J. Beaman - The Magazine

Yesterday was the 23rd anniversary of my mom’s death. On June 6th, 1982 my dad, after my mom told him she was leaving him and taking us (my sister and I) with her, broke into our neighbors house and stole their gun (the one that he had sold to them months earlier) and shot my mom three times in the face. He actually shot six times (all the bullets the gun would hold) but only hit her three times.

I think she lived for a few days or maybe a few weeks but June 6th is the day I choose to remember. June 6th is the day she left me. It makes me sad.

I’m going to talk about my mom for a minute.

(I was going to talk about how listening to LCD Soundsystem was like getting your asshole licked but I changed my mind. “Whew!” some of you are saying, or maybe “Damn, that sounds way more fun.” Either way, I understand.)

On May 22nd, 1982 my mom (Glenda Grace Beaman) graduated from Sacramento State University with a nursing degree. I think it was a day of freedom for her. I think she knew for a long time that she would be leaving my dad when she got that damned nursing degree.

Ok, I’m tired of talking about my mom (I didn’t get very far into it, did I?). It fucking hurts. It hurts because I don’t have more than ten memories of her. Not only was my mom robbed from me, but most of my memories of her. Half the memories I have of my mom involve her taking beatings from my dad to protect us. Sometimes it makes me angry but mostly it makes me sad.

I sometimes wonder why I’m not a sociopath. Or a rapist. Or a wife beater. It’s too bad that I don’t believe in god–I could give him the credit. How does that even work? “Hey, god, it’s cool that my mom’s dead and that my dad killed her because you made sure I didn’t turn into a sociopath.” Christians are so dumb.

I’m just lucky, I guess. We live in a universe of pitiless indifference and I seem to have dodged a few bullets.

Yay me.