Can anyone truly see what’s missing? It’s a paradoxical view.
What’s in a name?
One of my teachers told me folks with the last name DeAngelis or DiPrete had lineage that at one time included an orphanage. Perhaps when fathers’ last names couldn’t be identified or otherwise carried on, the orphanages gave the children names that meant “of the angels” or “of the priests.” True?1 Not sure. But I paid attention when folks with these monikers came into my life — and some impacted me greatly. Maybe another time I’ll tell those stories here too.
Sister Angela’s story as it intertwines with mine below. Keep going to hippie heaven as cued by my home page’s featured image. Yeah, that’s right. I’m talking 1969.
quick photo interlude from today’s walk
“Moby MF | Woods Walk”
More on EMWe Art
Angelas Among Us
Angela A. was my foster sister, a warm shoulder I wish I could hug (or cry on). Or maybe she’d like to cry on mine, or my mom’s? Right after my mom and dad had to drop Angela back with her natural mom, a reformed Playboy Bunny, my mom threw herself out of a moving car onto Brookline Avenue, Boston. My mom doesn’t remember this, but I’m guessing she was distraught2 . See, Angela’s mom had demanded of my parents on Angela’s return with her bag of diapers and clothes, “where’s the milk!?”
Her mom simply wasn’t ready for her.
Angela is one year older than me, born in January. My mom was told she couldn’t have kids more frequently than every 4 years, so my parents took in a foster baby three years after my older brother was born. Baby Angela came to live with us on Hooper Avenue, an “in the flats” row house with a swamp out back. There my mom said Angela burped really loudly with pride and glee.
My mom wanted to adopt Angela, but it didn’t work out. Angela spent 9 months or so with us, then a few sporadic visits thereafter “off the books3.”
Originally, Angela’s mom had to give her up for Bunny-ville, but eventually got her act together by going to secretarial school, and that’s how she fulfilled requirements to earn her own baby back. I remember Angela on a visit with us as a 3 year old or so. She looked like us. Like a real sister.
My mom knew that at her apartment, she’d get left alone when her mom went to work — with the TV on and a sippy cup on the end table. It was a basement apartment, on a main drag in Boston. The only thing she could see all day was feet walking by in window at the top of the room, and 1969 daytime TV.
I wonder if she thought people were only feet and legs. I wonder if she watched I Love Lucy. I wonder if anyone bent down to peer at her from that window. I hope Angela is A okay today. I’d love to see her.
‘Resilience on a Broken Sofa’
Angela, Henry, and me, 1971
