When I was seven years old, my grandma picked me up early from school and took me downtown to the one and only fancy hotel in El Paso. She had a big grey perm and wore sunglasses that would have put Jackie-O to shame. I scuttled across the shiny marble floor and up the “grand” staircase in my plaid school uniform skirt to the upstairs ballroom where every prom, wedding reception (including my parents), and philanthropy luncheon since the hotel’s construction had been held.
I clearly remember sitting down at seats that had been reserved for my grandmother and I located on the right side of a long runway. We were some of the last people to slip into the crowded room of powdered faces and hair sprayed Junior League bobs. My Mom told me I was coming to watch her help out at a fundraiser. I suppose I had expected her to be handing out awards or giving some type of presentation.
Someone hit the lights and the catwalk was illuminated. A model came down the aisle in a suit, then another in a summer dress, then another in a bathing suit. This continued until a tall, pale woman with black hair piled on her head and a floor length beige dress that reflected against the lights stepped out. The crowd ooo-ed as the pretty woman began to strut. As she passed by me, she broke character for a split second and winked at me. My grandma leaned forward and whispered, “Doesn’t you mama look pretty mija?” My jaw hit the floor. “That’s Mommy?” ...where were her sweat pants?!
Today, I went to the last performance of Evita at the UTEP dinner theater. After over two decades of devoting her whole self to raising me and running our home, she has taken this past year to go back to school to do some of the things that she had always wanted to do. At the beginning of the year, my mother tried out for her first musical and earned a much coveted spot in the show.
Giving birth to a diva daughter who was a natural ham, my mother has designed costumes, baked cookies for, and attended every show I have been in since I was bit by the theater bug in the second grade. In a nut shell, she was the ultimate stage mom. Today the roles were reversed as I ran in straight from my flight from L.A. and into the seats that my mother had saved for my dad and I. Again I found myself positioned on the right side of a stage with lights dimming. The beat started and actors filled the stage for the first big dance number. A shrouded figure in a black mourners head piece playing the mother of Evita stepped into her route and turned her face towards me. It was as if I could hear my seven year old voice say “...that’s Mommy?” echoing in my head.
Overwhelmed with pride for this woman’s courage and talent, I found tears streaking down my face and into the creases in my cheeks made by the huge smile I had on my face. I didn’t stop crying literally until intermission when I could sneak backstage for a hug.
Here is to the woman who instilled in me an obsession for shopping ("always check the sale rack first"), showed me by example how to be a lady ("lipstick. always."), taught me to demand of boys to respect me as much as I respect myself, and forever engrained the mantra “when you feel like sh**, look like Barbie” into my head. Thank you for designing and making me the dresses of my dreams, telling me your secrets, making countless matching mani/pedi appointments, taking me on shopping sprees, believing in me, building me up, and letting me know when I need to come back down to planet Earth.
You are one hell of a lady Norma Price.
“I like you for always. I’ll love you forever. As long as I’m living, you’re baby I’ll be.”
--Lita
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