Mama Char
They say our bodies grieve cyclically after we’ve experienced a boundless, tragic loss.
Like an alarm going off at the same time every year.
Sometimes even our bodies remember the anniversary before our brains do.
This is a difficult story to tell, hard to write about but important to process. I wanted to share a few stories about my friend Charlotte, or to those close to her (which was everyone) “Mama Char.”
Even though I sense it year-round, I find the emptiness of her absence just a bit sharper on this day, November 11 — still inexplicable, still cruel, still unbearable.
So I write this for me, and for her.
I met Char on the first day of classes at Mills College.
Hard to forget her resounding presence that day, as she and her rolling backpack strolled into the room. I can’t recall if she sat next to me that day or later on in our friendship but between her vocal contributions to class discussion (solicited or otherwise) and her full-body laughs, it’s safe to say we all felt like we were sitting next to her.
Not long after that, I was assigned to be her Note-taker through the school’s academic success program. It was a way for students who needed a little extra academic support and students who needed a little extra money to work together.
Truly the easiest job I’ve ever had, it required me to do what I was already doing – show up to class and take notes.
I gained so much more than a job that semester, perhaps more than I wanted at first.
Char was a lot of personality and a lot of woman to be around.
But she was good for me, and she knew that.
She pulled me out of my shell a bit, teasing and joking with me – a trouble-maker with a heart of gold.
There was many a time when she would make rather loud snide comments during class while seated next to me; I didn’t want to directly tell her to shut her trap but I was also anxious she would get us both in trouble with the professor – flashbacks to elementary school, where the whole class got in trouble for the naughtiness of one or two kids. I’d giggle but avoid contact with her, staring intently at what’s going on in class, willing the teacher to see that I’m the good student and Char’s being the bad influence.
As if Char gave a rat’s ass what anyone thought about her and her “bad” influence.
Char lived a million lives.
I’m sure I only heard a handful of her volumes of stories – from being in the military, to driving a school bus in San Francisco County.
At the time she enrolled at Mills, she was going back to school to finally finish her degree in her 50s.
We bonded over being transfer students, but she would take every opportunity to remind me how young I was.
Truthfully, I think she had a younger heart than I ever did.
She also still worked at her hair salon, which she owned and operated in San Jose, off the Alameda. The full name for her salon – “Char’s Hair Design and a Place for Change” is a hint of the incredible impact she had on her community.
Char and I were both WGSS (Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies) majors at Mills and both obligated to complete a Senior Thesis. I took a traditional route of research and theory about San Francisco’s approach to regulating illicit massage establishments. Char collaborated on a video (and later begrudgingly wrote a paper) about her beloved salon which offered a safe space for transgender customers, from providing something as simple as a fresh haircut or manicure to teaching the basics of makeup or wardrobe.
Most importantly I think Char provided a space for people to feel authentic, seen, and celebrated.
Char was very proud of her LGBTQ community, and involved in hosting or advertising events with the Billy DeFrank Center, where I believe she was a Board Member.
I remember one night she hosted a fundraiser at the salon – I mostly remember it, but someone brought out jello shots and things got fuzzy from there. I do remember good music and lots of dancing among friends, new and old.
I also remember some tipsy Mama Char moments… about which her extremely patient partner, Pat, was less than thrilled.
But Char, ever the lovable rabble-rouser, wrapped her arms around Pat’s shoulders, kissed her cheek, and mumbled about how she knew she was in trouble but also knew Pat loved her.
Pat rolled her eyes and tried to resist Char’s charming antics… but I saw the small smirk creep into the corner of her lips.
I know all too well about Char’s antics. There’s a story for which I’ll keep the details to myself but it starts with my paranoia about a now-legal-in-California substance and ends with searching for Its-Its at a gas station. A good memory, though likely much more fun for Char who relished in making me uncomfortable.
She was right though – I was uptight, I needed fun.
Char was just great at hosting parties in general. Or rather, she brought the party with her everywhere she went. I vividly remember the pre-graduation BBQ at her house, which was buzzing with family, friends, classmates, neighbors, dogs, music, and laughter. Char and her sister sang a beautiful Hawaiian folk song that had the room stunned.
Mama Char was also there for us when we needed her. She was there for me.
I remember when I received the news that my Grandpa had passed and I had made the difficult decision not to go home to see him in the hospital, choosing instead to remember him as I had last saw him – healthy and full of poignant, hilarious one-liners.
Char drove up the hill to my on-campus apartment, which sat overlooking the Oakland Coliseum. She parked her car and called me: “Come outside.” I got up and walked down the hall, out the door, and along the front walk way, where she was standing, waiting.
She opened her arms and I fell into a classic Mama Char hug.
What I wouldn’t give for another one of those – warm and all-encompassing.
Char once offered to sell her house in San Jose to Scott and I at a discounted rate since she was moving to live full time with Pat and the kids in Oakland. An insanely kind gesture. Generous and insane.
Looking back at that moment eight years ago, with Scott now back in my life, I feel a renewed pain from her loss – how thrilled she would be to know that we found our way back to each other and, most importantly, how loved I feel everyday. That’s all she ever wanted.
That’s what she felt with Pat and what she wanted all of her children to feel, be they biological, legally adopted, or acquired over the years through her community.
We were all children of Mama Char and we felt it.
Char’s biggest love however was for her daughter, Rachel.
At Char’s memorial gathering, I remember feeling compelled to speak on behalf of her Mills community.
I can still feel the knot in my throat as I held back anguish and can barely recall what words spilled from my mouth. But I remember saying Char never stopped talking about Rachel.
“Rachel, Rachel, Rachel” I teased, “that’s all she ever talked about.”
I joked that as one of Char’s unofficial “Mills daughters” this made me feel a pang of jealousy of her actual daughter.
But I looked at Rachel and said “She loved you so much. So so much. I know she is incredibly proud of you.
And we are just so grateful you shared your Mama Char with us all.”
There are things I missed in Char’s life that sit with me to this day.
I wish I had the courage to take the day off from work to see Char and Pat get married at Oakland City Hall.
I wish I had gone to one more BBQ at Char’s house, full of food and music and laughter.
I also wish she had seen me graduate law school.
I wish I wish I wish.
It’s been six years to this day that Char, her wife Pat, and their son Benny were murdered. It’s hard for me to even write those words and harder still to realize that no justice has yet been served.
I do not want to sensationalize the details. I want to celebrate their lives, not dwell on their deaths. Even as a lawyer, it’s hard to follow the legal status of this ongoing situation, as the articles focus so much on the criminal acts when all I can think about are the people I knew and loved who didn’t deserve this.
In the interest of raising awareness, I hesitantly include this link to the most recent article indicating that a trial is forthcoming, but I do so with a heavy heart, as well as a warning of its contents. Please feel no obligation to read, especially to those who knew Char, Pat, and Benny or for those triggered by violence.
Grief is hard. Grief is weird. Grief never leaves, it comes and goes like the ocean tides.
I found a piece I wrote a few weeks after Char’s death. It’s very raw and very vulnerable.
It captures the complex feelings I had at the time and a little bit of hope that I’ve tried to carry and magnify to this day:
Your laughter is infectious. I use “is” because it still rings in my ears, even if technically you are gone.
I felt you the other day.
I never thought I’d say something like that, just like they do in the movies. But it’s true. I wasn’t alone. The difference was… it wasn’t scary. Once I finally realized you were there, I felt some relief. Like I could talk to you again and you were listening.
I told a friend and she asked me why you might be sticking around. It was a thought that hadn’t occurred to me, but I sat and considered it for a moment. Then I said you had so much more love to give, you weren’t ready to leave, not just yet.
I miss you deeply. There’s a pebble in my stomach, when I think about how much I wish I had seen you more, or feeling like I took your presence in my life for granted. I suddenly want to show you everything and tell you everything and “catch up” – oh, if we could only “catch up” one last time… But even then, it wouldn’t be enough.
Still, this pebble rattles around me, hitting the chords of my grief and my confusion and my anxieties.
I have never felt so shaken, so lost within myself that I wasn’t sure what I should do.
There isn’t one person who hasn’t mentioned how strong I am, and in those moments I feel the smallest, the weakest. I selfishly think about how I’m tired of being strong and I’m tired of going through life as the independent woman persona I’ve so proudly concocted for myself, to the point where sometimes I feel completely and utterly lost and alone.
Which is ridiculous!
Life is so precious… happiness is attainable, even through the smallest moments.
And yet it is so fleeting, and people lose their chance to show the people they love their most intimate expressions of affection… or thoughts… or dreams.
I wish I could share mine with you, just one more time. I never worried about obtaining your validation, but I always wanted to try. Even if I wasn’t actively thinking about you or reaching out to you, I have always wanted to make you proud. I just wanted you to know that… and I’m so sorry I didn’t make the time to find out if you knew.
I hate feeling resigned to some fate where I’m proud of my accomplishments, but never quite satiated. You were never finished; I told someone the other day that I felt as if you lived nine lives…at a minimum.
But you also loved. You loved every creature you possibly could. Despite your hardships and your inner struggles, you opened your arms or your house or your heart to anyone who needed it.
That must have been exhausting, but is there a better way to live? To let everyone you meet feel cherished, wanted, welcomed, loved?
I want to live by your example, I do, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid of opening up my heart and being crushed, or living boldly only to be left alone. I strive for your fearlessness, but I’m worried. Of failure. Of heartbreak. Loneliness. Apathy. Death.
And while that pebble continues to rattle around, I have faith that it will silence itself soon.
I want to pull myself out of this gray continuum, and I think I will. I think it’s possible. At least eventually. But there remains a deep, dark fear… a stone lying heavy and stubborn, festering as the days go by, slow and achingly… “What’s the point?” If good people die, what’s the point of living?
I miss you deeply.
Dec. 15, 2016 – Bella Amica
As hard as it is to reread this, I think I have an answer to my question six years ago – not the answer, but one option.
The point of living, in spite of the big bad and impossible things, is to experience the small things. It’s the small moments: meeting someone, learning something, laughing with others, laughing by yourself, laughing AT yourself, creating something with your hands, eating something you’ve never tried before, getting lost in a book or a movie and forgetting where you are for a moment, listening to music, dancing, hugging, and being present for each other.
In the last few years of her life, Char was struggling with some personal things, not all of which I was aware nor would I share publicly.
But she was coping the best way she could.
I drove to meet her a few times at a dingy hotel in Gilroy where she stayed the night after weekly trainings for her service dog, Boomer – another patient creature in Char’s sometimes chaotic orbit.
She told me about her recent trip to Hawaii and about how therapeutic it was to swim naked in the ocean.
She very much wanted me to do the same.
She was quite adamant about it.
There are so many things I wish I had done or said.
There is so much lost time with this true force of nature in my life, a source of comfort and joy and shenanigans for so many.
I will never stop remembering Char and it’s likely I won’t stop writing about her.
There are times I feel so deeply sad by her loss and moving forward in any direction feels impossible.
But Char lived so much, loved so much, and wouldn’t want any of us to be immobile on her behalf. No, she’d encourage us to take that jello shot, to sing like nobody’s listening, to love who you love, and to swim naked in the ocean.
We love you, Mama Char. Miss you always.
