this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on January 3, 2008.
She is five feet tall, 50 years of age, just a little plump, and her black hair is streaked with white. She wears glasses whenever she feels like it, but doesn’t use them when she has to do some reading. She wanted all her three daughters to become majorettes, and it became her life-long frustration when none of them became one. She was once a Red Cross volunteer, and so were her daughters.
She believes in hard work. She leaves at eight in the morning to go to work and comes back home at five. She ends her day by watching “ETC,” eating dinner with her children and sleeping as soon as she finishes her dinner.
She wants everything to be clean. She hates leaving things in places they’re not meant to be. She gives commands in rapid succession as if she thinks you are superman, forgetting you’re her own flesh and blood.
She loves taking care of animals, feathered or furred. She talks to them like they were her best friends and takes care of them like they were her own.
She enjoys watching love stories and screams her wits out when she sees a woman dressed in white.
She is very religious. She believes in miracles.
This is not me. This is the opposite of me, and she is my mother.
Unlike her, I’m messy, forgetful and only a little bit religious. I’d leave the glass on top of the side table after I finish brushing my teeth. I forget the things I need for school. And I usually whine when she says we’re going to church.
I don’t usually give out commands to people. I don’t ask others to do things for me; as much as possible, I do them myself.
I enjoy war movies especially when they’re about the 17th and 18th century. I also enjoy thrillers and horror movies, even if they’re too gory to watch. I’d rather read a book or surf the Net than watch TV. I find TV overrated these days. I mean, reality TV isn’t really that “real” anymore. I would rather stick to the reality that things happen for a reason and they always come with a price.
Remarkably, given our differences, we have a few things in common. We have the same height. We both love animals. We enjoy watching movies. We like ice cream. We even enjoy criticizing people on TV.
Not that it’s a good thing or anything, but we click. It’s like having some kind of unspoken agreement that we’re okay. We are coexisting—yin and yang—but precisely because of this, sometimes we get into a fight.
She wants her views heard, and I want mine heard, too. There’s communication but the problem is, we always want to prove that one is right and the other is just being obstinate. She never hears me out, and I never hear her out. We tend to close doors of understanding and surrender to the infinite darkness of pride. To her, she’s right and I’m a child. To me, I’m right and she’s just plain crazy.
We have had this kind of relationship for so long that I cannot remember when it all started. I think the growing angst within me is the product of her shrewdness in outwitting us, her children.
One time when Ate was still small, she and mother had a fight. Mother was so angry that she ran after her threatening to whack her with a hanger. My sister was so scared that she ran to her bedroom and slammed the door shut. My mother was behind her, but had the door slammed on her face. At first, mother kept yelling at the door: “Cyril, buksan mo ang pinto! Naririnig mo ba ako?(Cyril, open the door! Do you hear me?)”
Just hearing her voice made me quiver. She had that angry tone that could make anyone quake in her boots. (It still makes me nervous, just remembering it.) She repeated her order a thousand times, and at every repetition her voice gradually fell until it became some sweet, old lady’s voice. “Anak, hindi na galit si mommy. Buksan mo na ang pinto (Child, mommy is no longer mad, so please open the door),” she coaxed. And like any obedient child, my sister opened the door—only to realize she had fallen for a trick. The hanger came out of nowhere and before she knew it, my sister was having the punishment of her life.
I was a very observant child. I took note of her tactic. So when it was my turn to run to the door, my mother’s show of forgiveness would always be a flop. She’d promise, “Anak, ’di ka papaluin ni mommy, basta’t buksan mo lang ang pinto (Child, I won’t punish you anymore, just open the door).” And I would tell her that I was up to her tricks and she couldn’t fool me. Then, I would lock myself up the whole day and she’d be worried because I had not eaten anything. What she didn’t know was that I had stacked up on candies long before I needed to dash into the room. I was such a sneaky child, and I think she knew it.
Now that I’m in college, a thousand miles away from her and her dominion, I miss her. Everything I’ve written so far are the things I remember about her before I left for college. Her early morning habit of walking around the house in her faded rosy duster, her craving for cakes and her laughter whenever I mimicked a comedian or acted like plainly pilosopo—all these make me miss her badly. She might be cranky at times and can be quite bossy, but I’ve always accepted her for what she is and what else she may be.
I don’t know how many times we have argued. I don’t remember the last time we had a fight or had a conversation. But I know we can still get our butts whipped by her. She may be old and tired at times but she’s still the same bossy but caring momma.
She can make or break you with just one look. Her smile is her greatest defense; it can tear up your line of offense. She’ll be there with you through anything without a single complaint. She’ll give you what you want—and some more. She can be both your friend and your enemy. She is classy but funny. She is one timeless being.
I can feel the holiday spirit rushing in. I think I’ll buy her a present. Maybe I’ll buy her a cake or a dress. She loves dresses. I can buy her a pair of earrings—that is if I can survive another month of eating canned goods. She likes jewelry, but she’ll hate the fact that I have starved myself to death just to buy her one.
I think I know what to buy her: a karaoke video CD. She enjoys singing. She sings whenever she’s happy or she’s around us. She is a frustrated singer. She tried to learn by herself but it didn’t work. I think she was never cut out to be a singer, but she is perfectly cut out to be a mom.
I don’t believe in miracles, but I know this one is mine.
