The first woman I ever loved.
Tags: Love, Daughters, Mothers, Poverty, Immigrants

It’s 5AM and I’m up earlier than my alarm(s). The first person I think of is my mom. These eerily early, before the sun rises, and while the world is completely still hours always remind me of my mom.

She must be rising from her bed now, I imagine. She’s probably groggy because one of the bonds we share is a full-on love for sleep. On weekends, we’d have sleep-a-thons. Even now when I go home, I go to sleep at night with a peace of mind knowing that come morning, we’ll both sleep in and wake to conquer the day…after 10AM.

So though her love for sleep runs deep, she’s willed herself to wake up at pretty much the same time for the last 20 years. Day after day, week after week. She has done this same exact routine for the 20 years we’ve been in this country.

I feel better about it in the spring and summer. The sun is out much earlier and brightens her steps as she leaves the house to head to work.

But winter is when I worry most. It’s dark and cold. She has to walk long enough to get to the main street where the bus picks up. I worry even more after the story of a 55-year-old Eritrean immigrant woman who was stabbed to death in the early hours of the morning heading home from work.

After staying past her 6:30 a.m. shift Tuesday to clean up the storeroom, then leaving after one worker encouraged her to go home and rest, Semret, 55, headed north up Yonge St. in the rain to her nearby Cabbagetown rooming house. She was just 100 metres shy of home when she was stabbed to death in an alleyway — a popular neighbourhood shortcut near Ontario and Winchester Sts.

This story still haunts me. Because the tragedy is twofold — that a human being was murdered. And the pregnant dreams of that human being to work hard for her family were swiftly killed. I never knew the woman but I know her story. I see my mom in her. And so many other immigrant and invisible women who give their labor, time, sweat, dignity to do what they have to do so their children will have something better.

I decided to call her and say hi. I knew she would see my name flash on her screen and instantly worry. She answers and says good morning in an expectant way, like she was ready for me to cut through the pleasantries and get to the point. To tell her some variety of bad news. But I tell her no, I randomly woke up earlier than planned and I knew this is the time she wakes up to and just wanted to hear her voice. She finally breathed a little and welcomed my call with joy. You can call me, anytime, she says. She’s always happy to hear from me. Unarmed and calm, she updates me on her day yesterday since we hadn’t talked.

I tell her it snowed yesterday and work was closed. She thanks God, that I have a job that considers my safety and closes in inclement weather.

Her job only closes once a year — Christmas.

I remember even in a blizzard that fell a few years ago in the D.C. area, her company remained open and expected workers to find their way to work. Because the wheels of capitalism must turn. Damn safety or an unusually long commute with delays and cancellations.

They secured nearby hotel rooms for employees to share before the night of the impending blizzard to make it easier for them to report to work the next day. Because the wealthy customers of Georgetown must still have access to overpriced seafood that cost an arm and a leg per pound. And an assortment of cheeses and wine to satisfy their palettes. And course coffee and a variety of cappuccinos. Essential even in a blizzard.

So she thanks God that I work at a company that closes more than once a year.

That’s progress, I presume. Generational improvement. The daughter of an Ethiopian immigrant works at a place that closes in the face of severe weather reports.

One thing that amazes and moreseo confuses me about my mom is how happy she is to hear from me whenever I call. It doesn’t matter what time of day or that I’d already talked to her thrice that day or that I’m calling only to chat for a few. Regardless of what mood she may be in when I call or how busy she is, she picks up and is excited that I called, like it’s possibly the first time.

Like, what? You call me at 5AM and we will have some issues, I assure you. Why? For what? Especially if it’s just because you missed me and wanted to hear my voice. Well, hear the sound of the ringtone because I’m going back to bed.

I guess that’s love. And maybe I’ll have to pop out a child of my own to understand that level of patience and joy.

So we talked and caught up and hung up so she could start getting ready for work. And hop from bus to bus not wearing her uniform and spend 7 hours laboring away to come home, rest, and do it all over again for another 4 days.

My mom raised me with the money she made tending to this routine. I did not grow up in a house with a backyard and 5 bedrooms. Lived in apartments my whole life. We did not vacation to foreign lands in the summer. Nor did I ask for the latest toys and clothes my peers had because even then, I understood our situation.

But my God, my mom filled me up with love. We always ate. Always went back to school shopping. I had everything I needed. And an abundance of love. It was always me and her weaving through this world.

And I will never forgot that. Forget us. Forget her.

Give the heroes in your life their flowers while they’re still here. If God is on my side, I’ll rise up to be the daughter I dream of being. The one that finally lets my mother rest. Sleep in. Work less hours. Have a home to call her own. And hopefully, worry less.

This is what drives me.