A Hit on My Mother

When I was a teenager my mother monitored and recorded all my telephone conversations. I didn’t know she was doing this, so I would babble about boys, friendship, and high school drama without knowledge that my private conversations were not very private at all. I had no idea that my words could, and would, be used against me in a court of law.

One day she overheard a phone conversation about buying weed. She pressed record. After reviewing my short discussion about buying a dime bag in the park, she decided it was her civic duty to call the police.

The cops didn’t care about her dumb daughter buying a bag in the park, but they did care about who was selling the bags in the park—so they asked my mom to keep listening. That’s how my mother became a police informant.

My mom started recording all my drug-related conversations and sending them to detectives. I talked about scoring pot and eating mushrooms. I discussed the pros and cons of dusting a blunt with PCP. (Mostly cons.) I rambled about seeing little baggies of cocaine spread out at parties and whether or not I was ready to try that level of craziness yet. (Not yet. Maybe later.)

“I had no idea they’d publish a news story saying ‘thank you parent.’ Thanks a lot, cops.”

My mother listened and received information. Then she turned it all over to the police. She gave them so much intel that they started making arrests.

I was ignorant to all of this. Friends started to avoid me and told me to lay low. I received threats. Eventually a friend told me there was a rumor going around that my mother narced on a big drug dealer and he wanted revenge. Then I heard something even more disturbing. The big drug dealer put a hit out on my mom.

A hit. On my mother!

The idea of my own mother ratting me and my friends out to the police sounded so insane I didn’t believe it. My mom, a vigilante in the War on Drugs? Outlandish. No way this could be true.

It was true. A drug dealer had been arrested. His drug dealer friends were either arrested or questioned too. A lot of people were going down, and it was allegedly all my mom’s fault. By the transitive property, it was all my fault too. The circumstances of the arrests coincided with events I discussed on the phone with friends. I was having casual conversations about ridiculously stupid things, and now people were actually fucked.

I never saw or heard any tapes, but I was told she had hours of audio conversations detailing when and where you can buy drugs on Long Island. I asked my mother if it was true but she repeatedly denied it.

We started receiving threatening phone calls. Late at night a man’s voice would whisper “we’re going to kill you and your daughter” into the phone. My parents changed our home phone number. The calls kept coming. Weird messages arrived all throughout four years of high school. I moved on from that group of friends and went on with my life, but menacing midnight phone calls continued to plague my mother for years even after I left for college.

I still wasn’t sure what really happened or exactly how things went down. My mom is now in her 70s and retired, both from her work as a teacher and her career as an amateur narcotics officer.

This weekend I called her to find out the truth and get some closure. This is a partial transcript of our phone conversation:

Me: I have to ask you something. You might get mad or deny it so say whatever you want but: When I was a kid did you record my phone conversations about drugs then turn them over to the police?

Mom: Yes! And you know what? I kept drugs away from you and the cops betrayed me. It ended up in Newsday. A two-inch article detailing the whole thing popped up a few weeks later and at the end it said “Thank you to the parent in our community who helped break up this local drug ring.” Thank you PARENT. Parent? I couldn’t believe it said that.

Me: It was in the actual newspaper?

Mom: Yes. In Newsday. Wait, how did you know about this? I was going to tell you about all this someday when you were older but for some reason I just didn’t.

Me: I just sort of knew. And people knew. Kids knew. They told me. Not all police officers are good, by the way. Some are. Some aren’t. This isn’t Leave it to Beaver or nostalgia television. It’s real life. Some of the people selling drugs were friends or siblings with police officers. Cops talk. People talk. Weren’t you scared?

Mom: I had no idea they’d publish a news story saying “thank you parent.” Thanks a lot, cops.

Me: But besides the cops and that whole part, why did you do it? It was just pot. There was talk of other stuff but not actual buying it or doing it.

Mom: How do I know it’s just pot? Drug pushers start you with pot then get you hooked on other things.

Me: There weren’t any pusher men lurking in corners trying to get me hooked. I sought out drugs because I wanted to try drugs. Drug dealers weren’t chasing me. I was looking for them.

Mom: Well I grew up in Jamaica, Queens and saw drugs being pushed. I saw mugging with earrings ripped out of people’s ears. It was all about drugs.

Me: Okay, but why record my conversations and go to the police?

Mom: If you were a parent you’d do the same thing.

Me: Not call the cops and be a narc!

Mom: Archie Bunker from All in the Family’s son died from drugs and he said do everything in your power to keep your kids safe. To keep them away from drug pushers and drugs.

Me: I’m pretty sure Carroll O’Conner’s son killed himself.

Mom: It was drugs and because of drugs and Carroll O’Conner did what he had to do and so did I and I hope you do the same.

Me: Okay fine. All that said. Would you do it again? Record the calls and go to the cops?

Mom: Yes. Absolutely. But next time I’m going in wearing a wig and sunglasses.