I Will Be Your Mother Figure

Me, my Mom, and my Brother c. 1989

If the last eight years have taught me anything, it’s that grief never goes away. It takes on new shape, coming out of the darkness like a lost cockroach following a beam of light but there’s always something to bring you back to the heartache of losing a loved one. Nick Cave described grief as a rubber band in the documentary One More Time With Feeling—you can move farther and farther away from the traumatic event but eventually the band snaps back and you find yourself in the exact same emotional state when the traumatic event first happened. Most of the year, I can function normally. I’ll think about my Mom but it won’t be a consuming thought and it rarely manifests into my subconscious but days like her death anniversary, her birthday, and Mother’s Day, which unfortunately these three events start on the first day of Spring and end on the first day of Summer, makes the entire Spring season unbearable. The three months that follow are the band snapping back—I find myself more sensitive, moodier, easy to sob when I’m trying to forget how much I miss my Mom. As the years have passed, it’s become easier to talk about my Mom. I’ve grown accustomed to using the past tense when referencing her in conversation (it took me close to a year before I stopped talking about her in the present tense). I avoid mentioning her death to new people because it usually leads to an awkward moment where the person feels like they just stuck their entire foot in their mouth, which becomes a role reversal and I end up being the one reassuring them that it’s okay that they didn’t know my Mom was dead.

My Mom passed away during a transitional time in my life—I was completing my last semester at community college before transferring to a university. I was only twenty-two, still figuring out the adult thing. I wasn’t sure of anything and second guessed myself with everything. Not having her there was painful, but what was more painful was knowing I wouldn’t have a maternal figure to guide me. It became second nature for me to gravitate towards women who shared the same qualities as my Mom. As a result, I would adopt these women as mother figures.

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The first mother figure I adopted was Pat.

Pat was my very first screenwriting professor during my very first semester at Cal State Fullerton. Like my Mom, Pat was Italian, born the same year as my Mom, with the same sweet, nurturing, maternal spirit that could easily put a smile on my face. My passion for writing along with her encouraging words allowed me to feel comfortable to flourish and explore the depths of screenwriting. Maybe the fact that I looked up to her as a maternal figure made me want to strive to do everything perfectly and impress her, which is something I did do. Pat was the first person to tell me my screenplay was great, that I had a real knack for writing, and I needed to keep going with it. My heart felt so elated—a dream I had harbored since I was 11 years old had the chance of becoming a reality. The dream wasn’t just a dream, but rather something that was feasible. It meant the world to me that she thought my screenplay could one day become a feature film that people would pay money to see. I remember wanting to call my Mom to tell her all the lovely things Pat said about my writing and how much she reminded me of her.

After the semester ended, I still kept in touch with Pat. Throughout my next year and a half at Cal State Fullerton, I always checked in with her and would ask her to give me notes on my script since she knew and understood it so well. When I was butting heads with another screenwriting professor the following year, I called her for advice and she was there, giving me pointers on how to take criticism while maintaining the integrity of my story and its characters. Like my Mom, she tried to maintain diplomacy since it was a fellow colleague I was kvetching about but she was also protective of me. When she made a Facebook post about going to the LA’s Women’s March in 2017, I asked if I could join her. The day after Inauguration, we met up in Pershing Square where there were close to a million people protesting the new administration. For a few hours, I marched up and down the streets of Downtown LA with a woman that made it seem like my Mom was still around.

Of course she asked me how I was doing, if I was still writing, and what had been happening to her since Cal State Fullerton. I haven’t spoken to her in quite some time due to life and its winding course, which at that point revolved around working and spending any free time I had organizing for DSA. I’ll always hold a special place for Pat in my heart as she was the first woman who took on the Mother role after my Mom died and made me feel as if I would be okay roaming the world without her.

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After graduation, I found myself thrust into the world of office work. After many attempts trying to get a PA job, applying to any internship I could find, and half-assed networking that showed promise but would end up falling through, the dream of making my own films started deflating back to just that—a dream. I fell into a deep depression for a long while. The first office I job I held down was at a call center for bill collections. I felt trapped and frightened trying to look for anything else because I was young and lacked experience. Being on the phone eight hours a day was brutal. Listening to customers’ horror stories of how they ended up three months behind on their payments, begging me to give them another week to scrounge up some cash to cover half of the bill was emotionally taxing to where sometimes I would have to put the phone on mute so the customer wouldn’t hear me sniffling or put my head down so my colleagues wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. The temp agency that hired me were of no help when I, or anyone else for that matter, asked for a different assignment, presumably because it was widely known the company I was working at gave said temp agency a fat commission check. The last thing they wanted were employees begging to be re-assigned to anywhere but a call center. The turnover rate was high and I witnessed a few people on the job say they were taking a break or going to the bathroom and never return. After a year, I hit my breaking point and quit my job (A man I met at a gay Halloween party wearing lederhosen advised me to quit, but that’s a story for another day). Two weeks later I found myself at a silicone manufacturing plant doing end-of-the-year filing. What was initially supposed to be a three week assignment turned into a three year stint.

One of the women who ended up training me reminded me so much of my grandmother but ended up being my mother in the office. Her name was Celia, a Mexican woman who has seen a lot of shit, gone through her fair share of drama to know life was short and loving each other was the only way out of this mess called Life. A kindred spirit of my Mom’s, she smoked like a chimney, would shop at cheap fashion boutiques to buy clothing that looked cute but cost five dollars, and was always emotionally supportive. She was a grandmother and would often refer to me as “Mija” that gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling of home and family. Celia knew about my Mom and how she really died. I felt comfortable enough telling her one day while she was training me because she lost loved ones to addiction. There were times where we didn’t get along, but she was the person I was closest to in the entire office. I knew she would have her back and she knew I had hers. The day after my boyfriend dumped me, I went to work because staying home in my head sounded so much worse. It was painfully obvious there was something wrong but I tried to keep it to myself and together. When everyone went away to look at something outside, she asked me what was wrong and I cried in her arms. She gave me a hug and told me everything would be okay. Later that evening she texted me that she was available to talk whenever I felt ready to talk, a similar message my Mom would have sent had she been alive.

The day I quit my job due to a corporate takeover that had all but taken my mental sanity was one of the hardest choices I made because of Celia. I knew I was leaving her behind along with my sole companion in the office. I became withdrawn after I submitted my two weeks, specifically asking for no farewell party to avoid the guilt of being selfish and doing what was best for me. I didn’t want to be faced by Celia’s pained face. On my last day, she gave me a tearful goodbye. I told her to watch her back—a corporation was at the helm now and she was at risk of losing her job if the wrong person complained about her. She nodded, but the advice would be futile as the company drove her to such incredible stress she had to take a medical leave of absence. A few weeks later the company told everyone the plant was closing.

I keep up with her on Facebook despite losing regular contact with her. She is studying to be a phlebotomist, is in a loving relationship, and is happy with her children and grandchildren. I may not talk to her on a regular basis but I know I could always reach out to her if I ever needed a shoulder to cry on.

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After I had quit my job at the manufacturing plant, I jumped into the mortgage industry. The group of women I ended up joining became the mothers I needed in a confusing, depressing, difficult time in my life. We were a motley crue in the corner of a mostly empty office, but we were smart, sharp, and capable. To this day, it was the best group of people I ever had the pleasure of working with. I’m at a new job now, where everyone is nice and helpful, but it will never be the same as the year I worked with these group of women.

All of them had qualities that reminded me of my own Mom. Evie, a beautiful and very petite woman, was only a few years older than me but married a very handsome, older, wealthy man. She had a beautiful home, two beautiful children. In the same vein as my Mom, Christianity was an important part of her life. Her politics may have not been great, but she always strived to be a better person through her relationship with God. Evie was also blunt, never one to shy away from saying what was on her mind or say anything she didn’t mean. If she gave me a compliment, I knew she meant it, which is always the type of personality I preferred. She always asked about how I was doing, my little mini dates with my crush, past relationships—nothing was out of bounds. She provided me with so much confidence and became a cheerleader for me with any small or big event that happened in my life. Like Celia, she called me “Mija”, alternating to “Sweetie Pie” if I did something wrong that needed to be fixed. I am definitely my mother’s daughter when I say I am terrible with remembering names. My Mom combatted her own shortcomings by referring to everyone by a cute nickname. Sometimes you were a “Boo Bear”, other times “Sweetheart” or “Honey” or “Sweetie Pie”. Everyone thought my Mom was just darling when she did this, which she was, but it was the best way for her to cover up that in that moment she couldn’t recall your name.

My other colleague, Diane, had a lot of the same qualities as my Mom—sweet, always helpful, and eager to please. She was well put together but she also had a sassy streak to her like my Mom—She had no qualms complaining about her teenage daughters’ hormonal personalities. Every time she would say her daughter was “the spawn of Satan”, I could imagine my Mom making the same complaints to the women she worked with on a day to day basis about me during the rough patch of my teenage years. Diane always greeted me with “Hi there, Sunshine!” in an affectionate tone like my Mom. Diane was my cubicle buddy so she became a rock for me through my year working with her. She was a well of knowledge being in the mortgage industry for twenty years and every time I had an issue, she always had an answer.

Cathy and Kim were closer to my Mom’s age. Both had been divorced previously and knew so much about life, love, and relationships. Kim shared a birthday with my Mom while Cathy’s physical appearance was very similar to how I remembered my Mom—blonde, light eyes, small frame with an edgy fashion sense. My manager, Kristin, didn’t have too many qualities that resembled my Mom but she looked after me like my Mom would, backing me up when an account executive got on me for giving them an answer they didn’t like or a regional manager didn’t like how fast I was completing an application or fill in the blank with any dumb ass reason as to why an account executive would have an issue.

Needless to say, it pained me when the company was sold and my job had been eliminated during the transition. Most of the team were laid off, including Diane and Cathy. We had five minutes to get all of our things together and leave. The two people on our team that were spared looked sad and confused, my manager Kristin was white as a sheet. I could live with not having a job, but knowing I wouldn’t have these women by my side every day, the women that kept me sane, the women I relied on during my bout of depression, through my heartache. I couldn’t even say a proper goodbye and I wish I had.

I’ve kept in contact with Diane since that day. She still greets me with “Hello Sunshine” in each text message. She has gotten another job since we were laid off and seems to be doing okay. I told her about walking off a job because of lack of training. She didn’t judge and instead supported me, encouraging me, telling me I’d find something better. And I did. My only wish is all of the other amazing ladies I worked with are doing well and remember me fondly as the Millennial daughter that helped them with their Excel spreadsheets and told them how much bosses suck.

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There will be many more women I will meet in life that will remind me of my Mom—they’ll smoke cigarettes, apply copious amounts of make-up, White Diamonds perfume, be vain, jealous, childish, unexpectedly sharp as a tack at the most random moments, have a gallows sense of humor, a terrible memory for names but will always exhibit love, comfort, warmth, encouragement when you need it the most. I’ll always cherish the women I have met thus far who have brought parts of my Mom back to life and will adore any women I meet in the future who provide that small nugget of familiarity that is the memory of my Mom. It’s a lovely reminder that while my Mom is no longer here with me physically, she’s still alive and well in my heart.