by Emma Rose
I wanted to know what rules my mother broke. I never pictured her as much of a rebel, but apparently, I knew less about her than I thought. I knew it was hard for her to talk about this though, so I let her have a moment to meditate before I asked her any more questions.
"Can you tell me about my father?" I asked hopefully after a few minutes.
"Your father," Momma laughed, "What do you want to know?"
I expected my mother to not want to talk about him or to have anger toward him but instead she seemed eager to remember him.
"Well, what was he like?"
"Your father was a big jokester. He had a great sense of humor. We grew up together in church and he was always trying to find ways to make me laugh. We often got in trouble in Sunday school for not paying attention. He had bright blue eyes just like you and light blonde hair. He became very handsome as a teenager and we would sneak away whenever we got the chance to spend time together. I wanted to marry him and he wanted to marry me, but we weren't allowed to marry. I know this is going to sound crazy, but when your father, Michael, was sixteen he messed up and he kissed me in front of my parents when he wasn't supposed to. You see one of the rules was you couldn't kiss until you were married. My parents forbade us from seeing each other, but that didn't stop us from being in love. So, we found ways to see each other in secret. We'd sneak out in the middle of the night or we would say we were going to church but meet in town for a date. We kept our secret for two long years. It was hard, but it was worth it because we were so in love with each other."
"That's very romantic," I said, and I meant it. My father sounded like a good guy. He must have been to make my mother fall in love with him. A hole in my heart formed at that moment that I never had felt before. I felt like I was missing something I had never known, my dad.
"Your father was a good guy. I want you to never forget that. If he knew you, he would have loved you very much," Momma assured me, giving me a kiss on the top of the head.
"I want to meet him someday."
"Ahh, baby. I hope you get to. I don't know where he is, but I hope you find him someday," Momma paused and I could tell she was thinking deeply, "The only problem is he doesn't know you exist. You see, we made love for the first time when we were eighteen in the back of his Chevy out on the top of a mountain in the woods where no one could find us. Someone told me you couldn't get pregnant on the first time and I believed her, but that wasn't the case. You were conceived on that night. I never told your father he was going to be a father because he would have gotten in massive trouble. It would have ruined his life. My parents pressured me to reveal who had gotten me pregnant, but I wouldn't tell. I took the blame for it and they made me leave, so I came to New York and started out on my own. The rest is history."
Momma's story made me feel sick to my stomach. I was the reason she had to leave her family at eighteen and struggle as a homeless, single, mother in New York City. She didn't deserve that. I had caused her to experience so many hardships she wouldn't have had to experience if it weren't for me. Maybe if she hadn't gotten pregnant she would still be back in Pennsylvania with a roof over her head and a husband to take care of her. Even if she had to deal with ridiculous rules and marrying someone she didn't love that would still be better than this right?
"I'm sorry," I said as tears began to form in the corners of my eyes.
"What are you sorry for, Jemma?" My mother asked with concern in her voice.
"I'm sorry that I caused you to go through all of this. I ruined your life."
"Oh, no. No, baby, you saved it," Momma said rubbing circles on my back. "I'm a much better person with you around," she whispered into my ear. "And you, you're going to do great things in this world. Never forget that. I'd live a hundred lifetimes on the streets if it meant I got to be your mother even if it was just for a day. I love you, Jemma. You are not a mistake. You are a miracle."
"Thanks, Momma," I said through tears. At first, my tears were from sadness, but now I was crying happy tears. It felt so good to hear my mom say those loving words.
For a few more hours, my mother and I sat in silence as generous passerby tossed us quarters and dimes. I hate to admit it, but the experience was humiliating. The way people looked at us was as if we were criminals or dogs with contagious deadly diseases. Parents would shield their children from coming too close to us, for fear of what I'm not sure, but it hurt my feelings.
I distinctly remember one little boy, probably around age seven, pulling on his mother's hand asking if he could give me money as they waited for their train. His mother said no. The boy looked confused and sad.
"Look, they need our help, mom-" he said pointing in our direction.
"No, Peyton. We don't give money to lazy people like that. What they need is to get off of drugs."
Momma seemed unphased by this woman's words, but because it was the first time I heard something like this it hurt me. I felt like there was a dagger in my chest that I couldn't get out. How could that woman say those things? We weren't on drugs. She lied to her son and now he might not help anyone ever again. I didn't understand how someone could be so unkind. I vowed to myself that day that I would teach my children if I had any to help every person they met whether they knew what they were going through or not.
As the boy and his posh mother boarded their train, he looked back at me and gave me a small wave and an apologetic smile. He seemed to understand that what his mother had said was wrong. He must have had a kind heart in his little body. I prayed he would never lose that kindness and compassion.
A few minutes after the incident with the little boy, a man in his late forties walked up to my mother and spit in her face without saying a word. My mother didn't react and he walked away as if nothing had happened. I couldn't understand why my mother didn't defend herself and I definitely couldn't understand why she didn't seem angry at the abuse. I considered confronting her about it, but I didn't want her to feel embarrassed. Maybe this was just the norm for her and I didn't realize it.
After what seemed like an eternity of sitting down there in that hellhole of a subway station, my mother looked over to me and suggested we go to Times Square. I was happy to leave the station for a change of scenery, so I gladly agreed. I wasn't sure what we were going to be doing in Times Square, but I thought it might be fun. Maybe Momma wanted to take me into Toys R' Us or the Disney Store. I always loved to browse in those fun stores and imagine what it would be like to be able to buy anything I wanted in them.
When we got to Times Square Momma suddenly stopped in front of a gentlemen's club.
Momma rested her hand on my shoulder and looked at me with sad resignation. The kind of look parents give their children when they ask if Santa is real and they have to tell them there is no Santa.
"You wait over by the chocolate shop," she said pointing in the direction of Hershey's Chocolate World. "I've got to do some work. I'll be back in an hour or two, okay. Don't talk to anyone, alright," she instructed, handing me our garbage bag.
I could not believe what was happening. My worst fear, my deepest suspicion, was finally being confirmed. For a few years, I had subconsciously known that my mother might be a sex worker, but I had denied it to myself. I desperately wanted my mother to have more dignity than to sell her body to men for a quick buck, but I guess she was just like every other woman on the streets. Left to choose between prostitution or starvation, she chose prostitution.
I wanted to scream at my momma and tell her she didn't have to do what she was going to do. That we could figure out a way to make money together. I didn't want men to look at her or touch her and make her dirty. I wanted to tell her all these things, but no words came out of my mouth. Instead, I gave her a quick hug and darted off to Chocolate World.
As soon as I entered the shop, I went straight to the women's restroom and sat our belongings down in the corner of the bathroom and threw up in the trashcan by the sinks. I couldn't make it fast enough to one of the toilets.
It was two in the afternoon and the bathroom was rather busy. Women and girls looked over at me with judgemental eyes or left the room altogether so they wouldn't have to look at me. I really didn't care. What others thought of me wasn't important at that moment.
I went over to the sink and put my mouth under the faucet to rinse out the acidic, burning taste. Then, I took a paper towel, wet it with water, and wiped my face with it. I looked in the mirror and took a deep breath in and out to calm myself down. I stared at my reflection and I thought the girl looking back at me looked tired, sick, and miserable. She deserved a nap, but that's not what she was going to get. I wished the girl in the mirror wasn't me.
I didn't want to get in trouble for loitering in the bathroom so lifted my head up, washed my hands, grabbed the garbage bag from off the floor, and marched out of the store. I didn't exactly know where I was going to go, but I knew I couldn't hang out there any longer. As I entered back into the October air, I knew I was going to have to be brave and hold things together because I didn't have any other choice. It was then that I realized I wasn't a little girl anymore.
I couldn't wander off too far because Momma had told me to wait there so I took my things and sat down on the sidewalk with my back against the storefront as far away from the entrance as I could get. I tried to think of happy thoughts. I tried to tell myself everything was going to be alright. I tried to rationalize what Momma was doing, but none of it worked. Everything seemed dark and hopeless and scary. For the first time in my life, I wished I could die, but death wasn't even a privilege I was entitled to.
I squeezed my eyes shut and scrunched my nose up. I tried to pretend that everything that was going on wasn't real and I was at school again on the playground kicking balls with my feet and that Oliver was by side laughing with me. I tried to pretend that instead of sleeping around midday with strange men, Momma was rocking me to sleep and singing My Favorite Things in my ear. Before I knew it, I was humming the tune, and shortly after that, I was singing it aloud myself. I couldn't let myself think about losing my best friend or about losing the pride I had in mother so instead, I just sang and thought about all the good memories I had with both of them.
A few verses in someone threw me a dollar bill. I was surprised. I hadn't been performing for money, but it certainly was nice to get some. I kept singing and every few minutes some spare change or some crinkled up bills would end up being tossed in my direction. I couldn't believe it. Was I actually making money off of music? After my forced resignation from Select Singers a year before, I had accepted the reality that I wasn't meant to be a performer, but maybe I was wrong.
I continued singing all afternoon. I sang My Favorite Things at least a dozen times, I sang the National Anthem, What a Wonderful World, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Imagine, all the songs that Momma used to comfort me at night in the shelter and people liked it. Half an hour into my first street performance, I pulled out a winter hat from the bag and set it down in front of me. I gained the confidence to stand up and sing and I watched as more and more people threw their money into the old, ratty, knit hat.
I had never made money before in my life. I felt proud of myself and I couldn't wait for my mother to see what I had been doing while she was in the gentlemen's club.
As I was singing, The A-Team, I saw my mother walking towards me. Her eyes were sunk into her face, she looked pale, weak, her lips were swollen, and she walked crookedly. I was ashamed to see her walking down the street like that. Her black leggings were ripped at the knee. That was new and she hadn't bothered to zip her sweatshirt up. Instead, she was holding it closed with her hand to cover up her bare stomach and old push-up bra that supported her double-A sized breasts.
I felt a single wet tear drip down my cheek. I tasted the saltiness of it as it rolled across my lips. I used the back of my hand to quickly wipe it off my face as Momma approached me. No longer was she being brave for me. I was being brave for her.
"Momma," I said picking up the hat which had accumulated a heavy pile of coins and bills, "Look, I sang and- and people gave me money," I told her.
Momma gave me a strange look. She ran her hand through my hair and smiled down at me gently. I involuntarily flinched when I felt her touch and I could tell it hurt her. She was dirty and I was her holy water, but I didn't know it until that day, and I wished I had never found out.
"Baby, that's amazing," she said quietly, her words almost slurred,
"I'm proud of you."
"Thanks," I said blushing, "Maybe, maybe we can do this now. Ya know instead of..." my voice trailed off. I didn't know what to call whatever Momma was doing inside the gentleman's club.
"We'll see," Momma said matter-of-factly. "Come on, grab the stuff. Let's go get something to eat. I'm hungry."
Eagerly, I picked up the things from the ground and followed
Momma down the street. I was so hungry I had pains in my stomach. At school, I received free lunch every day so I wasn't used to going this long without eating.
Momma and I went to a drug store down the street. Momma bought me a sandwich and some snacks to eat. She got herself a pack of cigarettes, a bag of potato chips, and Mt. Dew for dinner. Although she clearly didn't know how to take care of herself she made sure I had at least somewhat nutritious things to eat.
That night as we lay in the shelter things felt different than they had before. I lost a bit of my sweetness. The final bit of childhood innocence had left me and was replaced with a newfound determination to be tough.
The next few weeks were rough. I missed school and I wanted to go back, but after seeing what my mother's life was like during the day I knew I couldn't go back. I felt a responsibility to be there for her now. I didn't want to leave one day and find out someone had taken advantage of her and that I would never see her again. The troubles I had with Oliver seemed less significant now, but I hadn't forgotten how he hurt me. The pain was still there.
One day when Momma was in the gentlemen's club I decided to be myself a snack before I started singing. I had started to make upwards of twenty dollars every afternoon and I began to pocket it away. Whenever Momma would come out of the club her eyes would be glazed over or bloodshot. I was starting to think that whatever money she was making by letting men touch her she was turning around and spending right away on drugs or alcohol to numb the pain of being a whore.
By some strange coincidence, Oliver was leaving the corner store at the exact same time I was entering it.
"Jemma, where have you been? I've been so worried about you and so has Ms. Hayes," Oliver exclaimed, giving my arm a friendly pat. The look on his face was one of joy and relief like he had just found his missing wallet in the center of Times Square.
I was still angry at Oliver, but at the same time, I was happy to see him. After eight years of friendship, I couldn’t stop loving him so easily.
"Oh, you know, around. I'm going to find work. My mom needs my help and school's overrated," I mumbled.
"So, you're just not coming back?" Oliver asked confused.
"Not right now, Oliver. But you have new friends, right? You'll be happier without me to worry about."
"Jemma- that's not true!"
"Look, Ollie, I'm sorry, but I've made up my mind. I'll see ya around, okay?
Oliver shook his head and bit his lip to hold back tears, but I had already entered the store and began browsing the first aisle.
"I'm sorry, Jemma," he whispered from the doorway, but I was too hurt to accept his apology, so I ignored him.
That was the last time I saw Oliver Connors for many years.
From then on forward, I helped Momma make a living on the streets for us by singing from morning to night. A year or two after I quit school, I convinced Momma to give up the prostitution stuff and sing with me. I was making more than she was in an hour and I didn’t want her to leave me so I could make sure she wasn't using drugs. I feared she might one day overdose. She was a lightweight; it wouldn't take much for her heart to s
top.
Around the time I turned fifteen, Momma started to get better, and sometimes she would even sing with me. She started teaching me new songs, ones from her childhood, and it brought me closer to her. I could tell it made her happy to hear me sing. Plus, people were empathetic towards me because I was younger, so they would throw a little extra cash.
We stopped sleeping in shelters so much because they got too dangerous. It was almost better just to sleep on the streets and then you didn't have to worry about getting up at a certain time or going to bed at a certain time. I was almost an adult, so Momma didn't really care where we slept anymore. Two women could fend for themselves at night she figured unlike a mother and her small child.
Every day we would bring in somewhere between fifty and a hundred dollars. Although Momma had given up drugs she continued to smoke cigarettes. She smoked at least a box a day which meant we were losing seven dollars on that addiction daily. It caused her voice to get raspy which was a shame because by the time I was seventeen she could barely sing anymore.
