Category: Stories

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WHY CAN’T I CALL YOU “MOMMY”?

My first memories of my mother collide between two moments. They both exist in the first home I can remember, a two-story, three bedroom townhouse in Silver Spring, Maryland where we relocated after leaving New York City in 1987. I spent my toddler years there, ages 2-4. I have several vignette moments of that time, tucked deep into my memory. My Pre-K Catholic school with nuns disguised as teachers, rides home with my dad trying to teach me how to snap my fingers, whistle or blow bubbles with my gum. I can see my room, my toys. I can still feel moist funk from rolling down a hill into dog poop. These moments are all there, collected in the most sacred part of my memory. Yet, I only have two vivid memories of my mother from that time. It was as if she was my fantom inside a faint, lucid dream. Why is that?

In her early 30’s, her job required her to work away from home a few times a month leaving my dad and I at home until she returned. I don’t remember her coming or going. I don’t remember any tearful goodbyes and I don’t remember missing her – ever. I only remember one particular night when my dad, in his sick yet playful humor, was chasing me around with a dreadful Freddie Krueger mask which was part of his Halloween costume, finger-knife gloves and all! My mother came home and screamed, “Luis, stop that!” as my heart nearly fell out of my petite chest. I was saved. At the time, my dad was my father, mother and playmate – he was my world, but that wouldn’t last as all his flaws would eventually reveal. However, the root of why my mother and I share a strained connection, I believe, begins here, at this home. To this day, we have to work on our connection constantly in order to feel halfway comfortable around each other for an extended period of time. She comes and she goes. I’ve loved her for her independence and I’ve loathed her for her indifference.

She was a fabulously, driven woman. The perfect blend of a 1980’s badass Pam Grier persona with the dainty, whimsical nature of chocolate Farrah Fawcett. She always wore her hair shoulder length, her lips coated with cranberry red lipstick and long, red fingernails to match. Not to mention, she was dripping from head to toe in the most stylish 18k gold accessories, complete with a pinky ring, belly chain, anklet and toe ring. Since I can remember, I was always so breath-taken by her beauty – even as a toddler. To look at her would make me feel so happy that she was my mother – my delicate yet strong, beautiful mother. I had no real concept of self at this time. I only knew that I came from a beautiful person and I knew that meant something special. I was proud just by association.

One night, I heard, “Shit!! Gahtdamnit…it’s gone! It’s gone!”. My mother’s aggravated voice bellowed from their room down the hall. Curiosity always consumed me, so I followed my parents’ voices into their bedroom, turning the corner into their master bathroom. My mother was wrapped in a towel, still wet. My father at this point was on his knees near the shower drain digging at something. I stood there watching silently and observing their exchange. He was looking for her gold belly chain which must have fallen off during her shower. Back then, I can remember that my mother had a unique ability and tendency to stew in her aggravation over a situation. She did this silently most times, but it was a relentless tension that anyone within an inch of her could detect. It was sharp and uncomfortable. My father tried to recover her lost belly chain for as long as his knees would let him then perhaps tried to find a way to make her laugh it off.

Later that night, I remember sifting through my overflowing treasure box of toys trying to find a tool that could rescue her belly chain. I figured I would “Macgyver” my way into that drain, find her gold belly chain and receive her praise, love, kisses, smiles – anything. I just wanted her to be happy with me. I never did get that chain. 

Weeks went by and there was a particular day that she and I were in the house alone. My father could have been outside tinkering away at something in the yard. But on that particular weekend morning when my family was complete, I found myself comfortably sitting, crossed-legged, looking up at the TV watching WrestleMania and loving every minute of it. I was in the un-used 3rd bedroom that they had converted into an office study complete with a new 1980-model computer, computer desk, bookshelf with tons of books, a couch and my favorite TV. 

My mother walked by the doorway. I could see she went down a few steps then reversed and came back, now standing in the doorway looking down at me. She just pondered me, for what seems like eternity in my mind’s eye. No telling emotions on her face of hate or love, just indifference. There were no words. I may have nervously smiled as I tended to do at that age, but no words.

The only words she said were, “You know, you don’t have to call me Mommy if you don’t want to.” Immediately without fully understanding why, a painful lump started to swell up in my throat and my heart shuttered. I easily remember that physical reaction as the first time I ever felt such a sensation. “But, I want to call you Mommy…”, I said in almost a whisper as I pushed through the choke in my throat. She looked at me for a few more moments and then turned and walked away to carry on with the rest of her day.

WrestleMania continued to roar in the background as I hung my head, looking toward my crossed ankles, picking at some dry skin that would soon turn into eczema. My 4-year-old mind echoed only one thought – she doesn’t want me. She wasn’t proud to be mine like I was proud to be hers. It would take me at least three decades to ever recall this moment to her, with honesty and truth. She laughed it off and said, “I was just giving you the option…lots of people called their parents by their first names.” I smiled and coyly accepted her reasoning but never letting her know how heavily I’ve carried this encounter. Where do you place the unresolved? How do you convince the unconvincing? Needless to say, her response, nor more my pondering of it, have ever soothed my need to feel wanted by her and maybe, it never will. I’ll have to find a way to accept what’s never been said.

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WHAT’S IN A NAME…?

It’s best we start with my name. There is so much in a name; the letters, the culture, the family, the history. If there are few letters, you are easy to remember, like a 4-digit code. If there are too many letters, it is considered “unusual” or “ethnic”, and people will likely shorten it somehow anyway, with or without your permission, much like those who carelessly begin an email with “Hey M” or “Mic”, even though you never gave them the slightest inkling you preferred this to your full name.

However, my parents thought it best to name me: “Micaela Teresa Valdes”. On paper, it doesn’t quite present any issues, but looks can be, and usually are always, deceiving. My American mother told me she was nearly 8-months pregnant with me when she found herself at home watching an episode of Star Search in their one-bedroom, high-rise apartment on Boyton Avenue in The Bronx. A baby girl name wouldn’t have been her first priority considering that she never intended on being a mother, let alone swollen with pregnancy expecting a child in less than a month. The name was “Micaela” (pron. Mee-Kye-Aye-La). I know, you didn’t see that one coming; not to be confused with Michaela (pron. Mick-Kaye-La). She told my father about the name, likely mispronouncing it, since my mother to this day cannot say my name correctly. I always chuckle a bit at the irony. However, my father was Cuban and it fit into his mouth like the perfect puzzle piece completing his family portrait. I was his “Micaela”. He loved the name. During my childhood, my father and his mother, my Grandma Carmen, were the only people I can remember who could say my name with easy, and most importantly, like it was a normal name.

Since birth, I’ve been called Mickey, like the mouse, by everyone in my family – with most of my mother’s family calling me “Mick-Kye-Ella” on several occasions; Hopper, was my father’s nickname for me; my cousin Jeanine called me “Mica” (pron. Mee-ka) from the beginning; and finally I submitted to American conformity, spending all of middle school and high school with my alter-ego, “Mick-Kaye-La”.

Yet and still, that submission couldn’t save me from decades of painful attempts made by well-intentioned teachers, principles, intercom announcers, softball coaches, basketball coaches, camp counselors, friends’ parents, graduation officiants and baristas who questionably squeezed out any number of syllable sequences that start with the letter “M”: “Michelob”, “Mikalala” or “Mickey-ella”, “Macalela”. I was often impressed by the creativity that can emerge over the confusion of a seemingly ethnic, seven-letter name on a little chubby, black girl who doesn’t really look “hispanic”. 

Yes – throughout my childhood, I’ve had several names until finally deciding on an appropriate one in adulthood. In college, I became enlightened and pumped up with a “take me as I am” India.Arie spirit that I just went back to “Mickey” but I changed the spelling to “Mikki” to make it more edgy. But, people still chose to spell it however they saw fit, like “Miccki” or “Micki” or “Micci”. I guess the “c” in my name really confused them?! Once I began to work in the professional world after college, that name just felt too immature. I couldn’t stand the sound of being summoned by my boss with such an adolescent nickname like Mickey. It felt sugar-coated with patronization. It was no ones fault, but I felt small in every email, in every meeting and in every assigned task. Several bosses thought it would be a good idea to guess how to pronounce what they called “my real name”, which was always noted in my email signatures or displayed clearly written on my work badges. “Wait don’t tell me…is it Mi-chella?!. No, I know, it’s Mik-ela, right?!” they’d say. “No, it’s actually pronounced Mee-Kye-Ay-La”, I’d softly respond as if hoping not to offend them. “No, it’s not. It can’t be. It looks like Michaela. You know, Mick-Kaye-La.” And we were back to this…the audacity of Americana culture and my inability to shake my high school alter-ego. I became more embolden with age and began to say, “No, that’s not my name or how it is pronounced.” I’d tell them it was a Latin-based name and that there was even a great salsa song by Pete Rodriguez called “Micaela” as if to normalize it, making it a cultural curiosity. 

While working as a Producer at Amazon LIVE, I once engaged a fellow co-worker, who identified as a Jewish-America Princess, in a debate over the legitimacy of my name’s pronunciation. Yes, wait there’s more… In the open work space we all shared, on-lookers were both horrified and intrigued by her coy boldness in correcting me on how my name is really pronounced until finally she asked me, “Well, what does your husband call you??” to which I coyly replied, “Baby Cheeks.” The room broke out into a laugh of relief that I had now ended her silly debate, with an equally silly rebuttal.

While I realize my name often trips the tongues of people in the United States, it shouldn’t be my burden to indulge anyone’s apathy of culture. Many people have sliced and diced my name into so many pieces despite my efforts in offering them numerous amended versions. Yet I finally realized, why do I still have to shorten this name of mine into four or five bite-size letters – “Mikki” or “Mica”?

Yet, here it stands – I’m still torn between the two. I have debated my name, defended my name and mix-and-matched my name over the years so many times, never getting any closer to discovering who the person was behind it. It may seem inconsequential to feel burdened by the mispronunciation of a few measly syllables. But, I offer this – as I grew, I had no idea who “Micaela” was or how to proudly own those seven letters. I had customarily shifted and twisted my name for so many people that I lacked any identity behind any name I’d ever been called. Let that sink in…

It was this realization that emptied me one night laying alone in bed wondering how and why a 35-year-old woman could come so easily undone by negative words, thoughtless gestures or even the bitter indifference she perceived from those closest to her. Where did this begin, this feeling of unshakable invisibility. Who was the real “Micaela” and will she please stand up?! Who was this chameleon that learned at a very young age to shift her identity and make room for everyone in her life to feel comfortable? Why didn’t anyone give her a sense of self or should she have been born with that? Why did life slap such a complicated name on such a simple, unsuspecting soul?

To be human, is to be flawed, wabi sabi. Your flaws are innate honesty. The path to questioning my soul’s identity and “sense of true self” led me so deep into my own thoughts and past experiences that I had more questions than answers and more confusion than clarity. These relived tales must be vocalized in writings. My relationships, sanity, weight, career and self-esteem have all slipped in and out of my control, relentlessly.

In the end, what can we really base our identity on – what’s behind our name…? Take a long look back, our stories are the treasure maps which will lead us to the answer. And this, is how I plan to find my unlabeled identity.