As the months approach, I always get nervous as you might’ve sensed in Thirty-Won.
People asked why I celebrated so hard this year. My mom would’ve been 54. That’s why.
Some people don’t get the opportunity to celebrate.

When I look at her life through my own lenses wow, nena you were resilient. And I wish you were here so you wouldn’t have had to be. We would’ve shielded you. One hundred percent.

This one is emotional. Personal. A vent session with my readers. I wrote her a letter on the 11 year anniversary of her transition.

This year really kicked my ass without you. I found myself venting to my dad. I know she would fucking laugh, because there was a time I resented him deeply. And yet, there I was complaining to my father while he’s incarcerated.

Tone deaf, right?

He said something that stayed with me.

“Some people can’t build the house. They just show up for the ribbon cutting.”

AND because we build houses, we recognize the difference between the ones who put in the work and the ones who finally show up once the work is done. Even when they don’t thank you, say you’re welcome.

I thought of you instantly. Because Tony, wtf.
But then I thought about alchemy. Breaking down ego. Listening to the message, not the messenger.

Let’s go back to 1235, crying on your lap over my grown ass boyfriend. You consoled me, didn’t judge me, I’m sure you were pissed. Then I removed myself out of the equation and thought about you. Your first love. Your real love. Your last love. How you still had so much love left in you.

I wouldn’t have let you go either. You were the best kind of partner because even after the love ended, you stayed as a friend. Some people call that stupid. I call it emotional intelligence. That doesn’t mean you didn’t cry. Oh, you cried. A lot.

You were such a lover girl. My fellow Sagittarius.

My mother never had an easy life. She was despised by her caretakers. When her mother had to go back to work, she was raised by her eldest sister. My mom was the baby. I think about her running barefoot through the streets and wonder why they called you all la banda de delincuentes de Fransica.

She tried college to make her mother happy, but quickly leaned into fast money. My mom knew how to make money. That’s where I get my hustle from both parents, really.

For a long time, I watched my mom only as her baby girl. I didn’t have the privilege of knowing her for long, but she knew me inside and out.

I never recognized hardship until I looked back. I didn’t feel pain because my mom made everything look easy. Even after her first surgery so brave. Were you scared?

At 31, I ask myself: how the fuck did you do it?
Single mom. No stamps. No help from my baby dad. Just fucking vibes.

I wouldn’t say you didn’t have a village that wouldn’t be fair to Vana, CeeCee, Somja, Landia, Maria, even Nancy but you didn’t have much help. And now, at this big age, I finally understand.

Even with people around you, you still have to do it on your own. That’s life.

We had live in nannies and we ran every single one of them away. You kept hiring another until Maria came along, your comadre from downstairs. That was the kind of mother I had.

Looking back at your friendships, I understand now you were afraid of staying anywhere too long. Maybe you never felt safe.

As a sister, there wasn’t an uncle, aunt, friend, or neighbor who didn’t live with us at some point. You could ask her for a loan, a ride, a place to sleep she’d give it without hesitation. I watched the endless love you had for your sister.

You sent us to Puerto Rico, maybe hoping your protector would protect us. Maybe that was the little girl in you still holding onto hope. Your inner child was beautiful, ma.

When you transitioned, I thought it was fucking dumb.
Now I understand.

Your brothers loved you. They still do. There’s one who’s always been a weirdo and when I think about that relationship, my heart clenches. How do you snitch on your own sister?

You taught me that men are human. Full of trauma. You took in your crazy ass brother, who turned into my favorite uncle to this day. Last year he accidentally called me nena.

My heart can’t take them thinking I’m you. But I am part of you.

I dyed my hair brown because you taught me to change it up when it no longer works for you. Whew my hair has been through it. 

Remember when I only wanted you to dye my hair?

When I went to Shanghai, the first thing I heard was “igualita a su mai.”
But I’m not you, mom. I’m everything you asked me to be.

That week I chased your sister down just to see her. I didn’t get to. She said I reminded her too much of Marisol and she was going through enough.

When it came to love, I see you. I feel you. I hated anyone who wanted you to themselves because I loved snuggling with you. I never had a stepfather, but I knew you had potentials.

I’m sorry for not understanding that you weren’t just my mother you were a woman who needed companionship.

You always put us first.

You taught us how to dance bachata, reggae, reggaeton, even EDM (tough times for Jancy). You let me explore makeup, heels, self expression. I think you always knew I was just a girl.

Then you dragged me to every political event you attended. Thanks now I want to be a lawyer. If you were alive, I’d sue you. Solely for giving me the idea that anything I want I can get. Now I want to be an attorney who owns laundromats where people can read in the Bronx.

You taught me how to be noble, humble, charismatic. How to fight for what I believe in. How to fight for my sister.

You told me once to always have her back and I do. Teeth and claws if needed. No one touches our Jancy. No one gets access to her energy.

I get it now, mom.

This year, for your birthday, I’m giving out 31 bags to unhoused individuals. I started it on my birthday. My friends ordered everything. Fundación Esperanza didn’t make it far but we got you, momma.

Im going to write about you as much as I can, want and need too. Grief is not linear and shit, I miss you. You were my breakfast today.