Vera Wood

A friend once told me that “everyone gets a little help on their way to the top.” Well, let me tell you fellow readers, this isn’t always the case. We were seventeen years old when we had our first real conversation (we had known each other for about two years but social cliques and gossip kept us apart), and funny enough, we bonded over one of our favorite things in the world—food! Even at seventeen, this young woman was already a force not to be reckoned with. Every lunch I shared with her allowed me to see deeper into her soul: she was set in her ways when it came to food, but in a good way; just like me, she loved our school salads and hated everything else ever served. Just like me, she reveled in “second lunch” after school at the nearby Chipotle or Johnny Rockets, even though we both knew, even at the young age of seventeen, that there were far superior burger joints and Mexican restaurants in Los Angeles. Just like me, she knew the fruits of hard labor that supported our after school hangouts, having worked at a froyo and candy shop full time while juggling coarse A.P class schedules. This wonderful young lady turned woman is “Vera Wood.” And just like her stage name, everything about her is original and the product of extensive labor.

Our journey together has been a narrative filled with obstacles and glimmers of hope juxtaposed with laughter. While I want to say that the level of support has been equal, that’d be the ugliest of lies: Vera Wood has been my everything while I’ve been everything from helpless, reckless, senseless, and at times a combination of the three. At eighteen, she became my shoulder to cry on when I started navigating gay life in West Hollywood, meanwhile dealing with her own trials and errors at UCLA. At nineteen, she was my shoulder, my ears, my only body to find comfort in when I experienced heartbreak for the second time, all while her own heart was broken by a fiend who didn’t know gold if it slapped them in the face at full might. At twenty, she worked eight hour, sixth days a week shifts to save up enough for us to move out for the first time, and still managed to wipe my tears without reproach when my financial plan fell through. At twenty-one, she worked day and night, from working every last one of her brain cells in class, to working every last nerve in her legs standing and applying cosmetics to entitled women who were indifferent to her struggle, her daily and nightly struggle as she juggled the role of student, provider, lover and best friend; a best friend to me and all. I was not a best friend always; from rowdy night caps I’d end at home, and more often than not continue until midway between midnight and dawn; to careless handling of our shared space and her maintenance of it; to my simple act of being a human train wreck; I was not always the best friend she needed, or deserved, but to me she was my everything even if we both didn’t know it.

At twenty-two, we went our physical separate ways, though she always managed to protect me; she was so adept at that with those she loved; and even those she didn’t. Because from twenty-two to twenty-seven, and to be frank, long before that, she went into beast mode to protect rodents looking for a free lunch, for every free meal. Because they knew she worked hard, for everything. For her Bachelor’s, for every unpaid internship, for every one of those four, taxing internships, for every promotion with minimal pay, for every promotion that was a demotion of her spirit. For every demotion from lover, to best friend, to friend, to roommate, to the most unappreciated of providers.

But Vera Wood never gave up. Vera Wood doesn’t break; she’s stronger than wood, than steel, than the most poisonous of venoms concealed in the form of rare acts of appreciation by a lover, insignificant bonuses by a corrupt, billionaire employer, and random Facebook messages from estranged friends who were nowhere to be seen at twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two and any of the twenties that mattered. Vera Wood succeeds. She succeeds surrounded by many but ultimately alone.

But there is another saying that fortunately found its way into this woman’s tale: “Life rewards those who work hard.” At twenty-seven, with every one of her ankle nerves failing, with her own mental nerves contending the ugliness of her condition, and with every emotional nerve starting to lose hope, she got her reward: ”Greetings Vera Wood: After our interview and careful consideration of our other candidates, we would like to offer you the role of Executive Assistant…” But this was only the beginning. The beginning of the silver lining for a woman surrounded by rust her entire life. “Vera, I think I’m falling in love with you…Vera, we would like to offer you a promotion as Project Manager…Vera, let’s buy a house!” Vera’s tale, for the first time ever, had taken the alternative route towards a happily ever after.

Let this be a cautionary tale to all women, regardless of age, race, or cultural upbringing. Never let anyone tell you that hardwork, intelligence, and a good heart are worthless; that you’re worthless. Never let anyone tell you that your essence is interchangeable on your path to success; never let anyone tell you your light is incapable of illuminating entire work places, entire households, entire rooms, entire worlds. Never let anyone tell you that one woman cannot make a diference on her own. Vera Wood changed my life forever. May her tale inspire you to do the same for your own.