The Birth of the Best

La vaca Lola, la vaca Lola
Tiene cabeza, tiene cola
La vaca Lola, la vaca Lola
Hace moo!

I can never tell what year it is.  Recently, our school put on a 50 years of hip-hop presentation for Black History month.  I thought about my decades.  I was born in Michigan in the early seventies.  Moved to Georgia by the early eighties.  Atlanta Child Murders.  By the early nineties, I was at Georgia State and working in restaurants.  There was a lot of great music in Atlanta at that time.  It seemed normal, but I didn't realize it wasn't until it was gone.  By the 2000s, those were travel years.  By the 2010s, antidepressants and massive weight gain.  The 2020s, I don't know.  I just don't know.  

My mom texted me last Wednesday.  Early in the morning, which isn't unusual.  She said that she woke up on the floor of her bathroom and didn't know how she got there.  Her arm was injured and her glasses were broken.  She said she had been there for hours, trying to get up, and that her face wasn't working right.  She feared that she had had a stroke.  

I stared at the message.   It had come through about twenty minutes earlier, while I was doing morning phonics.  
"Call your doctor."  I texted back.
And then, I called her.  

"Mom, what the fuck?"

"I'll call them as soon as they open."  she responded.

"They open at eight."

"Okay," I said.

"I have to got to my first class." 

I don't know why I said that.  

I called my sister.

"You have to go to mom's house, now.  She thinks she had a stroke."  

And then, I started walking to my class.  I slowed down as soon as I made it to the cafeteria.  I went by the principal's office, but it was dark in there.  I stood in the lobby and texted the principal and vice principal and said that I needed to leave.  I saw the vice principal in a side classroom and waited in line to talk to her.  When the person before me finished, I said that I needed to go because my mom thought she had had a stroke.  

"Go now."  she responded.

"Do I sign out, what do I do?"  I asked.

"GO NOW." she repeated.

"Okay, I have to Uber, our car is in the shop, I got dropped off today."  I responded, shell shocked.  Papi and I were getting the car ready for Mexico.

"Let's go, I'll take you."  my arch nemesis responded.  

"I have to get my stuff."  I replied, and ran to the trailer to get my bag and purse.  And my lunch.  

When I came back, the safety patrol that my arch nemesis coordinates was standing at the doors, opening them for me, directing me out front to the bus lane where her car waited.  

She took me to my mom's house.  I had to use Google to get there, because I don't go over there much.  

"So Wagner, where are you from?"  she asked.

"Michigan.  But I've been here since I was ten."

"Okay, Detroit. "  she responded.

I'm not from Detroit.  

"So, we're driving toward Bouldercrest, the Flat Shoals exit."  I continued.

Yes.  My mom lives on the Crest.  And apparently, I'm from Detroit.  

She pulled into the driveway.  I tried to just jump out, but then she asked if the car in the driveway was my sister's, and I said no.

"It's my mom's.  I can drive it."

"I'm coming in."  she responded.

And came up, onto my mom's porch, that was covered in wine boxes and dog pee.  

"Do you have a key?"  she asked.

"Yes, but I don't know the alarm thing."  I responded, trying to stall for time.  I knew my mom was not on the floor at this point and I could not have her going into my mom's house.  It's a difunctional mess, to say the least.  I knocked on the door.

"Get back!"  I called to her.

"Her dog's mean!"

My mom poked her head out.  

She left.  And I went inside.  

"They said go to the emergency room."  my mom said.

My sister was there within minutes and we took my mom to Grady. Barricades blocked most of the emergency entrances.  My sister dropped us off after we finally found the entrance.  She went and parked the car.  I took my mom in, through the metal detectors and police wands and went to the desk.  They were very nice.  My mom answered all of their questions and showed her all of her insurance cards and when they asked for emergency contact information, I had to speak.  I told them my name, spelled it, and when I started saying my phone number, I started to cry.

"It's okay, it is okay."  they told me.

"We have her.  We will get her all fixed up."

Lola would have been twelve today.  She should have been twelve today.  But me, us, all of us, we are trying very hard.