Hell is Suburbia

Of this one thing I’m most certain: Hell is suburbia.

Green grass lawns manicured and mowed into illusionary perfection, stand in defense to these cookie-cutter, monoliths.

Ordinary flowers surround these monoliths, congregating in impeccably planted rows beneath the sills of double hung, front windows complete with simulated divide, whilst HOA compliant, composite, Lily-white, picket fences stand at attention, guarding facade after facade — in hell.

Sidewalks are little more than an afterthought here (in hell). A slipshod courtesy of quick-dry cement poured only for appearance’s sake.

The welcoming front walks gently ushering you in from street to home have given way to stamped, concrete paths leading from asphalt driveways off of standard issue, double-car garages. These faux stone passageways of course are lined with the usual flowers. Pansies, petunias, maybe a smattering of alyssum or flox to fill in the blank spaces for good measure — all of them debutantes clamoring for best in show.

Royal purple, demure pink and snowy white flowers lie low to the ground, patiently awaiting their inevitable conclusion by some kids playing in the front yard as their mother stares absently into the void hissing a curt warning,

“Mind the flowers, please.”

This sets off a chain reaction, and without missing a beat, one of her brood of brats does the unthinkable as he accidentally tramples a small patch of pick-me pansies and petunias.

It always starts with a lip quiver.

Then the sniveling.

Little Johnny, or Stone, or whatever the year they were spawned dictated they “should be” named according to the latest edition of Parents Magazine, predictably amps up as a last defense against the very predictable shift in tone from his reptilian mother. Just moments before, her voice, a barely audible, hiss has transformed to one of despair and complete disgust.

“God dammit! I told YOU to MIND the FLOWERS! And instead of listening to me, you’ve ruined them. You’ve … you’ve killed them. Look at them, they’re DEAD now and all because you just can never pay attention to me, can you?”

His sniveling gives way to tears.

Little Johnny, or Stone, or whatever the brat’s name is, begins making a sincere attempt at remorse for their transgression against his mother’s pick-me pansies and petunias: herbicide. Pansy slaughter in the first degree — an assault on their mother’s precious, pick-mes, resulting in a slight, albeit significant, tear in her false facade and carefully crafted, fragile psyche.

Vacant eyes paired with a sadistic grin spread across her face.

“WHY are YOU crying? Don’t cry. STOP crying. This is NOTHING to cry about. Please stop crying. Mommy’s upset enough as it is right now. I don’t need YOUR crying on top of ALL of this,” she says motioning to dearly departed pick-mes.

Little Johnny, or whoever the fuck, has his mother to thank for for what comes next: full on, ugly crying. Tears start rolling down his tiny, reddened face, followed by the beginnings of snot bubbling from the tip of his nose as he makes odd, strangling sounds before wailing out,

“But you said I KILLED THEM!!! I didn’t mean to KILL your flowers MOMMY. I’m sorry… I’m … sorry. I’m … so …sorry. I’m sorry I KILLED YOUR FLOWERS! I didn’t …mean to .. do it.”

Locking her dead eye stare on Little Johnny, “They’re pansies and petunias,” she says coldly.

Right on cue.

In an effort to patch and smooth any discernible cracks in her veneer, Mommy Dearest first clenches her jaw, then pats her overly highlighted, blonde hair into place and smooths her slacks before putting on a grand show.

She sweeps in, expertly, pulling her little monster to her chest. A cunning performance all her own, complete with the sweep of her little sinner’s hair from their leaking and reddened face: the world is her stage.

Her tone softens.

“There. There. It’s no big deal. Mommy can get some new ones when we go shopping later today. You can even help me pick them out. Would you like that? Would you like to be my little helper?”

A very well rehearsed smile cracks across her plastic face revealing straight and overly whitened teeth as Little Johnny Herbicider’s sobs begin to subside and he nods,

“Yes, Mommy.”

Another rehearsed and fluorescent smile, splits across her face,

“It’s okay. I forgive you Johnny.”

Bravo. You’ve salvaged your makeshift reputation as Suburban Super Mom.

Hell is suburbia, and Little Johnny is so fucked.

____________________________

I’ve always marveled at these facades. Paths of stone pavers (stamped concrete) edged by the delicate, white lace of alyssum or bright and cheerful, creeping flox, polka dotted with perfectly placed pink and purple pansies and petunias smiling up at you, inviting you inside ...

I was 29 years old with a toddler when I bought my first home in the suburbs. A tangible sign that I too had made it.

I was 33 with two kids when I lost that home, like so many others, in 2008. I felt like a complete failure. An embarrassment. I was deeply ashamed, but still set my sites on having it all again as a way to soothe my bruised ego.

It would be another 3 years before my sons father and I would move back out to the suburbs. I was more vested in the dream at this point. I didn’t just want a house, I wanted a home. I wanted everything to be just right, but at no surprise to myself, I leaned very quickly (again) I would never manage to truly fit in with your average, suburban super mom because I don’t play their games very well.

They had manicured lawns with perfectly planted flowers done by landscapers, where I did my own landscaping complete with wildflowers and what I’d planned on being an eventual, lawn-free zone. They drove Mercedes and had Prada bags they’d bought on credit cards they opened in their husband’s names, and I had a KIA and whatever treasure of a handbag I’d thrifted at Savers. They drank wine and popped pills from sun up to sun down, and I made artisan loaves of bread and tried my hand at cheese making for fun between volunteering at my kids school and taking care of my home and working part time.

I was good with it mostly, or so I thought.

There’s this first line of defense meant to disarm you out in the burbs. It comes in the form of direct eye contact, a big fluorescent smile, and accentuated wave from across the street, with the well-intentioned promise of grabbing coffee or having drinks sometime. This of course matches the expansive green lawns, beautiful landscaping, and one of four to six model homes they’ve picked out and embellished with upgrades to give the home ”some character.” All this alongside nice cars and nice clothes in a neighborhood with good schools for your children.

Then you start to take it all in, taking note of things like walkways that lead from the driveway to your home instead of having one from the drive and one from the sidewalk. Or how the houses are set farther back and further apart than you’re used to, but not in the quaint way you see in rural, Main Street communities across America. You begin to realize the status quo isn’t in diversity, but in force-fed homogenization.

You soon realize this is all set up to keep people apart, even when they’re together because keeping up with the Jones is exhausting for some, and soul crushing for others.

Day drinking, pill popping and shopping addictions fueled by credit cards secretly put in their husbands’ names is as unfortunately common as their husbands having not so secret affairs and drinking problems — which then usually triggers revenge affairs, sometimes immediately followed by divorce, but more often is followed with reconciliation. At least until Mommy Dearest can find another man to support her lifestyle with the kids.

Nobody dares talk about this either. You’re not supposed to talk about such banal things. It’s seen as impolite and vulnerable. Sure, the PTA bunch will gossip about it, especially if you’re not one of them, but they don’t really talk about these things in any meaningful way that shows any sort of compassion. You’re just expected to get (more) therapeutic Botox or lip filler, retreat back to your cookie-cutter monoliths, uncork a bottle of wine, wash it down with a Xanax or two, and set out to die a slow and unremarkable death that manifests it’s emptiness in things like passive aggressive behaviors or narcissism.

No thank you.

I have found this to be true no matter where I’ve lived. I’ve lived in suburbs of Chicago, the greater Portland, Oregon metro area, the Northshore of Boston — suburbs are suburbs, and suburban moms of school age children are a creature all their own. You can either play the game, or you can’t.

But know this, whether or not you play the game matters not, because Hell is suburbia and Little Johnny is still so fucked.

A.B.K. ~ ©️08/31/2024