up attempting and failing to hit the 12 foot high sign that read, "Benito Asylum." The word Ranch was deliberately scratched off and Asylum written above it on purpose. That sign always got giggles from everyone. I myself live in said asylum so it wasn't funny to me, but this sign was my marker - my one mile marker. I was one mile away from home and my bulldozer mother.
