It's true what they say. It takes a whole lot of pain and suffering to realize the value of something. Agonizing moments, tear-jerking experiences and pangs of sorrow help us see and realize the things that are worth fighting for after all.
Let us go back to Albert Camus, the existentialist extraordinaire who opened our eyes to the Myth of Sisyphus. Through the example of Sisyphus, a man cursed by the gods for loving life too much, Camus explained to us the entirety of life in a nutshell. If you never took up Philosophy subjects like Philosophy of Man or Ethics back in College, then you pretty much missed the whole point of this Sisyphus dude and why the heck he had to torture himself, rolling a boulder up the peak of a mountain only to have it roll all the way down again.
Was Sisyphus just a nutcase or what? He knew all too well what was happening. He was a dead man who wanted so badly to go back to the land of the living. But why on earth did he allow it to happen? He knew he was no match for the gods. Was he some sado-masochistic idiot? Well folks, the answer isn't that simple. It's complicated!
Ah, then there goes your answer! Life is complicated. As heck. And if I were to sum up what it is (in a nutshell), it's a weird and unending cycle of ups and downs. The thing is, this world operates in a complex code composed mostly of binary oppositions - of life and death, of love and loss, of love and hate, of good and bad, of rich and poor, of old and new/young, of the healthy and the sick, of intellectuals and morons, of the motivated and the demotivated, of black and white, and what the heck. This is the irony of ironies - in between, it's all gray. You never really know what's completely, irrevocably, irreversibly, without question correct - well, sometimes.
But that's not the point. I'm supposed to talk about my mother and my tumultuous love affair with her. Why on earth was I yapping about life and all its complexities? Because my mother is a great part of my beginnings and like Sisyphus and his unending up-and-down quirks, my mother and I have had our fair share of ups and downs.
How to say it without having to spill an ocean of tears? Every time I talk about my mother, I end up getting so emotional and downright mushy! And it sucks, (wo)man.
Anyway, I could not find enough words to begin to describe my mother, who's too abstract and too colorful to compartmentalize. Born on the 15th of January 1953, my mother was the second of nine children. Her father (ergo my grandfather) was a dentist, who earned a spot in the national board exams but eventually got himself killed by drinking too much beer. Her mother (my grandma) on one hand was a plain battered housewife who never got to finish high school.
Tired of his jealous rages and possibly sick of seeing all her unjustly inflicted bruises, maternal grandma eventually left my brutal and quite the womanizer grandpa (he had 3 other children from another woman). My grandma returned to her hometown and birthplace somewhere in the provincial area of Cebu. She brought the rest of the children but my mom and her elder sister refused to go with her. They stayed with my paternal great grandmother, who supported them until they reached College.
Anyhow, to cut this overly long story short, my mother earned her baccalaureate degree at University of San Carlos (also my alma mater) with two majors under her sleeve, Library Science and English. She's a sucker for books and reading. She likes communication of all sorts. I probably got my penchant for literary stuff from her (except that I went overboard with it and could never get out of daydreams as easily as she could). For 16 or so years, she served the university first as a start-up librarian and then was later on promoted to Chief Librarian of the Engineering Department.
My mom met my dad when she was nearing 30 (again to cut another long story short). Her brother, my uncle, the youngest in the brood of 9 Olofernes children, became a consummate drug addict. Though well off in the brain department, my uncle failed to finish his engineering studies and ended up sniffing abusive substances on a regular basis. My mother, alarmed that he might take a turn for the worse, called up the cops to have him arrested. Some people might condemn her for what she did (they said she sold her own brother), but if you ask me, any sane person would do the exact same thing. My uncle might have destroyed his life for good had it not been for my mother's intervention. And well... he did my parents a huge favor. Perhaps you can also say that the proximate cause of my birth was my uncle's addiction. Who do you think escorted him to a rehabilitation center in Manila at my mom's behest? Why, my dad of course!
There you have it, that's basically how I got into this world... through a relative's act of stupidity. Narrating all the details leading to my parents' wedding might make me sound so mushy. I've never been good at dealing with romance and other romantic stuff so please spare me. I'm a spinster in the making so let's skip that part. For the record, however, my dad was my mom's first and only boyfriend.
European-looking, someone from alta de sociedad, chiseled face, mestiza, beautiful, strict - the usual words I hear from people when they see my mother's countenance. I cannot say they're wrong but my mom hardly cares about her looks. She's not comfortable with people saying these things to her. "So what?" she said to me a long time ago. Yes, indeed. So what?
Let's move on to me and my mom. Basically, we're so the same yet so different. I like most of the things she likes but our views often diverge. She's a hardcore realist, while I'm a sentimental idealist. Looking at us, people may harbor the same impressions. But once they get to know us, they'd learn I'm more tempestuous and ambivalent than my all too serious and straight-laced mother. The only things we have in common are literature and a strict facade (LOL, that's what they say).
Every learning or imagination I glean from the books I read, I deposit into my journals or bank of daydreams. I do not know what my mother does with the books she reads or what becomes of her every after reading. All I know is that she once was an avid reader of historical romance novels but that she is neither romantic nor sentimental. I read the same sort of novels for entirely different reasons. If such reasons weren't embarrassing enough, I also record every quote that moves me, highlight them when necessary. After bouts of reading, I attempt to write my own stories but never really get to finish any of them (I have three or so barely started novels with no plot whatsoever, just hazy beginnings). My mom is a naturally smart and hardworking woman who likes to read for the heck of it. I am just a vain, fantasy-prone half-baked writer who thinks she can change the world someday.
My love of writing used to be a source of conflict between us. As I said, my mom's a realist. Back then she didn't think the world would change just because you wrote a highfalutin novel. She also believed no one got rich through writing unless you're JK Rowling or Anne Rice and I obviously am not... yet. Maybe she didn't really believe Jose Rizal's Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo had a hand in changing Filipino society for the better (I couldn't blame her for that, though). Regardless, she thought I was just dawdling. When I wasn't writing away in my journals and random notebooks, I was reading or watching Japanese animation. For her, when you do things unrelated to housework, you're basically wasting time. She's a workaholic through and through just like my dad. Her upbringing was also deeply intertwined with everyday chores. According to my mom, although her grandmother paid for her and her sister's education, in exchange they had to do every chore imaginable. We were lucky, my brothers and I, that we had parents who didn't treat their children like slaves. The least we could do was help around the house. We did though, occasionally. But yeah, we were most of the time just doing what we loved (increasing our electricity bill, that is).
Eventually my mom conceded. I've earned my keep through writing for more than three years now, so although I'm not yet drowning in money, I've helped my parents financially (sorry, just being optimistic that writing will make me rich someday - haha). Though this profession has its struggles, they somehow feel proud that I could hold my own. So in the near future, whether I become a bestselling novelist or just an ordinary office drone who waits for retirement, one fact remains: my parents, especially my mom, have already accepted this part of me.
Whenever my mom gets mad, it always feels like World War III. She can fly into a rage. My dad, big, burly and a cop though he is, usually just remains silent. She did a lot of feats not many women could do. For instance, she single-handedly fought my grandpa's siblings and their families when they refused to give the land my mother and her siblings inherited by birth. My aunts and uncles, I'm sorry to say this, were nothing more but a bunch of sissies. They never stood up for her. When my mother successfully claimed her share, the ingrates just went and grabbed their shares too.
If she hates something, she hates it with a passion (and I guess I got exactly the same trait too). She speaks her mind and would not hesitate to show her displeasure. Sometimes, she can be so cold. Bad luck to the beggars who chance upon her. I once heard her scold a beggar woman, "You look healthy. Why don't you just work? You can't be like this forever." She may not like meddling with politics but if Margaret Thatcher was an Iron Lady, well so is my mom.
Punishments - we had plenty. My dad was rather soft on us when we were children so my mom was the one who did most of the punishing. She often whipped me with a belt. She hit me with a hanger once or twice. I got pinched by her one too many times. Well I couldn't keep my mouth shut and had a really poisonous tongue. I was so young. All I ever thought about was not losing to anyone. Being an only girl, I felt I was the weakest (physiologically, I was). I didn't want to be weak so I fought back every chance I could.
I used to scream so hard at my parents whenever I felt they were crushing me with restrictions: "I wish I was never born. You should never have made me. If I had the chance, I would ask God to send me back." Ah well, kids say the darndest things. I don't think I can repeat those words at this point in my life.
My relationship with my mom is pretty good now and she's mellowed over the years (that's what old age does, I guess). Despite occasional twists and turns and a little drama here and there, we've managed to let some of our differences go. My mom may not be as friendly, as outgoing or as loud as other moms, but she's definitely one of the greatest moms on earth. The principles she imbibed, the strength of character she nurtured in me and my brothers, and the stories she shares to us every now and then are just part and parcel of what makes her great. Even as I write this blog entry, I feel like nothing I say or do can ever justify or measure how blessed I am to have her in my life.
She'll always be my mother, in the next lifetime and the lifetimes thereafter.
