Momma and The City

By Andrea N. Jones

I stare out on California Street in San Francisco as cable cars pass up and down the slanted thoroughfare with distant memories swirling around inside my head. Memories of a young Andrea, just 19 years old, moving to the big city to take a huge bite out of it. 

I like so many black girls was pushed out of my parent’s house at an early age. As much as I resented this ritual I was eager to experience adulthood. Anyway, my mother arranged my U-Haul and we drove the short distance from Hayward to The City. 

I found a charming studio apartment in Lower Nob Hill or Polk Gulch. After unloading the last box into my new home, my mother gave me a big, lippy kiss, told me to be safe, watch out for strangers and pay my bills. After a heartfelt I love you, she was gone. I sat on my Murphy bed looking over my second hand furniture for about an hour figuring out my next move.

It was 1993 and I was a young journalist. I’d been at it since I was 15, publishing my first piece in the San Jose Mercury, the paper journalist Gary Webb (google him) made famous. Up to this point I would handwrite my articles then type them up when I got to my desk at my office, Pacific News Service. 

My mom must had heard my internal cry for help because she rewarded my dedication to my craft. She found a Macintosh Classic for sale in the paper. Driving to Foster City to pick up that Mac was one of the happiest days of my life. My mom could be very generous like that. She would do kind things on a whim. Every branch of my family could attest to that.

Once I got the Mac, my productivity rose greatly. However, I needed a side hustle to be financially comfortable. I decided I would become a phone sex operator. I looked at it as undercover work. I took on the persona of a white blonde, 36-24-36, Kelly was my name. With Kelly, anything but pedophilia was cool. 

96% of my clients were white men. Many wanted to be peed on. I’d just stand over my toilet with a tall cup of water and make a splash. Some were kinkier and wanted to be defecated on. For this, I’d pour out “lumps” of aqua.They’d go nuts. And so many requested some strap-on treatment. They loved it! I loved making $20/hr plus tips. I also got gifts like lingerie.

I spoke to my mom less and less during this time. We had a running joke about me still being a virgin when in reality I’d lost that at 16. Still, I didn’t want to slip up and spill the beans. I just knew it would hurt her to no end to know I could be that type of girl— a dirty girl.

It wasn’t meant to last for me though. After seeing Spike Lee’s Girl 6 starring the beautiful and talented Teresa Randall about a black actress’s journey through the phone sex industry and being shamed by a lame ass boyfriend I quit. 

I’d successfully kept this secret from my mother for 20 years. That was until she was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer. I didn’t want her to die not knowing this guilty secret I’d been carrying around from her. 

One day after feeding her soup, I’d made my confession. She just looked at me, half way rolled her eyes and asked if we could smoke a joint. That was my mom. She never ceased to amaze me.

When she passed, I was left with a clean conscious. I knew that in those 18 months of caregiving I’d done right by Linda Patterson. Even still, it doesn’t take away my pain from losing my best friend. In her absence, I’m my own best friend. I let me know when I can splurge and when to tighten my belt.

Fall is in full swing in San Francisco. Leaves line the streets in this concrete jungle and I am reminded what a cold world we live in. I was carjacked last month. Escaping domestic violence, I had most of my earthly possessions in my car— 2 iPhones, a laptop, diamond earrings, new clothes, etc. Not to mention all my cards. 

I slipped up by not minding one of my mom’s rules, don’t talk to strangers. What made it worse is that my family, the one my mother was always there for has not offered me any type of help. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Makes me wonder what good having a family really is to me. 

I did some venting about it to Facebook. Next thing I know the family porn star tells me I’m about to be disowned. That really gave me a good chuckle. The truth is, there is no one alive who is qualified to disown me from my family. My mother is dead. She is the only one who could disown me, hooker. Another day, another encounter with a dipshit.

How I miss my mother’s love. I’ll curl up under my electric blanket remembering how my mom would rock us both to sleep. Watch a show my mother would love, like Billions. Fall asleep and do it all over again tomorrow without her. Her love remains in my heart though whether I’m strong enough to recall that during difficult times or not. I love you, Momma.🌹🌹🌹