MANILA, Philippines - Ma. Jezia Parra Talavera, 17, is an incoming freshman at UP Diliman taking a BA Linguistics course.
She was awarded “Essayist of the Year” in high school, winning in several essay-writing contests, such as UP Hypergraphia, NASSPhil, and the 7th National Aboitiz Essay Writing Contest. She blogs at www.stormsoferrpot.blogs-pot.com.
When you cry, she cries more. When you hurt, she hurts more. And when you say you love her, she will only smile and whisper under her breath, “I don’t even have to say it; you know I love you more.”
Acceptance is a virtue. I was taught in high school that one thing I have to accept is my natural limitation in understanding everything, especially at my age. Then I was also taught to realize that as part of the emotionally confused youth, I tend to think I’m Superman and sometimes decide on big things on my own, not quite realizing they’re not for me to make. I do understand the cultural norms in life, both at the positive and negative levels, but it deeply struck me to tears when Mitch Albom’s For One More Day seemed to ask: “But do you understand her?”
I simply don’t. She always forgets her favorite movie titles. She always narrates her whereabouts at work. She always sleeps early at night. She always washes our clothes early in the morning. She always dozes over half of the movie she watches. She, more often than not, scolds our big sister for simply this and that.
But that’s all I see about her. It didn’t strike me at first that I should see her as a puzzle, a riddle; all that she shows to us is a big understatement of who she really is. In a daughter’s eyes, she is simply a mother. A caring mother. An overprotective mother. Like Chick Benetto’s mom, mine also nags me about everything. From schoolwork to socks to untied shoelaces to extra bottles of water to lunch bags, she always reminds me not to forget these simple things, and I’m like, “I know mom. I’m a Girl Scout, remember?”
Looking back, I figured I was not quite the Girl Scout at all. My busy school days left me forgetful most of the time and all I could do was call my mom back home for my silly school project. And she would always tell me she’s already on her way because she knew beforehand. She always knew. School clothes, my favorite lunch, and extra money — all those things. I seldom had to ask her; she always knew.
Like Chick, I also made my mom angry at times. I never got as far as smoking like when Chick hid cigarettes from his mom, but I always make mine mad by informing her about small trips or sleepovers at the last minute. She really hates panicking, she gets all upset and irritated. There was one night when my twin sister and I got home from school and quickly ran through our closets while we told her we would have a sleepover for a last-minute class practice. While she hid her utmost worry with lengthy reminders and more scolding, she diligently helped us prepare our stuff and even made us nice sandwiches for dinner. Then she kissed us a long goodbye.
At times when I thought I was able to successfully slip past her doubts and rejections about such trips, I tried to analyze why I still had to escape from her strict methods. I began to wonder how mothers get their exaggerated protective instincts about everything, and why we kids should have to endure it.
But then my high school mentor, Josephine Bonsol, also a mother, taught me how to understand my mom more. She said I should take into account the sufferings and frustrations she may have gone through when she was young, making her what she is now and unconsciously imposing on us the strict methods she was once also under.
I remember one of her stories about her mom being too strict with her, being the oldest one. She bitterly recalled how her mom always scolded her about everything even though she didn’t do anything wrong. But what I admired about my mom the most was her determination not to physically hurt us the way she was paddled with a dos-por-dos during her childhood days.
I cannot say I fully understand her now because I can still see her only as my mother. I cannot see her as a woman who may have deeper stories and frustrations in life. It’s because she’s not only my mother: she’s also a daughter, a sibling, a wife and a woman.
But I can proudly say I love her more now, especially after crying over Chick’s ghost story with her mom. Mitch Albom made me want to value the days I can have thinking I may never have one more day with her.
But then again, at this young age with a promising future I believe would last for more than just one day, it’s hard to think I could lose her any day now. Although I was also taught to always think about what may happen in the future, it always seems like a macrocosmic concept — or reality — too big to be grasped by a 17-year-old. My head’s always filled with the things I want and dream to do — watch movies, travel around the world, get rich and be a “citizen of the world.” When I look at Mom, I simply see the woman who never failed to bring out the best in me and who supported me all the way, not the ghost who would haunt me and bitterly whisper, “Life goes quickly, doesn’t it? I miss you every day, Je.”
It’s heartbreaking when I think of it now. Maybe especially for Chick who wasn’t even there when his mom died. And especially when he actually had the chance to save her but he couldn’t because he had lied. I have lied to my mother a ton of times, and now I’m wondering if there should be a scheduled time I should admit it all to her, so I would not believe I didn’t trust her all along. Or maybe I should admit all of it now. Time can be tricky, I guess, and scary when you think there’s a lot more left but it’s actually even shorter than a day.
I know I will definitely cry when I lose her. But not with guilt. Not with frustration that I wasn’t able to give all the love a daughter could ever give to her mother. After all, she would then only whisper to me, “You can’t lose your mother, honey.”
But before my mom the ghost can even mutter it to me, I will not fail to say to her, “I love you every day, Mom!” Every day.
source: philstar.com
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