top of page

I'm Sorry, Mama, A Memoir

     “Don’t race cars, don’t climb mountains, don’t get drunk,” my mom advised me when I was



     But on a beautiful summer day fifteen years later, I forgot about her last advice when I met up

with Mike and Ashlee, a couple among the group of friends I hung out with the most during

that time, to release my boredom amid my year-long academic suspension from college for having a

poor cumulative GPA.


     That day, we stopped by the liquor store before heading to Ashlee’s place, when the rest of her family wasn’t home. We had the house to ourselves to enjoy our usual potluck like we frequently did at one another’s house—except for mine—with food, card games, and rap music.


     While Ashlee made a casserole creamy pasta dish after putting on a teen movie that I couldn’t recall, Mike and I started on the tall-blue beer cans. One can, two cans, then a plate of pasta appeared before me. I took a forkful of food, started on the third can, and half-watched the movie while drifting in and out of sleep.


“Are you okay, John?” Ashlee asked, half concerned, half sarcastic. “You’re drunk!”


     “I’m just buzzed,” I replied. I spotted Mike laying on the carpeted floor beside me. “Better than Mike,” I added proudly.


     I passed out on the couch until Ashlee announced in horror, “Wake up! My mom’s home!” I stirred and squinted while feeling heavy, like I was being forcefully pressed down. Moments later, Ashlee’s mom demanded, “What the hell happened?”


     Mike’s mom took Mike and me home—we lived on either end of the same block. After she exasperatedly asked for an explanation that she never got, she asked me what would happen if my parents found out that I was drunk.


     “They’ll kill me,” I mumbled my reply.


     I stumbled up the six front porch steps and acted as normal as possible as I entered the house, but my stupid drunken self couldn’t resist blabbing out that I was drunk. Big mistake.


     I gingerly climbed up the sixteen steps to my bedroom and crashed onto my bed. While I laid there, barely conscious as I felt my room spinning, my mom’s voice drummed like heavy metal music as she unloaded her verbal fury at the bottom of the staircase. “…you’re in your twenties; you lack purpose. All you do is getting drunk…”


     Just then, the tune of a familiar rap song played in my head.  The lyrics spoke on my behalf to express my remorse for getting drunk.


     “I’m sorry, Mama…”

bottom of page