My father used to say it’s the small things that count. And when i was young I never really understood that. I wanted a big life, with big happenings and I wanted them soon.
I dreamed of going to New York, and becoming a movie star. But very soon in my career I realized that auditioning for Latina Gang Members and Chubby Brides was not exactly what I wanted to do. The world of auditioning and being told to loose weight, to be less weird, to change my last name, and to lighten my hair convinced me that this wasn’t the world for me. I wasn’t interested in those stories that were stereotypical in nature, so i started crafting my own stories which has since become the basis for all of my work.
And now when i look back to those days, it was truly the small things that kept me going. It was a letter from a friend. It was buying a treat for myself. It was my daily call from my dad.
My father died 3 years ago, and the thing i miss most is his voice. He would call a few times a day to check the weather, to see how I was, to check in on his grandson Max, and although at the time, I didn’t think much of it, now I realize that it was the calls that kept me centered. Those calls let me know that someone in the world was looking out for me, that someone cared.
I miss those calls. I miss those small acts of love. Even though i don’t talk to him anymore, i have a massive collection of memories him and his voice.
In my daily interactions with my son, i try to create small rituals that will stay with him. Because, after all, it’s the small things that count.