MOM: A DAY IN TIME

This photograph was taken while I was on-set. It was just another day on-set to everyone around me. To me, it was the day I found a mom for a day in time.

It was a long drive from Little Ethiopia to Santa Clarita, and it didn’t help that I got an Uber Share for the trip. It was my big day. My self-fulfilling prophecy of getting my first of the three needed SAG vouchers to become part of the union. I should have planned accordingly instead of leaving my apartment with an hour to spare and a car full of passengers.

From lingering a.m. rush-hour traffic, to every yellow-light the driver stopped at, the anxiety of feeling like I was going to be late on this day, of all days, started to get the best of me. Nonetheless, I dealt with my anxiety the only way I knew how to—by making jokes. Everyone laughed with the exception of the one person I expected a laugh from—the moody Gen-Z teenager. Thankfully, she was the first drop off at the high school I coincidentally graduated from.

The next drop-off was in the heart of K-town; the drop-off was a nice man, no older than late 50s, reminded me of my grandfather when he was that age, except my grandfather still had a full-head of black hair then whereas this man had snowy-colored hair to complement his gentle demeanor. Finally, it was just me and the driver.

As for the driver, Francisca. I will never forget her name, or even her voice. Though she sat throughout our entire car ride up to Santa Clarita, I could tell we were about the same height. She had a bronzed complexion which paralleled the sunny day ahead of us. We started talking about movies, because coincidentally, her son was also an aspiring actor, but it’s not until we mentioned his favorite movie that Francisca truly captivated me.

“I knew, watching this movie, that it was his way of coming out to me. You know what I said to my son: it doesn’t matter to me who you’re with, who you love; I carried you inside me for nine months; I raised you. I’ve always known. It broke my heart to see you suffering. I have been praying every day for years that you would just tell me. I love you.”

I sat with Francisca’s story for a few seconds. It had nothing to do with her son being gay, a second similarity between both us; I had never cared about who accepted me for being gay, family included. If anything, I unapologetically announced it to the world after losing my virginity at eighteen. What resonated with me was Francisca’s love. Period. She loved her son and he didn’t have to do a single thing to earn it. He was the background image on her phone; he was in every photo Francisca had on her dashboard; he was the reason she continued to do Uber despite sharing her passion for writing. Francisca loved her son first and foremost. Most than herself.

It was a quick shoot, and getting into costume was less exhausting than other shoots; I liked my outfit for once because I actually got pants, a shirt, a vest, and a cowboy hat compared to a thin, knee-high robe with plastic sandals from my previous shoots. At the three-hour mark, the assistant director cut me and the rest of background, and my first SAG voucher was secured. If only I had secured transportation. I couldn’t justify another Uber, so I sat on a bench and started looking into public transportation options, and with the faulty WIFI in the Santa Clarita mountaintop, it was taking awhile.

“Hey. Do you need a ride home?” asked a familiar voice—it was Helena. Helena was one of the background people who had caught my attention through her infectious laughter at every raunchy joke I made. I made my way into her car and off we were back onto the 101 Freeway amidst Thursday p.m. rush hour traffic.

“Mind if I smoke?” Helena asked as she was already lighting a cigarette. “Not at all,” I answered, not because I felt obligated to say yes as she extended such generosity to me, but because cigarettes never bothered me as a non-smoker, probably because they reminded me of the first guy I was truly attracted to; a stranger I met in West Hollywood following a heated argument with my mother.

“Thanks for the ride again, I know Little Ethiopia is kind of far from…where do you stay again?” I asked, realizing I didn’t know where Helena lived nor exactly how far out of her way I was putting her. “North Hollywood, but I have to pick my kids up from school in Hollywood, so you’re on the way.” I was not on the way, but Helena was way too stoned from whatever else she had smoked before I got into her car to tell the difference.

“I saw you sitting and I thought of my eldest son. That could be him waiting to find a way home.” I sat and took in Helena’s words for more than a few moments; I was transported back to when I was sixteen and I would wait for the public transit after work at 1 a.m. to go home in East LA, because my mother couldn’t bother to pick me up, but certainly knew everyone of my pay dates.

“How come you don’t drive?” Helena asked as we finally hit some traffic. “I don’t know how to, and I can’t afford it,” I answered. Suddenly, Helena transferred into a monstrous, neurotic woman yelling at me to not scratch her car before I even put it into drive, as seventeen-year-old me lost every bit of desire to ever learn after a haughty first lesson with my mother.

“Where’s your family?” Helena was asking all the hot topics that 80 degree Thursday evening, and for whatever reason, I was answering without filter. “I don’t have a family.” Helena looked at me and simply said, “I’m sorry…” I let another couple of seconds pass; I couldn’t let the remorse of asking the question and assuming the worst make her lose sleep that night. “They’re alive. I just don’t talk to them, mostly because of my mother.” I could see the sigh of relief come out of Helena’s mouth, if only that could have stopped her from asking anything else about the topic. “What did she do to you?”

“Ruined my credit. Beatings. Emotional neglect. Lying. Gaslighting. All the jazz…”

Helena seemed surprised, but interested to hear more, and I wasn’t triggered in the way I thought I’d be—if anything—it felt cathartic. I hadn’t spoken about my mother in months.

“When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“Five months ago. Our last conversation ended with me saying, ‘You should work for the DWP, you excel at gaslighting.” This made Helena laugh, and finally satisfied her inquisitiveness.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said as Helena dropped me off amidst the congested intersection on Olympic and Fairfax. “No problem. I’ll be looking out for you in movies soon,” she said she started to drive away, her brown car disappearing into the evening, orange hue slowly but surely. I waited until her car became an ant in the distance before making my way into my apartment.

I laid in bed and thought about the day, and the two women I met; one who would give everything for her son; and another who would treat the world’s children as her own. Despite not being religious or even knowing if God exists or if it’s a man-made construct used for comfort or control, I thanked someone out there. Someone above and beyond, someone out in the universe that allowed me to have a mom for a day in time.