PART I SIR ROBERT
Okay, BITCH! I got another one of your FUCKINā numbers! Iāve already got seven! No, this aināt the number, call the other number! You call the other fuckinā number and you gotta wait for another fuckinā number! Then call fuckinā Baltimore! Then find out what state youāre in. Then call THAT fuckinā number! And then find out they didnāt take the fuckinā Medicare!ā
My mom was on the phone again.
āNow, cunt Mary motherfuckers of the planet, YOU do this shit! All this shit! Every fuckinā time for TWENTY YEARS I have called these motherfuckers itās like this! Donāt know what the fuck youāre talkinā about!ā
I was around fifteen years old, just getting into hip-hop and recording everything I could all the time, songs off the radio, stuff off the TV, my friends goofing around. So one day I decided to record one of her phone calls.
āFuck it! Iām a psychopathic, cocksuckinā fuckinā sinner! Jesus, if youāre going to do something to me, then DO IT! I canāt fuckinā take it!ā
What you canāt hear on the page is that sheās screeching so loud the neighbors can hear it in the next apartment, and what you canāt see is that sheās frantically pacing back and forth, chain-smoking, slamming her fists on the kitchen counter, and throwing shit at the wall, like a child having a tantrum because sheās been put on hold for the millionth time.
āYeah, you stupid cunt, itās correct! Fuckinā bastards! Fuckinā swine! Fuckinā motherfucker! Are you gonna fuck with me or help me?!ā
It was like this every day, and this was mild.
āFuckinā bitch! Fuckinā knows how to fuckinā tell me how to fuckinā CALM DOWN! She canāt even fuckinā see the name of the fuckinā benefits!ā
She was calling some government agency about her medication, whichever pill she was taking that month to balance her brain. Zoloft, maybe. I canāt remember them all. One day it was her medication, the next day it was welfare or food stamps.
āAll I want to know is if these GODDAMN people pay for this FUCKINā medicine! Because what am I supposed to fuckinā do?! Go back to the fuckinā doctor here? This medicine they donāt pay for. I donāt knowā¦ write me out another one! Okay, here, go to the pharmacy. Oh, they donāt pay for this. Okay, let me go back to the doctor again! Here, hmmm, letās seeā¦ take this medicine!ā
She was a sick person, and she was in pain, so she was lashing out at the people who were trying to help her. Which is pretty much the story of her life.
āThanks! Thatās all the FUCK I wanted to know! Why couldnāt I get somebody a fuckinā half hour ago to say that! Weāre dropping like flies ācause we fuckinā want to kill ourselves so they get a POPULATION CONTROL!ā
Whenever I tell my story and I get to the stuff about my mom, part of me feels like a liar and a fraud, like I must be exaggerating this stuff to make myself sound tougher, because if I tell it this way, Iāve got one of the craziest American come-up stories in history. Then I go back and listen to this tape, and I remember: āOh. Right. It was actually more fucked up than what I usually tell people.ā
Still, as strange and fucked up as my life may have been because of her, her life was actually way worse than mine.
My mom was born in 1961 in Washington, D.C. Back then, before all the husbands, before she was Terry Lee Bell or Terry Lee Stone or Terry Lee Bransford, she was Terry Lee Miller. But all the rotating last names didnāt matter so much because my whole life everyone just called her Terry Lee.
By the time I was born, my mother was estranged from her family, so I donāt know a whole lot about them. From what I understand, they were well-off. Not super-wealthy or anything, but they owned a house and a car and things like that. My grandfather, I donāt have any memories of him at all, not even what his name was. I know my grandmotherās name, but only because I found it once on the back of an old photograph. I donāt have many pictures of me as a child, a dozen maybe, but thereās this one Polaroid of me as a ten-month-old baby, and on the bottom it says, āNov. 27, 1990 Bobbyās first cucumber at his Grand-mas Judie.ā
So that was her name: Judie.
My mom told me her heritage was German and English, which to look at her was true, I guess. She had green eyes and pale skin with freckles and brown hair that she always wore short, never past her shoulders. I never saw my mom as ugly, but I wouldnāt say she was particularly attractive. Her teeth were all crooked and filled with gaps and she was insecure about them. Weād be watching Seinfeld in the apartment, and whenever she laughed sheād cover her mouth, even with nobody else there.
I only know two stories about my mom growing up. The first one she always used to tell was how when she was five she got this brand-new Schwinn bicycle, the one with the banana seat. She loved it so much and she used to ride around her neighborhood and it was on one of those rides that she was sexually assaulted for the first time. A man in the neighborhood exposed himself to her and made her touch his penis. She went and told her mom, but her mom reacted like too many people do when it comes to sexual abuse. She tried to minimize it, bury it. She told my mom that the man was just playing a game and not to worry and letās all get back to pretending everything is normal and perfect. Which fucked my mom up, obviously, as it would.
The other story my mom told me was how when she was fourteen she brought home a boy she wanted to date. His name was Duncan, and he was black. āDuncan was so beautiful and sweet and kind,ā she used to say, but then her parents completely flipped out on her. āWe donāt mix with those people,ā they said, and they made her break up with him. Something about that incident had a huge impact on her, though Iām not entirely sure why. For the rest of her life, she was attracted to black men. She had all of her children with black men, and I only ever saw her with one man who wasnāt black, her second husband, Kenny. At the same time, deep down, because of her upbringing, part of her was every bit as racist as her parents.
The Duncan story and the bicycle penis-touching story are the only ones I know. She never told me anything else; it was like she didnāt have a childhood. Everything else I know about her starts when she was seventeen, when she ran away from home and fell into drugs and prostitution. I donāt know if she ran away because her parents were abusive or if thatās when her issues with mental illness started to come up. All I know is that my mom never fit in, with her family, or with anyone, anywhere.
The impression I have is that when she ran away she was a stoner pothead, hanging out with the white guys listening to AC/DC and the brothers listening to Run-DMC. I imagine her life being like that movie Detroit Rock City, a bunch of burnouts having a good time trying to scam their way into a KISS concert. But things turned dark pretty fast.
She never talked much about her prostitution years. The subject would only come up every now and then, typically out of anger, as a weapon she could wield against me. Iād be watching cartoons and bouncing off the walls, being a typical kid, and sheād flip the fuck out and start screaming at me, and Iād be like, āBut Mom. Iām just having fun.ā
āFun?ā sheād scream. āYou want to have fun?! You should just be grateful that you have a fuckinā place to sleep and live and eat, because I sure fuckinā didnāt. You donāt even fuckinā know. When I was a kid, I didnāt have anywhere to go. I had to walk the fuckinā streets at three a.m. getting picked up by truckers who raped me and threw me out and left me for dead on the highway!ā
In another story she told me, she was in an apartment with these two guys and one of them put a butcher knife on the stove until it was red-hot and then he held her down and sodomized her and said if she made a noise heād stab her with it.
āHe sodomized me,ā she said, red-faced and screaming, as usual. āThat means he stuck his dick in my ass.ā
She told me that when I was maybe about ten.
Then there was the one she told me about why she was mostly deaf in her left ear. It was permanently damaged from when some man had been beating on her.
Once she started in with these stories, sheād get so wrapped up in her own pain that sheād start lashing out, like she did with the people on the phone. Since I was the only person there, sheād be lashing out at me. āYou donāt know what this world is,ā and āYouāre gonna feel real pain one day,ā and āI hope you feel pain!ā and āYou deserve to feel pain!ā Sheād be screaming this shit at me, and Iād be thinking to myself, āBitch, Iām just trying to watch SpongeBob.ā
At some point in those years my mom married her first husband, Eugene Bell, a guy she met at a party. Eugene played guitar and buckets on the street. Black guy. Dark skin. They had three kids together before getting divorced. Thereās Amber, whoās the oldest, seven years older than me; then Geanie, whoās five years older; and then my brother Jesse, whoās only two years older than me. When Jesse was five, Eugene took him and climbed up a tree with him so he could videotape a woman undressing in her apartment. He did this with his kidāthatās the kind of guy Eugene was.
Even though he got caught doing that shit, he still had primary custody. Which is crazy, but it probably says a lot about my mom. So my siblings sort of lived with us sometimes, but mostly they didnāt. I have no memories of us sharing a home and being a family. The only real memory I have is them throwing me a birthday party when I turned four. It was weird because I didnāt know what a birthday was, since no one had never celebrated my birthday before. I woke up and walked out to the living room and in this beautiful morning light there were balloons everywhere and cut-up pieces of construction paper all over the floor like confetti. I went and woke up my brother and sisters and said, āI donāt know whatās going on. I think a clown broke into the house or something.ā
āDude,ā they said, āitās your birthday!ā
āMy what?ā
āYour birthday!ā
And that was the last time I saw them. Not too long after that Eugene threw them on a Greyhound bus and took them to California and by my fifth birthday they were gone, which I know for a fact because now that I knew what a birthday was I woke up and ran out of my bedroom yelling, āItās my birthday, Mom!ā But I didnāt get shit. No balloons, no cake. Nothing.
From then on, it was like I was an only child. We never had any family besides me and my mom. Whatās crazy is that I felt that way even though my momās parents still lived a few miles away. Iāve got the picture of me eating cucumbers at Judieās house, so I have to assume my mom and her parents tried to reestablish their relationship, but it didnāt work out. The only real memory I have of my grandmother is calling her and asking if I could come spend the weekend, and her giving me a bunch of excuses why I couldnāt.
āCan I come and stay with you?ā
āI donāt think we can right now.ā
āWhat about the guest room?ā
āWell, itās being worked on.ā
āWhat about the couch?ā
āOh, you donāt want to sleep on the couch.ā
āWhat about the floor? Iāll sleep on the floor.ā
I kept trying, and she kept saying no. Part of me, thinking back to the story about Duncan and why my mom ran away, wants to believe that the rift between my mom and her family was because I was black, because they were racist. And that had to have been part of it; racism never makes anything any easier. But ultimately I think the reason my motherās family wasnāt in our life was because of my mother. Some people are so toxic you have no choice but to cut them off, and my mom was that person. Because of the cucumber photo, I have to believe that my grandparents at least tried to help me and eventually gave up because they were like, āWe canāt fuck with this bitch. Sheās crazy.ā Which is why it was always just me and Terry Lee, and everything I know about her family and her life is from her screaming at me during SpongeBob.
But as fucked up as my momās stories are, I absolutely believe that theyāre true. Youād think that someone like her wouldnāt be the most reliable narrator of her own life, that her stories must be delusional or detached from reality. But whenever she talked, she talked like someone whoād been scarred, whoād relived those stories a million times in her head. The details were always the same, too, like they were burned into her memory. That shitās real, for sure.
Then thereās my dad.
The hard thing about my dadās story is that itās impossible to know whatās true and whatās not because heās a fuckinā liar. All I can do is piece together the half-true stories heās already told me because he isnāt in my life right now. Maybe he will be again someday, but recently I had to stop talking to him because he asked me for eight hundred grand so he could buy a house and turn it into a studio for his band.
Weāre working on boundaries.
Robert Bryson Hall was born somewhere in Pennsylvania. That much I know is true. I also know he had two brothers. His brother Michael was a cool dude; I got to meet him and know him a bit. There was another brother, too, but I forget his name. He died. It might have been drugs. I have an aunt on that side, too. She sent me a letter a couple of years ago, but Iāve never spoken to her. I think her name is Robin or Roberta or something like that.
Both of my dadās parents were alcoholics. I never met them because they both died long before I was born. My grandfather, as the story goes, went out on Christmas Eve and got shitfaced drunk and as he was coming up the front steps he slipped on the ice, fell back, hit his head on a rock, knocked himself out, and froze to death in the snow. They found him on Christmas morning. Crazy.
My grandmother had a serious drinking problem, too. What my dad told me about her was that she drank herself into some insane state and had to go to the hospital and practically went into a coma. When she came to the doctors told her, āIf you drink again, youāll die.ā Not long after that, she was at a Christmas partyāwhich is weird, because of how her husband wentāand she got drunk and fell asleep in a chair and never woke up.
My dad has told me those stories a few times and the details always add up and thereās no reason why my dad would lie about how his parents died, but I still canāt be sure since heās told me so many stories where the details donāt add up at all. For most of my life, pretty much everything that came out of my dadās mouth was bullshit. Heās a slick motherfucker, for sure, the definition of a hustlerāa smooth, silver-tongued dude who can talk his way into or out of just about anything. With the exception of fatherhood. He denied that I was his when I was born, but then he got a paternity test, which I had no idea about until a couple of years ago when my dad, whoās now a recovering crack addict in his sixties, found out that heād knocked up a twenty-three-year-old heroin addict even though he got a vasectomy after heād had me.
āCan you believe this shit?ā he said. āI got a vasectomy and Iām still having another kid.ā
āWhat the fuck?ā I said. āWhen did you get a vasectomy?ā
āAfter I had your ass.ā
āDamn. Well, how do you know itās yours?ā
āBecause I got a paternity test.ā
That gave me this feeling I couldnāt shake, so a couple of months later I called my dad and said, āSo, waitā¦ did you get a paternity test with me?ā
āFuck yeah!ā he said. āYou know I did!ā
So that was special. I donāt know if the test was something my parents did together, but the safer bet is that the motherfucker snuck me off somewhere and got a paternity test on his ownāyou know, just to be sureāand it came back positive. But he didnāt need a test to tell him that. Heās 100 percent my dad. Weāre both skinny and lanky, both with the same hunched-over posture that we need to work on. The only difference is that while I look mixed, heās definitely a black guy.
At some point my dad moved to D.C. with huge ambitions as a musician. He played congas and percussion and sang all over the Chocolate City Go-Go scene. He played with Chuck Brown. He played in E.U. What he wanted more than anything was to be Smokey Robinson. Heād introduce himself that way, too. āHi, my nameās Smokey.ā So everyone called him Smokey, which I find hilarious ācause heās a crackhead who named himself Smokey. And when it wasnāt Smokey Robinson, it was Prince. I think I heard my dad cover āPurple Rainā about a million times.
My dad was a legit musician, though. He had real talent. But he was also an addict. My whole life Iāve met people who did gigs with him, and theyāve all got stories. After the show, heād go to the promoter and get the money and then run out on his bandmates. Like, heād do that to his own people. Did he think he was never going to see them again? But thatās an addictās mentality. He cou...