In or around Summer 2002, I was asked to stay with my cousin Laura and her 3 young girls. Laura and the girls lived in a two-bedroom apartment at the Lido (name of the building). It wasn’t the first time I had to leave my house while my mother was away, but this for me it would be the last. I was very close to my cousins so knowing I would stay there excite me. We too lived at the Lido.
Some weeks prior, we received a call from our family in Mexico about my grandmothers’ lung cancer diagnosis. My mother would travel to be with my abuelita. My mother, being the youngest of her siblings wanted to be with her mother so I had to pack my clothes and leave my family apartment (mother’s house) into my cousins “for my own safety”.
The reason: my stepdad would stay behind during my mother’s trip and I could not stay there. It wasn’t the first time I had to leave the house because my mom was not going to be home but somehow it had become a normal occurrence that we no longer discussed. I just couldn’t stay home.
After my mother had spent nearly 3 months watching after my abuelita’s health. I decided with my cousins’ guidance, that it was time for me to find my own place. After all, I had a job and money to pay for an apartment.
There was no credit to run, I had a good job and my mother was a friend of the Manager Angela, who still a friend of my family. It also helped that about 10 years before my family and I had lived in the same building (also under Angela’s management).
1719 Whitley Ave #11 was my first ever own apartment. I paid $550 a month + utilities for a studio unit on the second floor. Laura and her then boyfriend helped me move (my clothes, that was) since I was moving from home, there was really not too much to move other than my twin bed and a chair. I later acquired a desk and dinner table. My then boyfriend helped with the move as well.
I was 23 years old and a proud woman. Other than the roof I was providing for myself, this apartment also provided the safety I needed. I no longer had to stay with relatives because I was at risk.
My apartment was a humble space. I didn’t have much, I had exactly 2 plates, 2 cups and a set of utensils, a microwave, coffeemaker and my computer (the one my mother had purchased for me while at home). I had a printed copy of Maya Angelou’ Still I Rise which I taped onto my wall to the left of the door and above the light switch as a reminder that I could and would in fact, RISE.
My mother would return a few weeks later from Mexico, after my abuelita Cande’s passing. Upset, as the traditional parent she was… I had left my home, unmarried.
Truth was that she didn’t want to return to her life either. She told me when I picked her up from Ontario (California) after her arrival. I told her to stay with me but she didn’t. She resumed her life and had to live with the fact that her daughter had broken the chains (literary speaking) of my abuser (her husband) and that I was finally free.
A few years after, her husband was arrested for similar crimes. Later deported, from what I heard. My mother was finally/forcibly free as well. Forcibly, because if she didn’t leave him when she was told about the horrible person she was with, I’m not sure she would have ever left that man.
During my time at 1719 Whitley Avenue, I graduated from Community College and transferred to Cal Poly. I broke up with my then BF of 4 years. I met one of my closest friends, Esme from college. I graduated from Cal Poly, after having drove myself 26 miles each way and/or taken public transportation for 3 years.
I had a series of jobs during college which included working for a musician and traveling with him for children’s concerts, working janitorial at a gym, taking typing gigs via Craigslist, being promoted from my janitorial job to spa receptionist to later be called to come to work for my current employer.
1719 Whitley Ave is where I left everything behind to live my life.
As an immigrant young woman and my mother’s child, I was expected to return home and reunite with her. Make up for lost time, protect her and allow her to protect me. But I didn’t. While I continued to look after her, I was too independent and too proud to look back.
I live with not a single regret of having moved out while my mother was away. To this day, it was one, if not the best decisions I have ever made. I owe it to my abuelita and to Ms. Angelou, both may Rest in Peace. I live in peace.
I leave Ms. Angelou’s poem here, I still tear up when I read it.
La Casita de La Jackie 