BY LILIA VILLANUEVA
When I left the Philippines for the U.S., with my chest x-ray (then required by for all foreign students) in hand, I was 17 years old. I didn’t think about how my mother would feel about my journey, though I was grateful that she–having persuaded my father–had made this adventure possible.
The first phone call home, awash in tears, I lashed out at my mother for not being with me, blaming her for my misery, the foggy cold of San Francisco, and for the depressing relative’s home I was deposited in. I recall hearing a chuckle as she told my father I was homesick. When I continued to bawl she sternly told me to stop whining because this is what I wanted, did I remember that?
My mother couldn’t have been more opposite from a tiger mom. All six of kids grew up with minimal academic expectations. As long as we didn’t miss Mass on Sundays and holidays, showed up at the extended family gatherings on weekends, and didn’t fail a subject in school, we were free to be kids, to be teenagers, to be young adults at our own time, at our own pace.
An average B student in college, I later learned years later from aunts and uncles that my academic accomplishment was a source of wonder and pride to my mother. She gave all the credit for her children’s academic achievements to our schools. But she played a key role, more than she thought.
My deep-rooted appreciation for a well-rounded lifestyle and good grooming came from my mother. She played the piano, sewed and pleated as a home business, ran a house with a full staff of nannies and helpers, organized parties for family and friends, saw to my father’s every need, took us kids to the movies and live concerts and traveled before it became fashionable among her peers.
She had an adventurous, entrepreneurial spirit. When I was in high school she opened a beauty salon with spa services, the first in town. And years later she wanted to open a funeral home – guaranteed market, she exclaimed– though in the end no amount of cajoling could win my father’s approval.
When in 2011 her beloved first born passed away, she consoled me more than I could her, telling me not to be sad. Inday just went ahead, she said, so she could personally pick us up at the other end when our time came.
My mother is 94 years old as I write this, outliving her husband by almost 20 years. She is now a shell of the woman I knew. But in moments of short-term lucidity, I see a twinkle in her eyes that assures me she is who I know she was–unafraid, ready to take on the world, and confident in her decisions. I tell her I love her very much and she never fails to reply “Oh, but I love YOU, too.”
This is an excerpt from a full length piece that will be featured in an anthology by Asian Women United. For inquiries and submissions, please contact motherofallstories@gmail.com.
