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Cat Stevens - Where Do the Children Play |
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Ours was a love and hate relationship. I know that in my heart of hearts, I love her not because I do not want to seem ungrateful but because there are more than enough reasons for me to truly love her.
As a child, I was never spoiled, but I was generously provided with things that were either of necessity or vanity. My father was an aeronautics engineer in Saudia Airlines; thus, he was away most of the time, and I spent my formative years with her as my mother and father.
She has always been proud of me. When I graduated Kindergarten, I did not receive any honors for any of my academic subjects. I was envious of a classmate who bagged every award there was, but he did not get one because I had it. I was the Most Polite Student (harhar). That was my first vivid memory of my mother being proud of me. It was not a major honor, but it was enough for her for I know that she was confident that she had raised a son whose morals are intact (yeah right).
When I received a third honor merit in my first grade, I knew that she was equally proud of me. As a reward, she asked me for anything that I wanted. I told her that a Chinese Checkers game board will do. I could have asked for a new pair of sneakers or new clothes or a new wristwatch, but I opted for that, and I do not even know why. I was not even a big fan of the game; I was more of a Snakes and Ladders kind of kid. The very next day, I received my Chinese Checkers board. It was not of cheap material as it was made of thick wood. I did not become a Chinese Checkers expert because of that, but the board served more than its very purpose. I would use the other side of the board for Dama, but oftentimes I would use the board as a platform for my toy soldiers, my Flintstone miniatures, and other tau-tauhan. As I grew up, all toys were destroyed either by me or my younger cousins. Even my most favorite toy, a Transformer robot cum fm-am radio was not exempted, but until now I still have the board with me.
When my grade 2 adviser told me to join an elocution contest, I promptly followed. I did not even inform her about it. One day, she was supposed to pick me up from school, but 30 minutes had passed since dismissal time, and I was still not in the pick up area. She went to my classroom and saw me practicing my piece with my adviser. That was when she discovered about the contest. But still, I did not inform her of when the contest will be held. I did not want her to watch it not because I was ashamed of her but because I was ashamed to deliver my piece with her in the audience. She picked me up one day, with my 2nd price trophy in one hand. She did not see me perform, and I do not remember her making a big deal out of it. She was simply proud that I won.
I won school contests left and right. I won Best Camper for three consecutive years. I was the darling of my teachers. I received honors year after year like it was the most common thing that my mom and I were not surprised about it anymore. That was until I reached fifth grade. I do not know what happened, but I suddenly got tired of studying. I was still an above average student, but I was no longer the kind of achiever that I once was. I did not make it to the honor roll, and I was so ashamed that I did not inform her about it. She approached me one afternoon and in a disappointed and accusing manner said to me, "Wala kang honor, noh?!" I just shrugged my shoulders and left. I was disappointed in myself, but I was more disappointed in her.
I felt that I did not receive the support that I needed from her as my mother. I felt that she did not understand, and I felt that receiving honors was something that I was obliged to give to her in a silver plate. I felt that she was asking me to perform for her and not for me. Our relationship started to slowly turn sour after that.
More damage was added because of some stupid mistake I made. I was still in my fifth grade when I did something totally out of character. I was in National Bookstore, Robinson's Galleria with my mom, 2 aunts, and 2 sisters. I was browsing through the Sex Education section of the bookstore when I saw a Margie Holmes book (hahhaha). I was leafing through the pages, and I saw an article about blow jobs (another ahahahahaha). I was so curious. I was ashamed to read it right there and then, and so I slowly and secretly ripped that particular page off. Unfortunately, one of the staff saw me and brought me to a stockroom and reprimanded me for it. I was accused of shoplifting. I told him that I was with my mom. We went back to the store and looked for my mother who was an avid supporter of National Bookstore, buying a minimum of 5 Jude Deveraux-Sidney Sheldon kind of novels every week. The guy told her what happened, and she was hysterical. She defended me, but there were evidences to prove it. I have never been more ashamed in my entire life.
We had a heart to heart talk when we got home, and for the first time, I saw her cry in front of me. She asked me why I did it when I could have simply asked her to buy it for me and she would (yeah right). I gave her some lame excuse that I did it because I felt that she did not have enough time for me, and I was just seeking for her attention. Of course, it was not true. Pride dictated that I turn the table on her and put on her the blame. It was also pride that would slowly drift us apart. We did not talk for some weeks, and I was not able to step foot in National Bookstore for about a year.
I felt that I had to make up for what I did, and so I studied hard in sixth grade, and I was in the honor roll again. I was also among the top 20 students by the end of the school year and was included in the pilot section in my first year in highschool. I knew that I was winning her trust and confidence again, and I was happy for myself, but I was happier that she was proud of me again.
Highschool was a bitch. Laziness got the better of me and being a nerd was in the least of my concerns. I dropped out of the pilot section by second year highschool. I was still performing in my class, but my enthusiasm was never the same. My love for studying greatly lessened but was replaced with my love for learning matters that are non-academic in nature. I was a free spirit. At a young age, I explored my sexuality. I was forcing myself to mature beyond my years. I was a rebel. I watched movies and read books not for my level of maturity. I wanted to immediately grow up. I would answer her back in the slightest provocation. I was hard headed. I would contradict her every statement and would often argue with her. It did not matter to me anymore whether my mom would be proud of me. It was all about myself. I was so self centered.
This is not to say that I was a bad son. Maybe as a teenager, it was just in my nature to be rebellious. My elder sister had been that kind of teen, but she became close to her as she matured. My sister was like my father. They possess similar characteristics. They were often mum about their opinions in personal family matters but once they speak up, that would be the be all-end all of things. As opposed to me and my mom, we are the mahadera daldalera type. And maybe because my dad and sister have the same personalities, they would often clash. I have always thought about that with me and my mom. I saw my sister struggled with her relationship with my father. She even wrote an article for her Journalism subject about how she felt so distant from my father. I have read the article and so did my mother. I saw her teary eyed upon reading it. I knew that she was hurt by what my sister had written. I knew because I also was.
My father died when I was 16. It pained my mother more than anyone. It was April 19, 2000. I just enrolled for my first year, first semester in the University of Santo Tomas, Bachelor of Science Major in Psychology. My sister, Ate Aby, just got back from her graduation practice in the University of the Philippines. I arrived home just minutes before her, and we both received the news that my father had a heart attack. We did not even know that he had some heart disease. My younger sister's eyes were sore from crying. We were in utter shock. Ate Aby and I decided to follow them in the hospital. She was driving while I was busy combing my hair and powdering my face. Both of us were not expecting the worst news, but that was what we received when we reached the hospital. My father was dead in arrival. My mom was not my mother when I saw her at that moment. She was a grieving widow more than anything else, and I have never seen her in such a state of disarray. I remember going to the morgue with my mom. She tightly embraced my father's lifeless and naked body. I refused to touch him for in my heart, I know that that dead body was not my father. Yes, that body housed my father when he was still alive, but it was not him, and I chose not to be dramatic about it. I did not cry in the morgue. I did not cry when we were choosing a casket for his dead body. My eyes were not crying, but my heart was.
My mother was the epitome of poise during my dad's burial. She never bawled out. We were both wearing shades and were silently weeping. It never occurred to me that this is a manifestation of how similar our personalities really are. My mom was never the touchy type. She was never the-O kumain ka na ba?-while-lovingly-caressing-your-back type of mom. She was never the-O inumin mo na itong medicine mo at magpagaling ka while-gently-brushing-your-bangs-off-your-forehead kind of mother. She was more of Kumain ka na, lalamig na ang pagkain!!! or Bahala ka kung ayaw mong inumin 'yan, 'di ka gagaling!!!! In short, bungangera. That is how she shows her love and concern. I have always known this, but I could never really understand her even until now. Maybe because deep inside, I wish that she was more of the former kind of mom. Maybe because I want to feel her caressing my back and brushing my bangs off my forehead after all. I wanted her to love me in my own terms. I wanted her to be the kind of mother that I want her to be. It was pride dictating me that you are not to treat me like this, that I want you to be gentle, that I want you to be showy. But she was simply not that kind of person.
Our lives went back to normal weeks after my father was buried. We already got used to the idea of my father being away most of the time, only this time, he will not return anymore. There is a profound sadness in that thought. My mom did not dramatically changed, but I knew that she was hurting. And maybe because she was in her menopausal years and also because of my father's demise, she was irritable than usual. I don't know if it was just me, but I would always find her blaming me for almost everything that is not going on smoothly as it should be. She would blame me for leaving a used plate or glass unwashed at night. She would blame me for using the computer for long hours. She would blame for things that I did and did not do, and I would take all of them silently as opposed to when I was younger and would always contradict her and answer back. This went on for some months. I was also having problems with my personal life. I was having problems with my studies. I was flunking Biopsychology, Zoology, and Math big time which I did not inform my mother about. Because of my insomnia, I was always late for my first subjects that I eventually had to drop them. Imagine dropping Filipino?! My Filipino professor hated me for dropping her class because I was one of her best students. Because of that, I was in a state of depression. It was not the suicidal kind of depression, but I felt low most of time. I knew that I was having problems, and I needed to resolve them immediately. But to whom would I turn to? My mother? I do not want to add any more troubles on her end. Ate Aby? I hated her during that time, and I was ignoring her for months. The truth was I was so emotionally unstable that I just wanted to hate everyone. I even hated myself. I did not know what to do. Add the emotional beatings caused by my mom constantly blaming me for anything. I knew that I could only take so much, and my boiling point is beyond limits.
One day, when I got home from school, I was peacefully eating lunch, and Kris, my younger sister, was watching TV. My mom came barging in reprimanding me for not allowing my Ate Aby to use the printer in my room when I am at home. That was because I hated my sister for using the phone all the time that I was unable to use it anymore, and then she would demand to use my computer when I am using it. I swear, she was such a bitch, and I hated her to bits. I answered back angrily. I could not take it anymore. I was not yet finished eating, but I cleared the table. I was banging my plate and utensils, and I was already crying. My face felt so hot, and I felt rivers of warm tears flowing from my eyes to my cheeks. This is all the anger that I have kept inside me bursting out. I was then shouting, "Ako, ako, lagi na lang ako!!" (Ahahahah, haller, Tolits!) I hated my mother and Ate Aby. I felt that I was only at peace with Kris. She said something like, "Sinasagot sagot mo na ako dahil patay na ang daddy niyo." Remember when I said that I would often answer back? That's true, but never in a disrespectful manner. That was the first time that I was really shouting at her out of anger. I said, "Hindi naman dahil d'un e! Matagal na kayong ganyan sa akin, kahit buhay pa si daddy!" We were like actors in a soap opera. I stormed into my room, banged the door like I have never banged a door in my entire life, and locked myself inside. She followed me and knocked furiously and demanded that I open the door, and we would talk. I opened it and asked her what for. She said something like, "Sinisisi mo ako pero hindi mo tinitignan ang sarili mo! Bakit hindi mo sinabi sa'ken na bagsak ka sa 3 subjects mo?!?!" And then she said something that she could have only known if she had read my diary, and I believe that she did. Patay. I can say the meanest things when angry. I was cursing her and my sister in my diary. I have also written there my love problems with Francis. That made me hate her all the more. How can she read my diary just like that??! I was so angry, but I just sat on my bed. All the time that she was talking, I was just looking down on the floor. She left my room, and we did not talk for months after that incident.
I slept all night after that fight. When I woke up the next day, there was a letter inserted through the gap between my door and the floor. It was rather lengthy. The letter was from my mom. For the first time in I don't remember anymore how long, she called me "anak". She said:
"Anak, huwag mong isipin na na komo parati kitang napapansin ay hindi na kita mahal. Mahal na mahal ko kayong magkakatipid dahil kaya ng lang ang naiwan sa akin ng inyong daddy. Sana maunawaan mo kung bakit minsan ay moody ako dahil hanggang ngayon ay masakit pa rin sa loob ko ang biglang pag-alis ng daddy mo at hindi pa ako handa sa kanyang pag-alis."
She went on to say:
"Kung alam mo lang kung paano kita ipagmalaki sa aking mga kaibigan dahil nakikita nila na kayong magkakapatid ay mababait lalong lalo ka na.
Mahal kita, Carlo, kahit sino ka man o kahit ano ka pa dahil anak kita. I love you, Cj, very very much."
It was a very moving letter, but I do not remember crying after reading it. Maybe because I was still angry. I have always thought that maybe I look a lot like my father that I remind my mother of my dad so much so that every disappointment she sees in me is a stab in her heart. The deepest stab would be my inability to finish college on time. I still want to pursue it, but it will not be the same anymore. I know that she wants the best for me, but I also want to feel her giving me moral support.
I do not remember my mom being the quintessential mother in the Johnson and Johnson commercials. I do not remember her playing with me and my rubber duckie while making me take a bath, but we had our own ways of connecting when I was a child. At 3 years old, I already know the prayer to my guardian angel by heart. I would watch her and my sister pray the rosary every night, but at the end of it, I would join them in praying Angel of God, my guardian dear to whom God's love permits me here, ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide, Amen. By 4 years old, I already know The Lord's Prayer, Hail Mary, and Glory Be by heart. At 5 years old, I was already reading, and I attributed this to my ability to easily memorize things. The prayers indeed helped a lot.
During my 3 to 5 years of age, I would always wake up to sound of Nova Villa yakking on Radio Veritas and to the smell of floor wax that my mom would apply on our floor almost every day. After that radio program by Nova Villa, she would switch to FM and listen to old songs. At 7 years old, I already know almost all of The Carpenters songs by heart. We would watch TV all day, but in the afternoon, my aunt from my father's side would teach me arithmetic, spelling, and phonetics. After that, I would hurriedly go home and watch all the movies shown every afternoon with my mom, more so if it is a Vilma Santos movie (hahahaha). Just 5 years ago, I chanced upon this old movie in Cinemax, The Embryo starring Rock Hudson and Barbara Carrera. After just a few scenes I immediately remember watching the movie when I was 4 or 5 years old. True enough, I knew exactly everything that was about to happen. My love for the movies and music was greatly influenced by my mother. I will always be thankful to her for that. When I was 7, I already know that Karen Carpenter died of Anorexia (and anorexia wasn't even a fad until Kate Moss). At the age of 55, my mother knows Coldplay, and she knows that Chris Martin is married to Gwyneth Paltrow. She knows that Madonna celebrated her birthday the other day, and fell from a horse and broke some bones. She can easily name Julia Roberts' last movie and tell which gown she wore at the Oscars when she won and from what designer it was. And I dare your mother to beat that.
My mom is a funny person, and I would never run out of funny stories about her. My friend Bien's favorite would be that incident when I applied coloring on her hair, and it looked absolutely hideous. Days later, she rushed to David's Salon to have it dyed again. The stylist asked her who did her hair because it was an utter mess. My mother simply said, "Dito, sa David's." That shut the stylist's mouth ahahahhaa. Ver would always recall about this particular incident when we would talk about my mom. My mom and I went to a raffle draw in my younger sister's school, Colegio del Buen Consejo. The grand price was some fabulous car. My mom bought many tickets, so I knew that she was half-heartedly expecting that we would win at least something. We waited for the grand prize winner to be drawn. The announcer said, "*mumble* Yap!" My mother shrieked like a hyena and was so excited. The announcer repeated, "Katherine Yap!" Unfortunately, we do not have a Katherine in my family.
My mom celebrated her birthday last August 16, the feast of the Assumption, that's when the Virgin Mary was taken up to heaven body and soul. (O di'ba lumabas pagiging Catholic student ko hehehe) She was supposed to be named after Our Lady of Assumption, but my grandfather was a devotee of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, thus she was named Maria Asuncion instead. They got Asuncion from Ascension, that's when Jesus Christ ascended to heaven.
I am happy that my mom and I are talking to each other again after almost 2 months of totally ignoring each other. Remember this post. That was not our first cold war, and I know that it will definitely not be the last. But cold wars are nothing for hate is not the opposite of love. Apathy is. And as long as I feel a certain amount of hatred for her for some valid reasons, I know that that hatred also comes with love. And though she does not say it often if not at all, I know that she loves me. And thought I do not say it often, she should know that I love her as well. I know she does.
With that, let me share with you a poem I made for my mother about two years ago. Here goes:
You said you hate her
But do you really know her?
Do you know that she cried
When you shaved your hair
Cut off your nose
And hollowed your eyesockets
In search of your identity
You so longed to find.
And you left no traces
Of her in you.
You said you do love her
But do you really know her fears?
Do you know that she died
When you took the bus
To join the 70's
In search of freedom
And lost beauty
That you think
Will make you whole.
You think you're ahead of her
But she's always been infront of you
Studying your face
--- the beauty she's always known
And wondering what's left of it
When you cut off your nose
Shaved your hair
And hollowed your eyesockets
In search of yourself
You could have found
By just staring at her
Staring at you.
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