If Ahmed and I stood where my mom could see us, and we could see her, eventually people would notice us and come over and want to talk about our mom. I think that made my brother feel kind of famous, but I hated it. I have always had a hard time with strangers, as I’ve definitely mentioned, but strangers who just wanted to talk about how wonderful and talented my mom was were especially unwelcome. They’d say, “Your mom is incredible!” and I’d reply, “Yeah.” It felt like I should say, “Thank you,” but I knew I had nothing to do with my mom’s talent so that felt wrong. “Yeah” was the end of the conversation. Also, speaking as a grown-up, Um . . . so? Like you think Lourdes is just a little bit tired of hearing how amazing her mom Madonna is? I feel this is something only a child of a celebrity understands. People would talk to me about how amazing my mom was and how they didn’t know why she wasn’t signed to a label or on the radio and how she made them so happy and how her music changed their lives. What was I supposed to do with that? I was proud of my mom, but I still went to bed in the same room she and my brother did and was too scared to ask her for money for a school trip because I was afraid we could be put out on the streets. (Actually, now that I think about it, Lourdes probably has it pretty good on the money-anxiety front.)
My mom didn’t always take us with her. A lot of times, she was still at work when we got home from school. Ahmed and I didn’t have keys to our aunt’s house so we would stand outside ringing the doorbell and praying that someone was home. A few times, no one was, so we’d stand on the steps outside waiting for what felt like hours. Nothing makes you feel poorer than waiting outside in the cold of winter for your single mom to show up and let you in. We didn’t know the neighbors well enough to knock on their doors and ask them if we could wait there. My brother was always down to do that, but I was never willing to burden anyone else with us latchkey kids without a key. To make things worse, I always had to pee, so . . . ya know. Uncle Roger lived five blocks away, so occasionally we would walk over to his house and stay there until my mother got home. Eventually, Mom gave us her house key, but we couldn’t let my aunt know we were in her house alone. I guess she thought we’d break something or maybe we’d like join a cult and sacrifice a body in her kitchen. I’m not sure what she was afraid of. Maybe just of letting a nine-and ten-year-old alone in a three-story house. I’m actually too jaded to know if that’s something to be worried about or not. Either way, the worst thing we ever did was fight over the TV. We weren’t allowed to pick up the phone in case it was Dorothy checking to see if we were alone. My mom came up with a signal for us. If the phone rang once, stopped, and then started ringing again, it was Mom, calling us to ask what we wanted for dinner and say that she was on her way home. Wasn’t the world crazy before cell phones?
As an adult, I see that I shouldn’t have worried so much. I should’ve had some hope that our situation would get better. I should’ve believed that one day my mom would be discovered singing down there in the subway. She knew how to walk into a room and make people fall for her. Even if that room was Grand Central Station. She believed in a bigger life for herself and her children. She was truly happy when she was out there singing for an audience that would become her fans. I’m sure she had rough moments when she didn’t know how she would take care of the three of us, but she never let Ahmed and me see her worry. She believed in her magic. I wished then that I was more like my mother. I wish I was more like her now.
My mom wasn’t wrong about things working out. Soon after she began singing in the subway, she started getting hired to do private gigs. She would sing at weddings, bar mitzvahs, corporate parties, birthday parties, and whatever else people wanted to celebrate. This was a good thing because she made more money doing private gigs. Not just tips like in the subway.
Once she was hired to sing at a fair for families who lived in homeless shelters on Long Island. She took Ahmed and me with her, and we met the families and played games with them. My mom sang and everyone enjoyed her. I saw that our situation could be much worse. My mom reminded me that day to be grateful instead of fearful, and it worked for a while.
Once my mom got a call from the Make-A-Wish Foundation. There was a girl with a terminal illness who’d seen my mom singing in the subway, and now it was her dying wish to hang out with her. Mom met with her and took her singing in the subway. The girl was a few years older than Ahmed or I. She was a teenager, she was dying, and she just wanted to sing with my mom before she died. I remember Mom calmly and cheerfully agreeing to this last wish over the phone. She didn’t seem saddened by it. I was ready to throw myself off a roof just so I didn’t have to think about a dying kid, but Mom saw this as an opportunity to share her gift with a fan and make her happy. She always sees opportunity where I see only fear and death. I stayed awake for days thinking about that girl who in her last days probably liked Mom more than I did. I never spoke to my mom about her. I didn’t ask all the questions I wanted to ask to alleviate my fears. I remember the girl dying. As of a conversation I had with Mom ten minutes ago, one of those conversations where I ask her really personal questions, she doesn’t remember the girl at all. But Mom wasn’t surprised to hear that hanging out with her was someone’s dying wish. I can’t tell if that’s being aware of one’s gift or evidence of a severely narcissistic ego. It’s probably a pretty thin line.
7
Parade of Ugly
I’m already planning my wardrobe for when I’m a director. #NotoriousB.I.G.shirtseveryday.
—my Twitter
IN THE SEVENTH GRADE I had a windbreaker from Conway. It was a baby blue and white Perry Ellis jacket with a zip hood in the collar. It was my first name-brand article of clothing. It wasn’t until a kid in my class told me that the jacket was “designer” that I bothered to read the name written across the back. But even I knew right away that this jacket was something special, in that color and with that hideaway hood. I’d wear it with jeans that were too big with rips at the crotch I’d cover over with iron-on cartoon patches, an oversize shirt I borrowed from my mom, and these gross, slouchy Lugz boots I’d asked for for Christmas in the fifth grade and was still growing into.