The Kittens in My Garden

One of my most vivid childhood memories is getting lost. Believe it or not, I got lost a lot as a child. I was one of those leash kids. We were on a walk in our neighborhood and she was outpacing me. She was dressed in her smart, purple work out attire that, in my memory, is always a very of-the-era retro design. She was focused on her fitness goal, while I was taking a more casual pace. I was always the kinda kid that walked the mile. This was one of the very first times I’d ever gone this far into the neighborhood. I was raised to be cautious; and growing up where I did, I never truly knew what it felt like to feel unsafe.

Our town had virtually zero crime and moving there was very intentional for my parents. My father was raised in the projects of Boston and he didn’t want his children to ever live a life like that. So, when they adopted us, they decided to raise us in a very safe, quite neighborhood in the San Gabriel Valley. My parents were the original owners our home, and that was impressive, but the houses higher on the hill were more impressive to me at the time. The further up you went, the bigger the houses became and the wider the driveways got. I’ve always loved architecture and I remember admiring those big homes, wanting to live in one myself, but not appreciating, at the time just how good I had it. In my wanderlust, I got distracted and lost my way. My mother would hit pause on her Walkmen and then double back to get me. She’d never leave me behind, but I remember that little bit of anxiety I had about holding her back. She was so driven and goal oriented and as a child, I don’t think I was quite as perceptive of just how much sacrifice she made to become a mother. She slowed down her pace and we walked the rest of the way together.

I would describe my mother as a type-A personality. Perhaps she developed it over time through my grandmother, a glamorous woman who, to my understanding, was fairly strict. She had high expectations for my mother, and from what I can tell, she fulfilled them. She graduated from Harvard with a Masters Degree, she married a good Christian man, she raised her children in a safe neighborhood and was very involved with the church. My mother was…impressive. One of the most impressive women I’ve ever known.

While my parents raised me in LA County, my mother worked in the middle of the city. She’d drive almost 4 hours to and from work daily, and sometimes I’d go with her. It’s impossible for me not to associate the city with my mother. I spent a lot of time with my mother, perhaps because, despite her being a working mom, she was otherwise quite traditional. She was pique 90s business woman classy. She always kept herself together and til the week of her death, she always kept a consistent hair appointment. You could never catch her slipping, and I remember my grandmother being the same way, just a bit more 60s glam. I’d often go with her into the city for her hair appointments. The culture shock I had when she’d show up to some lady’s house in the hood and she’d be getting her hair done in the kitchen, the smell of Blue Magic mixing with the smell of stove-fried chicken. People were so different in LA. Not to mention, growing up in the SGV, most of my neighbors were Chinese. I didn’t know very many other black people and sometimes these ventures into LA were the only times I interacted with black folks I wasn’t related to.

My mother was the first person I came out to. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but I do remember I started by telling her that I was attracted to men and I did this already knowing very well that I was not cis. When I said this to her, she said “that’s not it”; and initially I interpreted that as a rejection of my own statement of my sexuality; but with time I realized that she saw through my (not very convincing) gender performance at the time and recognized that I was likely a trans woman. She never encouraged me or told me who I was, but she never judged me. In school, I got into the habit of wearing baggy clothes over my usually hand-drawn, painted, or sewn clothes that I wore to school that were decidedly more feminine. My father shamed me a lot for being feminine when I was a child, so I learned to hide myself from him, but my mom was a different case. Sometimes she’d be sitting right there when I’d get back home and she’d see part of what I actually wore to school. She’d always chime in with a compliment or a comment about something I was wearing. I have a distinct voice memory of her saying “I like that” whenever I wore something different. I’ll never forget when I purchased my first pair of Doc Martens from my first check from my first animation job and she told me she wanted a pair herself. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that she liked my style so much as she was one of my first inspirations, but at the time, it always caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected her to be so accepting of me before I came out. She didn’t love all of my outfits though. Maybe the shorts were too short sometimes or the pants too tight. She made sure to let me know, but never made me feel terrible for being myself.

Shockingly, I was a Thespian in High School; and for my Advanced Drama assignments, we’d have to go see actual stage plays and do reports about them. My mom and I would go into LA by ourselves and go to the most bizarre little plays. Once I came out to my mom, I wanted to see as many LBGT themed plays as possible. When I came out to my mom, I asked her not to tell my father. So it became, I guess, our own little secret. I feel strange about that now, but back then I was so terrified of my father knowing that it felt nice to have someone at home that loved me enough not to do what I was afraid of my father doing to me. While I still remained closeted to my father, outside of the home, in retrospect, I was pretty out there in every other context. I was a kid with splatter painted rainbow jeans and fingerless gloves. we went to so many plays that had queer themes and I remember that being very impactful for me because I didn’t know very many queer people at the time. After the plays, we’d often go get food. There was always this line between my mom and I, and my brother and my father. They’re traditional dudes with chicken tenders diets and we’re more adventurous eaters with an ethnically diverse taste. So we always took our time together as an opportunity to eat in a more worldly way. We had this tradition of getting Pho, which was very exotic to us at the time. My mom and I just had this thing…this thing that only her and I shared. This knowing. This kinship. This love that was specific to us. A sense of humor and warmth and closeness. There was no voice that calmed me more.

After college, I briefly moved back in with my parents who, by then, had moved from that two story home I grew up in, into a little apartment in San Dimas. It sounds so classist now, but I remember thinking about how sad it must be that they moved from a home to an apartment. We went from having a ton of space to very very little. By then, it was impossible for my father to ignore that I was a woman. At this point, I’d already been stealth and since we lived in a new town now, I was functionally stealth while live in San Dimas at the time. I had just turned 21 and I went on a lot of dates and eventually, I met someone and we moved in with each other and I officially left home. When I moved out, things were a bit strained. My partner was white (well, passing… but that was a white boy!), and my dad didn’t really accept our relationship. Partially because he was white, but I think mostly because he was a man. Moving out marked the point where I started seeing my parents a lot less. Because of my father’s treatment of me, I didn’t like to call home very often and I often resented receiving phone calls from him. It was so hard to talk to someone who flat out doesn’t accept the version of you that is dramatically happier. I regret letting that get in the way of me speaking to my mother while she was still alive. She didn’t deserve to be punished because of how much I struggled to speak to my father. I will always regret not calling enough and bearing and grinning my discomfort just to speak to her more. I thought I’d be raising a family with that particular boyfriend and ultimately, after 6 years, I realized the suburban dream I imagined having with him wasn’t really what I wanted, and I no longer wanted to live in one of those big houses on the hill. So I left him and went to the city.

A lot of the little shows we went to were in the Hollywood/Los Feliz/ Silverlake area, and I knew that when I moved to LA, that’s the general area I wanted to be in. A few years ago, I signed a lease on a new apartment and I finally live in the Silverlake area of Los Angels. I really love my neighborhood… it’s gang territory apparently, but I’ve been told that if I mind my business, I’ll be fine. My neighbors seem to be really sweet even though I kinda stand out in the neighborhood. Once again, I’m one of the only black people in my area, but I love my location and everyone’s pretty friendly. My neighbors are mostly Salvadorian and they’ve confided in me that they’d rather have me here than a white gentrifier. I suppose my gentrification is less bad because I’m black. My apartment isn’t cheap, but it’s not the most expensive place I’ve lived. It’s the first place i’ve lived in LA that feels like home. I can’t believe I ever wanted to live in a big mansion. What would I even do with all of those rooms? I think it’s the perfect amount of room for me, and the best thing is, I’ve got a patio!

I’ve never had an outdoor space before and I gotta be honest, it really makes a difference! There’s something really nice about sitting on my patio with a CD on in the other room, a cocktail in my hand, the sound of my neighbor’s Bachata in the distance, and that sweet, sweet city air… maybe even a blunt to really take it over the edge. It’s like my little corner of paradise. It’s been a fun little project for me. I’ve never had outdoor space before so I’ve enjoyed buying all of these various little doo-hickeys for it. A cute little table and chairs, fake leaves to cover my storage, an umbrella for shade during the summer. I didn’t know I had to buy a heavy iron base for my umbrella when I first got it and I was so excited when I eventually got one and I was finally able to up my umbrella! That’s when I started sitting out there and I decided to cover the back gate with thick bamboo to give myself a little privacy because yes I do be on my patio half naked cuz I’m grown!

A lot of times when I’m writing my scripts for my Youtube videos, I’ll sit on my back patio and write on my Macbook. I was on my patio one afternoon when I got the phone call from my father. He said, through tears,

“Mumma’s Dead”

They’ve been married nearly 50 years and I knew that this man, whom I had grown so distant from, was hurting desperately. And so was I. I don’t think I understood permanence until I realized I could never speak to her ever again. I had waited for this moment in time where I’d be able to have Pho with her again, and it never came. It never will come and that hurt. It still hurts. My wound will never heal. I felt helpless so I screamed louder than I’ve ever screamed and a bunch of my neighbors peeped their heads out to see me crying on my patio. That was a day that changed me.

I remember sitting on her bed with her one afternoon, watching Bay Watch and chatting between commercials; and she told me that when she dies, she wants yellow roses at her funeral. I didn’t register it until I was at the funeral home, flipping through floral arrangements that the reason she said this to me was that I would ultimately be the person to make these plans. She knew that even back then. I figured out through my mother’s death that I was the most successful person in my family. Her funeral fell almost entirely on me. She had a Christian burial complete with a pastor from our church and I made sure she got her yellow roses and a lilac casket. She got her final manicure, hairstyle that I know she would have appreciated and beautiful dress that maintained her modesty, how she often did. Edward held me while I cried nonstop at her funeral. My hair was green at the time. It felt disrespectful and inappropriate for the situation, but I can hear my mom saying “I like that”. When she died, something within me shifted. An innocence I felt I still had, I recognized had been gone for quite some time.

One of the more recent additions to my patio was a small vase with my mother’s image on it. My aunts friend made it and I managed to take it from the repass. They have this sorta craft-like appeal that I know my mother would have loved. My mother is the reason I’m an artist. In fact, she’s the one who took me to an animation convention many years ago when I was a child; and it was there that I decided to go to Cal Arts because a very impressive person there had graduated from there. She was always making room for creativity. She volunteered for the Brownie Scouts at our church and she was always responsible for coming up with some new craft. Because I was always with her, I ended up doing a lot of these crafts and I think that’s where I got a lot of my handy, DIY nature from. I have fond memories of stealing her sewing kit and hand sewing a lot of my first pieces of feminine clothing. I have all the culture I do because of my mother. She introduced me to a world outside of the bubble created for me and placed the creative seeds in my mind that ultimately led to me being successful enough to be able to bury her.

The photo on the vase is a photo of my mother in her home office. It’s a photo that portrays a fashionable woman in very humble beginnings. It’s a good portrait of the mother I remember the most. I found a lot of photos of her before she ever became a mom. It’s strange looking at photos of who your mother was before you existed. She had a sheen of youth, optimism and whimsy in her old photos. It’s clear that adopting us changed a lot for her. As I went through her things, this became even more clear to me. In every unfinished notebook and every scrap of paper nestled between a Daniel Steele novel, I saw the dreams she had. Every job she considered getting, language she started learning, every future plan she had and so so so many unfinished notebooks. One of the notebooks I found had little scribbles of texting acronyms. I remember when she wrote it when texting started and she would tickle herself with the silly acronyms we used during the height of t-9 texting. She loved that something like “g2g” meant “got to go” and “ilu” meant “I love you”. She always delighted in those simple things. She hated feeling out of date, and she was starting to look into taking classes about technology. I regret those moments I was frustrated explaining technology to her. I think she would have enjoyed TikTok.

My mom struggled with MS for many years. I saw her slowly deteriorate from the woman who would leave me in her dust to a woman who relied on everyone for everything. She hated that. She hated that she was no longer able to be the type-A person she used to be. She never wanted to give anyone the impression that she couldn’t do it. As I’m writing this with tears soaking my face, I’m realizing that I get so much of my spirit from her. That was one of the strange things I realized as I processed her death. That so much of who I am, is actually her. In many ways, I’m almost a different version of her that went down an incredibly different path. As I collected her things, I noticed just how many little private bits of happiness she put aside for herself. So that’s where I get it! She had all sorts of trinkets and things that may have seemed insignificant to most, but I know for her contained a memory. We had so much in common and when I found this picture of her, I cried because I never realized that she too also used to wear oversized glasses. I’d never known that, we’d never discussed it. We’re just oriented the same way. Even though I’m not biologically related to her, it’s hard not seeing how much of her is in me.

Growing up, my father built a walk-in closet for my mother to store her extensive wardrobe in. Because I used to go through it all the time, I was aware of just how much she had downsized. She used to fill rack upon rack with clothes, but at the end of it all, she had very few things. She’d moved twice by now so she had downsized just slightly, but surprisingly, she kept a box full of every accomplishment I ever achieved. Every silly paper I got an A on. Every poem I ever wrote her. Every playbill. Every trophy.

Recently, I decided to make a real attempt at having a garden. I don’t have a green thumb at all… in fact, none of my plants have managed to stay alive. However, at the funeral, someone gave me a house plant. I dunno the name of it, but it’s a pretty cool lookin’ one. I’ve managed to keep it alive and that made me feel hopeful; so naturally, I decided I could buy a few garden beds from Target and actually try to grow my own food!

I planted a bunch of random shit. Mostly squash, herbs, tomatoes, peppers, swiss chard and some random flowers. It was slow starting at first, but it’s really started to flourish. I still gotta figure out a way to get rid of those pesky aphids, but all-in-all, it’s starting to look really productive. I started moving some of my planters around to catch the sun more effectively and I feel like I’ve recently found the most perfect feng shui for my patio because it now feels massive and lush now that my summer squash is really taking off. I gotta do some cleaning, but it’s really becoming a peaceful place. my little corner of tranquility.

The tricky thing about having a garden is you have to tend to it. Right now she’s a little sensitive. The heat is getting to her so I have to make sure I always come back to my apartment and water it so that she’ll continue to grow. A few days ago, Edward finally helped me set up a drip system so I’m expecting it to grow a lot better now. However, before then, it was nice to have a reason to come back to my apartment and take care of something. I spend most of my time at his apartment so until recently, it wasn’t uncommon for me to miss a day and then come back to wilted plants. That started feeling selfish though so I made a habit to come back every day to make sure the plants were ok.

The past week or so, I’ve had some visitors on the patio. A pair of very adorable kittens who have recently enjoyed using my patio as a shady little get-away during the heat wave.

Alexander saw them this week when we had our date and he and his wife are pretty notorious for taking in the neighborhood cats. They have a little shelter for the ones that stop by. When the kitties first came to my patio, I realized how nice it felt to have them there. They’re so cute and sweet, and its just nice to see them. It brightens up my day a little bit. One of them is really timid and shy and the other is very chaotic. I sometimes sit on my patio and watch them catch flies.

I got the impression that they weren’t eating and didn’t have a cool place to lay so I decided to open up my umbrella and I tried to create a few little spaces for them to chill on my patio. For my mother’s funeral, I received a large flower arrangement in a basket. I kept the basket for emotional reasons, and I realized that it would actually make a pretty great little place for the littles to chill. So I took some pillows and put it in there so they’d have a place to relax.

Today while I was in Target, I decided to get a little bag of cat food for them because I figured they were hungry. When I got home, I took my doggy placemat and put some food and water in it and they took to it immediately. I actually grew up with a little kitty named Sparkle who my parents had to get rid of because I was allergic. That’s always made me sorta sad. I’ve never really been a pet person. I like cats, I guess but I’m not a cat lady, really…not yet at least. And I gotta admit, these cute kids had me really considering it.

As I sat there watching them eat…I started crying. There she goes again, crying on her damn patio. I realized that in a way, without realizing it, I had been exerting, in my own small way, a maternal energy in the space where I learned that I had lost my mother. I think my mother passing away shifted something within me that made me care a bit more about hungry kitties in need of shady place to lay their head. Sometimes when I have moments like this, I wonder if this is evidence of some sort of suppressed maternal desire I have deep down inside. I came to LA for self discovery when I realized that I didn’t really want that suburban life I once dreamed of. But sometimes I have these moments where I remember that a different version of me imagined that at this point in my life, I’d be putting my kids into the 2nd grade. And honestly, there are times where I think about it. Should I be a mom? I feel like the overwhelming answer is a no. I can’t imagine it… but at the same time, I think I’d be a really cool mom. Maybe feeding these kitties is the closest I’ll ever get. As they skittered back into their little shelter under my garden bed, I felt immensely thankful to those kitties for giving me a moment of purpose and not running away from me when I started crying. I like them on my patio. I love the kittens in my garden.

As it turns out, those kitties aren’t street kitties at all. They’ve got a parent already, so there goes my fantasy of adopting them! They still come to my garden and they’ve since become favored by my neighbors. I’m really thankful that my mom adopted me. We aren’t biologically related, but that’s my mother through and through. I used to think we were so different and I wish I was able to celebrate how similar we were when she was alive. I realize now that every little polite suggestion she gave me was her recognizing part of herself in me. That while I knew her as my mother, she was so much more than just that. She existed outside of and beyond her role in my life as a mother. She was complex, she was strong and ultimately she taught me how to love…I miss her a lot. I miss our banter, our dark jokes, our particular love for each other. But in so many ways I’ve realized that she’s not really gone. She lives on in me and is in the love I have for others. So she will always be with me, even if she’s no longer with us. And the same is true for every other person she’s ever touched. She will always be my idol.

Thanks for the kittens, mom.