My father was my idol, and my mother was the bad guy in my life, poor mama! Like most contrary children, I vowed to be better than she.
When I was in Grade II, I was invited to my best friend’s birthday party in a big concrete house. Children’s birthday parties in the ’30s were very special occasions, because you had to bake your own cake, make your own ice cream, etc. But my mother forgot to buy me a gift to give! When the gifts were being opened in front of everyone, I realized I had none! It was traumatic. I never forgot it. I remembered saying to myself, I can’t rely on my mother. From now on I’ll have to take care of myself. I was eight years old.
Take care of myself! In social matters?! What did I know about that? On the other hand, what did my provinciana mother know about that, either? Her mother died when she was two. And her widower father spoiled her silly. Of course I didn’t know about that then. All I knew was that she had let me down.
And those big butterfly ribbons she loved to tie on my braids! I thought they made me a laughingstock. And that yaya who was made to follow me around and wipe my perspiring back during recess and douse my hands with alcohol before I ate my baon. For years I was branded by my classmates’ parents a “spoiled” child with such a “devoted” mama (yuck!).
My mama felt inferior to friends she considered higher up in intellectual or social standing. She felt insecure about her looks (when she was so pretty and had excellent clothes sense); she was insecure about her talents (which were plentiful—inventive cooking, jewelry and clothes designing, and a certain business savvy); insecure about her ignorance of the world (could have been helped).
Infection
Well, insecurity is the easiest infection to catch from a parent. Sweet, docile daughters become cookie moulds of their mothers, which is okay if that’s what one wanted. It was what I didn’t. Being strong-willed, I fought my poor, combative, noisy, insecure but deep-down very kind mother to kingdom come.
My father was a quiet peacenik, but he was no pushover either. And so I had tremendous equipment from both sides. To become what you don’t want to be is to become a “victim.” I think I won the battle not because I was so smart, but because the enemy was so confused.
My mother did teach me what she knew best—her “beauty secrets.” I always dismissed them as frivolous and useless. And so it surprised me when some friends actually said how they envied me my mom who taught me how to dress, how to take care of my skin, how to keep my hair glossy, etc. and etc. because theirs didn’t know about grooming.
Actually, I longed for mothers like theirs, who were brainy and who could guide me through literature and history and philosophy. The only book mine ever read was Betty Crocker.
Some friends were also amazed at how naturally I took to hostessing, because my mother gave many parties with great food. However, she had no clue how to combine guests. She would seat my Supreme Court justice uncle next to her voluble jewelry agent, and the prim Canadian nun beside papa’s atheist colleague. But they were all agreed that they liked mama’s cooking
One thing certain—you never get the right mother! What kind of mother did my children want? When we were still in the Parent-Teacher meeting stage, they wanted me clad like proper Mrs. So-and-so, who wore starched linen dresses (preferably pink), a strand of pearls and high-heeled pumps. Eek, that just wasn’t me! I needed to be the genuine casual-to-sloppy me—their dreams of gentility go bust.
Where I was coming from, my idea of “best mom” was one who could make her children feel secure in their own skin, no matter what the circumstance. It became the battle cry of my motherhood, and I went about putting it into motion.
I told my children it was all right if they did not make it to the honor roll, or become the class president or be any officer for that matter, or be included in the basketball team. I was so poor at figures that I didn’t want them insecure in that department either. So I hired tutors to guide the children through math, algebra, geometry and physics.
Puzzled
My daughter Wendy told me decades later how all that tutoring had puzzled them because they were all so good at numbers. And what business did youngest son, Arcus, have, graduating with First Honors from the Asian Institute of Management? I was aghast! Until second son, Mol, patiently said, Ma…ah! You forgot the other part of the equation—we have a very intelligent father!
Oh, and that matter of religion! My mother was a fearful Catholic who dreaded the fires of hell. She was forever nagging my father to believe! believe! or you will end up roasting eternally. Her solution to every “crisis” in the house (which was everything) was to slam the door, march to church, and confess! confess!
And come back two hours later, just as muddled, confused and irritable as ever. Her religion was what I inherited and had to follow from kindergarten to college in the convent of my schooling.
When our oldest son was about 14 and my youngest 9, the last Mass in our neighborhood on Sunday was at 6 p.m. It was also the time of the first evening TV cartoon. You can imagine what a lot of scolding, threatening and even spanking it took to get all four of them to dress and into the car!
Once our driver asked me if I knew that Dad went out of the church during the sermon. And that he crossed the street to the sari-sari store and drank a beer. So!?
I wanted to settle that matter. I confronted Dad with it, and he just smiled sheepishly. If I wanted to talk it over with the children, like a typical Filipino father, he just wouldn’t get involved. As soon as we got home I announced to the gang that every Sunday henceforth, car and driver would be at their disposal for the 6 o’clock Mass.
Those who wanted to would go and those who did not, didn’t have to go. I just wanted them to be aware that they had a choice. That there are many paths to salvation. And one was only expected to be a good Catholic, or a good Protestant, or a good Christian or Buddhist or Iglesia ni Cristo or whatever, not an unconvinced one.
Two children went and two did not. Those who chose Mass have remained staunch Catholics to this day. Those who didn’t still don’t go, but they are just as steadfast and honorable as those who did. As for my husband and me, we’re honorable, too.
Neurotic or cuckoo
But mothers can never be right. My children, now adults, take for granted what I took such great care all my life for them to become. That they don’t have so many hang-ups, are not too insecure, or neurotic, or cuckoo.
What was traumatic for youngest son, now bank executive, was his pants. My uniforms were all hand-me-downs, he said; “You never got me new pants! I was always having trouble with them. One time, during basketball, I was about to shoot when my khaki pants ripped open from stem to stem. My classmate had to accompany me to the bathroom to staple it together, it was that embarrassing.”
So this son now has teenage sons who are the smartest-dressed kids on the block. Their imported pants will never embarrass them, their father will see to that. But you can’t cover all the bases, and these boys will eventually find something their father missed.
As for my rambunctious mother, what grade do you think I’m giving her? One hundred percent! Truly!? We do not get the mother we want; the universe gives us the mother we need. It is not true that mine did not teach me anything, for I learned and learned well, not by example but more by a torturous negative route, full of brambles and rough underbrush, what not to do to myself and to others.
Just as one learns from stubbing one’s toe on a sharp rock, so had I to learn my life lessons, painfully and indelibly. Perhaps they were not lessons strong-willed me could learn from a pleasant mother who was devoted and patient and gentle. My mother is the negative of the hard copy that is me, and I love her!
So, this is a piece for young mothers. Be of good cheer! Go in there and muddle your way through. When your children grow up they’ll give you tough love. But I think they’ll also be impressed.
