By Carolyn Alessio
Mother orcas scavenge food for their teenage sons long past the age when they force their daughters out on their own. Using echolocation, the immense obsidians hunt Chinook salmon and share it with their sons to snack on while playing oceanic X-box with their pals.
Pulling into the McDonald’s drive-thru, I lowered the window to transmit my 16-year-old son’s order. “Big Mac Meal,” I called out. A garbled response came back from the speaker, like we were underwater.
“Back up, Mom,” my lanky teen said, ravenous after his volunteer shift at a local food pantry. Putting the battered SUV in reverse, I leaned out again and continued the grimly familiar litany: “Ten-piece McNuggets with barbeque sauce” (I’d argued him down from 20).
The list of high triglycerides was enough to spark full-blown GERD, but I felt partially responsible for my son’s cravings. When I was pregnant with him, infusions of greasy food helped calm the raging nausea. My regularly cautious diet swerved into a strange current.
Stunned, my family and friends gathered around me like I was a circus attraction: Rice-Cake and Salad Girl Inhales Fast-Food!
Mother orcas are smaller than their sons, who can expand to as much as 11 tons. When my son was born, he weighed a hulking 9.5 pounds—a full pound more than his older sister at birth five years before. In contrast, my baseline weight at that time was around 120 pounds (for a height of 5’7). During my son’s gestation, I felt his small hands pressing against my ribs for more space, like a detective trying to find a bookcase that twirled around to reveal a hidden room.
Mothering my son has been easier in some ways than with my college-student daughter, who has often required me to face my own shortcomings as a modern woman, a feminist. Even when it was just the two of us in the car, we clashed: me, angular and nervous with short dark hair; her, a redhead with long curly hair and the body of a 40s movie starlet.
Once, in the car, I mentioned a few of her upcoming appointments, and my daughter responded, “You’re like one of those websites that have messages that pop up and say, ‘Want to see more of this content?’ And I’d click ‘No.’” Afterwards, we were both silent; even my daughter looked shocked at her own rudeness. I vacillated between anger and laughter at the creative metaphor.
Orcas are a threatened species, just like Chinook, their favorite food. Researchers in British Columbia, where Orcas cluster, are constantly trying to identify factors that impact the whales’ reproduction. The scientists were not surprised to learn that orca sons flourished as long as their mothers and grandmothers stayed alive. But one observation did stand out: After whale matriarchs give birth to a son, they are half as likely to reproduce again. Ultimately, it’s hard to know if the whales are bulking up their sons to reproduce someday, or if, according to one researcher, the killer moms just like to “hang out” with their sons.
The scent of beef fat filled the car as we drove home from McDonald’s. “Can I have a fry?” I heard myself ask my son.
“Here,” he said, holding out a pale cluster. “How come girls don’t like to order their own?”
“Some do,” I said, my throat tightening. “Maybe I’m just a bad example.” I felt the same tension as when I’ve been hounding him about completing his math homewor.
My son looked out the window as we passed a firehouse, a community garden. “There’s two cats living at the pantry,” he said. “Bodega and Mr. Jeeves.”
I smiled, relieved we were back to chatting: “Jeeves was a butler in some British mysteries, I think.”
“Mr. Jeeves,” my son corrected, and we laughed. I’ve always loved that he adores cats; he often cuddles with our Siamese while watching football on TV. The contrast of Cis-male and nurturer reassures me. Similarly, when I watch my 6’1 teen on the baseball field and even the bench, he is focused on the game and quiet, unlike many of his more confident teammates.
Like his sister, he is quirky and a blend of many different influences. This varied web or net—which stretches far beyond me, and his calmer, supportive father—is important to keep in mind. Still, I struggle to be proud of my parenting. Sometimes I fear I’m missing some innate echolocation powers that guide other mothers.
Idling in our black SUV at a stoplight, two blocks from home, my son spoke again. “One
of the old ladies picking up her food was surprised I knew Spanish,” he said. “When I heard her tell the manager in Spanish where to put her boxes in her car, I just went and did it.”
I thought of my son’s beloved babysitter, who had spoken to him and his sister only in Spanish, a language I have loved since I began learning it in my suburban high school. Raising my children in the city was my dream; I’ve always wanted them to know people of many different backgrounds and cultures.
“What’d the lady say when she figured out you knew Spanish?” I asked.
“Ay!” he said, and we laughed.
The light turned green, and as we pulled onto our street, I glanced at the bag on my son’s lap, dotted with grease-stained fingerprints. I could see him handing out cardboard boxes at the pantry, loaded with pasta, fruit and even pet food, two frisky cats swimming around his ankles.
Carolyn Alessio is a writer and teacher who works on Chicago’s southwest side. She has been fortunate to meet some of the city’s new migrants.
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