4. March 30th
Rafael
“I’m kind of embarrassed that I haven’t visited your moms much since you’ve been away,” Angie says, looking outside the window as we roll up to my moms’ house in Radnor—a mere half-mile away from her childhood home. They’ve been here since Mamá, Joaquín, and I moved here from Texas when I was nine. Back when Joaquín was Gabriela. Fuck, it’s weird to think about him before he transitioned.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We were here at Christmas time with them.”
“Yeah, but I feel like I should have been here on my own when you were living in DC. They’re as much my moms as they are yours at this point.”
Something irksome kicks up inside me when she says that. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, stepping out of my Range and coming around to open her door, like I always do. “You usually come with me when I’m back in town anyway.”
She steps out of the SUV looking so…Angie. Which is to say cute and sophisticated. Tonight she’s wearing a casual, long, olive-green wrap dress with sleeves. It’s a far cry from the ensembles we wore in high school, but Angela Johanssen’s style has certainly found its mark in the last five years or so. She shows herself off now. Gone is the insecure chubby girl hiding behind her once-long brunette hair and massive costume jewelry. Now, she’s a woman who knows her body—knows it looks good. Knows how to expertly style herself, even if it is with out-of-fashion clothing. She can make any garment look like it was just invented.
But that’s always been my Angel. She’s always reinventing herself. Exploring. Trying something new.
When we reach the front steps to the house, the door swings wide open before we’re even in range of the doorknob. “?Bienvenido a casa!” Christina, my bonus mom cheers, opening her arms wide to grab the both of us for a tight hug. She’s a good foot shorter than me, with short-cropped auburn hair that’s whiter these days, pale-as-snow skin, and her signature cargo pants and basic cotton long-sleeve. Her ‘home uniform’ as Angie and I lovingly refer to it as.
“Hi,” Angie says, switching to Spanish. “Do I smell tamales?”
Mom lets go of us. “Of course.”
“The spicy ones?” I ask, charging inside to make my way to the kitchen.
“We made them extra spicy for you two.”
“Yes,” Angie bellows. “Thank you!”
Being second generation Mexican in this country, I grew up speaking Spanish in the house and English outside it. Mamá was determined her children would speak it since most second-generation kids lose it. Since Angie was in our home constantly as a child, she picked it up quickly, and subsequently, her brothers and sister did too.
I set the bottle of wine down on the counter before hugging Mamá at the sink. As always, her black hair is perfectly curled and flowing down her back. She’s wearing simple leggings and a long sweater, and of course, her makeup is flawless. The only time you see Ana Webber without makeup is when she”s about to go to bed and before breakfast is ready. Even working as a nurse practitioner, Mamá always looks like she’s ready for the cameras. Like she’s expecting paparazzi to show up and take notice of her normal, suburban American life. Like the tabloids will finally see the rags-to-riches story she made for herself—where she dragged herself out of a fractured hetero-presenting marriage, and finally became herself when she found her true partner.
The partner who supported her and wanted her to achieve her dreams. The partner who stuck by her and held her hand when our ultra-religious family back in Mexico tried to shun her for being outwardly queer. She forced her way back into the family and made them accept Christina and herself. Then did it again when I came out as bisexual. Then did it again, with way more ferocity, when Joaquín transitioned.
I’ll never forget the way she yelled at my tios and abuelos, told them right to their faces, “If you ever want to see us again, you will call him by his name and love him as you love everyone else!”
Hearing her say that to them was earth-shattering. In our family, children never speak to their parents or elders like that. Never. There’s a huge respect barrier between the generations, and even if you know you’re right, you don’t talk back. You don’t yell. You don’t sass. To us, family is everything; so to hear her say she would cut ties with them if they didn’t accept him—us—was a huge risk to our familial connection.
Except for the occasional slip up every now and again, they’ve been pretty good about it. Do they secretly refer to us as the gay side of the family and pray for our souls? Sure. But I don’t know anyone with a perfectly accepting extended family.
I’ve been a little luckier with the family’s acceptance than Mamá and Joaquín though. Seeing as I’ve never brought any love interest around them, there’s been no human proof of my bisexuality—and I think to them, that’s been easier to digest and ignore.
Whatever. It’s not my job to show off my queerness to them.
Do they still sometimes refer to Christina as Mamá’s friend and not her wife? Yeah. I’m not thrilled to say it took me a while to come around to Christina too. It wasn’t that she was a woman; it was that she wasn’t my papá. Regardless of the borderline hostile way he treated my mamá, their relationship and their presence was what I knew; it”s what I was comfortable with. As a kid, I didn’t realize that comfort was just my conditioning and lack of knowledge on how a healthy parental relationship should work. That”s all I knew. It wasn’t until I was in the sixth grade that I finally saw Christina as a parent rather than Not My Dad.
Secretly, there’s still a part of me that wishes my bio parents were still together. I know that’s fucked up to say given the way he treated her, but a childish part of me still thinks I could have done something to prevent them from separating. Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t trade mom for anything in the world—she’s the best and she’s exactly what Mamá needs. But there’s still a feeling of you can fix this that I harbor for my mamá and papá.
If I just did better at school.
If I just worked more efficiently.
If I just made more money.
If I just listened to his advice.
Maybe then I could make my dad proud. Proud enough to earn an elusive te amo. My father’s love is hard-won, but possible.
“Mijo,” Mamá sighs, wiping her hands on a tea towel and turning to face me. “Have you grown since I saw you?”
“Since my housewarming party?” I raise an eyebrow. “That was last weekend.”
“I know. But I swear you’re taller every time I see you.”
I know my moms were there at the beginning, but I have no idea when they left. Better to leave that stone unturned. I don’t want them to know as much as our friends already do. If my mamá even gets a whiff of scandal, she’s like a hound dog—relentlessly chasing the scent until she finds the evidence.
Releasing from her hold, I turn to see Angie helping Mom set the table, so I grab the silverware and head over.
Once we’re all situated, Mamá says grace, immediately followed by our wine glasses clinking. Like always, the conversation never dies or has a lull. Mom tells us about the last concert she coordinated at the Wells Fargo Center, and mamá tells us about how she’s thinking of retiring in the next year or so—to which I twitch with excitement. I’ve been my parents’ financial advisor for the last ten years and I know she’s been hesitant to pull the trigger, so this is huge.
Sitting next to me, Angie sniffles, causing me to look in her direction. “I’m sorry,” she says, dabbing her cloth napkin to her tear-streaked face. “That’s incredible news, Ana. But these tamales,” she shakes her head and lets out a little whistle.
“Oh no, mija. Are they too spicy?”
“No, no!” Angie replies quickly. “They’re perfect. Pica rico. You know it’s good when it’s so spicy it makes you cry.”
Mamá smiles with a worried look, because she knows how freakish Angie can be about her spicy food, but it also encourages Mamá to pile more on our plates. Way more food than a normal person should eat in one sitting.
“That reminds me,” Mamá says, sitting back and placing her hand on Mom’s shoulder next to her. “We’re going back home for Fernanda’s college graduation in May. Do you two want to come with us?”
By home, she means Guanajuato, Mexico, where most of my family lives. Both sides. I love visiting them and the city is stunning. Between the rolling cliffsides overlooking a vibrant city to the culture, architecture, and energy this place exudes, it’s no wonder we try to go back at least twice a year. Angie included.
Always included.
I’ve never taken anyone else. Certainly not someone I was casually seeing, which is anyone I’ve ever “dated.” I don’t know what you’d call how I date other people. Interludes? It’s something between a one-night stand and a fling. Nothing lasts more than a month and that’s by design.
“I’d love to go,” Angie says. “Fernanda is wild. I wanna see who is willingly giving her a bachelor’s degree.”
My excitement dies down when I remember. “I can’t,” I sigh. “Rugby playoffs are at the beginning of May, and if we win it all, it’ll seep into the end of May.”
“Oh, you’re right,” Angie drawls. “Well, I don’t want to miss any of those games either. Who’s going to bring orange slices for the players?”
I huff a laugh. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“The guys love it!”
“They love adding the slice to their beers after the game.”
“They’ve come to expect it from me,” she says seriously. “I cannot disappoint them.”
She’s so funny. “So that’s a no?” Mamá asks.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “We’ll plan another trip soon, I promise.”
Once we’re about done cleaning up, I cover the last of the leftover rice, beans, and tamales in Tupperware containers that Mamá will be sending home with us and place them in the fridge. But I stop when I see a few new pictures they’ve added near the ice dispenser. These pictures of me, Joaquín, and Angie have adorned this surface forever. Mostly from the concerts we attended. But these new ones make me curious.
“Where did you find this one?” I ask no one in particular as I stare at eighteen-year-old Angie and Rafael wearing black and white full-face makeup, ready for the Insane Clown Posse concert.
“Oh my god,” Angie groans, coming up next to me as I wrap my arm around her and pull her in close. “Was that when we tried to be Juggalos?”
“Yes,” Mom laughs uncontrollably. “I think that was the first concert you guys went to where you had no prior knowledge of the band.”
Mom’s laughter trickles to Angie. “That’s one hundred percent what happened. We looked up how we were supposed to dress and nothing else.”
All four of us are peeling with laughter now. “That was not our vibe,” I muster out. “Wait, wait, what’s this one?” I ask, pointing to the picture next to it.
Mom steps in closer to look at an image of a sunburnt Angie sleeping on a towel next to a tent—not in the tent—next to, and I’m crouched beside her with a huge grin and two thumbs up, wearing my swim trunks and a cut-off tank. “Oh, I found that one in the basement the other day. That was the summer after your sophomore year in college when we went river tubing and camping down in West Virginia. It was right before you went back to school.”
“I loved those camping trips,” Angie says fondly, squeezing me a little tighter around my torso.
“Me too,” I sigh, letting her hold me a little longer as we look back on our memories.
The pair of us have always been affectionate like this. Until Cora came into our lives, Angie was the only girl outside of my family I was comfortable being my true unfiltered self with. I guess to this day I’m still not nearly as affectionate with Cora as I am with Angie. That could largely be because Angie has been around since before I had my own opinions. Before I formed my hardened exterior to outsiders. That’s not to say I’m not still friendly and goofy with people I meet and other friends—I just don’t let those people inside the way I do with Angie.
My eyes travel to the one picture of my papá on the fridge. I’ve always been surprised my moms have kept it, but I’ve never said anything about it in fear that they’ll take it down—as if they’ve never noticed it, and by me mentioning its presence, they’ll correct their mistake. It’s a photo of him, me, and Joaquín before he transitioned. I’m about fourteen, which would make Joaquín about eleven. My dad stands between us on his front porch in Redbird, a well-to-do suburb of Dallas. I remember my mamá took the picture right before she dropped us off for a month that summer. She and Mom were heading to Mexico to visit family afterwards.
It was one of the last summer trips to Papá’s house where my moms traveled with us. I remember being beyond excited to be there. We only got to see him in the summer and the occasional Christmas spent together in Guanajuato. We’d still see my father’s side of the family in Mexico whether he was there or not, which, often, he wasn’t.
To say I look up to my dad is an understatement. Whenever I had one of those class assignments that asked who my hero was, my dad was always the answer. He was cool and fun and strong—he was everything I wanted to be.
And I wanted to show him that. I wanted to prove to him I was worthy of his love beyond reasonable doubt. I still do.
To this day, I still get excited when I get to see him. Though, it’s been almost five years since I have—the longest stretch of time we’ve ever gone. It’s not on purpose; we’ve been busy. He never had a chance to make it to DC when I lived there, but that’s okay. I know he has a demanding job working in the oil and gas industry down there. Plus, his hobbies keep him occupied. I get it.
I should visit more. That’s on me. I’ll plan to visit him soon. He’ll be so happy if I do. Maybe that will convince him to come visit me too. Shoot, the last time José Juan Jimenez was on the east coast was… huh. Was it when I graduated from grad school? Wow, it’s been forever. Not that he visited much anyway, but that’s okay. Other than us, he didn’t have any family here or reason to visit.
“Oh my gosh,” Angie sweetly sighs, pulling me back to the other memories in front of us. She points to another photo. “I can’t believe you let me bleach your hair back then.”
I chuckle. “You said you knew how! I believed you!”
“What sixteen-year-old knows how to properly bleach hair, Raf?”
“You were very confident,” I shrug. “You’ve always tricked me into doing things with your unwarranted confidence.”