(Published on the online magazine "Hopscotch For Women" on May 9, 2010)
Today is Mother’s Day. I have been motherless for 20 years having lost her to the sly hand of stroke at age 78. Today, being her day, I seek to honor her by embarking on a sentimental journey, a trip down memory lane.
Even after two decades, and especially on Mother's Day, I still missed her. That lonely hollow clutch in the fringes of the heart, that cold sensation of nothingness might not be as intense as when I missed her on my first day of school when I was suddenly propelled into an unknown world of classrooms, and strange children, and a stern pedagogue, but the longing for her was there, an unmistakable, swirling internal emotion.
Time had robbed me of a sharp and complete recollection of the long-winding rough road that was her life, but it could never take away the feeling that I was loved. Strangely but understandably, due to the life-long influence of a culture that frowned on overt demonstrations of affection, I could not remember she ever told me she loved me. But even as a child, I never doubted that she did. Shown in her care, in her uncomplaining sacrifice, in her selfless dedication so I could have what she could give, my mother had exemplified the true measure of a mother’s love. It was a source of peace and emotional security that carried me through the many upheavals and challenges of growing up in an economically dispossessed and physically abusive environment. Protecting me many times from the merciless hands of my father who could strike even at the least provocation, she usually bore the burden of his brutality.
I could still see her in a nostalgic stretch of my mind’s eye traversing an open field, carrying a bundle of kindlings in a small village where I grew up in my native Philippines. Upon arriving home, she hurriedly started a fire in an open stove to cook a meager dinner to feed her brood of five. The tableau of memories lengthened and in a long uphill road from a river filled with outcroppings of rocks, she again came into focus. This time, she was carrying on her head a big basin of laundered clothes. Her tired steps, as she ascended the road leading to her very humble dwelling, were slow and strenuous. But there was lightness in her heart because the clean clothes she just finished washing were for some affluent patrons. Her day’s work would bring enough money to feed her family and at least for today, her children would not go hungry. The scene of the past stretched further in my store of memories. Now, she was dressed in her unpretentiously simple Sunday best. Her usually tired and haggard countenance had been startlingly transformed. There was a spring in her footsteps and her happy smile brought an unfamiliar radiance to her sun-browned face. With other parents, she made her way to the seats arranged in the town plaza and was led by an usher to one of the front row seats. That sunny, humid day in March more than forty years ago, the oppressive tropical heat lost its battle to dominate because her mother’s heart was filled with an all-encompassing warmth of satisfaction and pride. There on the stage, as the whole town watched and listened to the high school graduation activities, her oldest daughter’s voice rang decisive and clear as she delivered the valedictory address. In her exultant heart, she felt that for every curved ball that life had mercilessly served in her direction, that moment was her accolade, her reward, even her vindication. That was her moment... as it was mine.
That day did not end her struggles, however, but it became the catalyst that jump-started better days. Four years that spanned my acquiring a college degree followed. With a scholarship that would take care of my college tuition, I was determined to complete a degree, change the course of my life, and break the chain of poverty that plagued my family from generations past. My mother remained steadfast in her support of my efforts although she was unable to extend it financially. After my freshman year, I was able to land a job that supported myself and, in a limited capacity, also my family. My graduation from college was another milestone that was achieved after seemingly unconquerable odds, but my mother, although standing on the sidelines, boosted my strength through encouragement when it was waning, silently cheered me on as I drew close to my goal until I stepped with firm footing on the much-sought- after finish line.
After I got married, my mother stayed with us and helped me raise my 3 children as my husband and I pursued our career goals. I tried to give her the financial stability that eluded her all her life, but even as I did, what she gave in return was more precious. Her delight and care for her grandchildren was an extension of the enduring love she had for me and a testimony to the unfathomable depth of her selfless spirit that sustained her through the dark earlier years.
When my children were 8, 6, and 2 years old, my husband and I decided to migrate to the United States in a quest for a better life. With a heavy heart, I had to bid farewell to my mother and leave her to the care of my siblings. She stoically bore the unhappiness and despondency brought about by her separation from her grandchildren to, yet again, support my decision. When we left, there were tears, there were words of advice, but there were no complaints or rumblings of self-pity or dejection. She knew from experience that life would not dole out its treasures to those who seek not; that the aspirations of a parent for the future of his children were boundless, yet exacting and entailed sacrificing.
I saw her one final time before the cold grasp of death claimed her mortality. She was weak and mildly impaired physically from the initial stroke that took her life 2 years later. However, even during that last meeting, the strength of her spirit manifested in its grandest form. Stooped from the ravages of osteoporosis, the stroke also left her with a limp and slightly affected her speech but her welcome hug was strong, her tears of joy articulated unequivocally her unexpressed feelings. But I did not know it was goodbye.
My mother! She belonged to that extra-special genre of humans the Lord crafted with utmost care. Her life, humbly lived, was uncloaked with greatness or fame by the standards of the world. And yet, she left a legacy that I hope will linger and be perpetuated through small acts of human decency that reflect the things she instilled in me: faith, strength, hard work, and integrity. Hers is a life I will always strive to honor, seek to emulate, and fondly safeguard in my storefront of tender memories.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
(BELOW ARE 2 EMAILS FROM THE EDITOR OF "HOPSCOTCH FOR WOMEN " ONLINE MAGAZINE AFTER SHE ACCEPTED MY ABOVE ARTICLE FOR PUBLICATION).
(LETTER#1)
From: editor@hopscotchforwomen.com [mailto:editor@hopscotchforwomen.com]
Sent: Sunday, May 09, 2010 7:12 PM
To: Norma Rivera
Subject: RE: Article
Dear Norma,
Thank you so much for this beautiful and tender article. I would be honored to publish it.
Please send along a photo of yourself (and your mother, if you'd like), as well as a short bio about you, similar to what accompanies each article on the site.
I will likely try to publish it this week.
Thank you,
Cassandra
LETTER#2:
From: editor@hopscotchforwomen.com [mailto:editor@hopscotchforwomen.com]
Sent: Thursday, May 13, 2010 4:15 AM
To: rio51@cox.net
Subject: Congrats!
Dear Norma,
Congratulations, your piece has been published on Hopscotch!
Check out your excellent work at HopscotchForWomen.com and spread the link with all of your friends and associates to get the word out. Paste it as your Facebook status, if you would.
Thank you for your contribution. I am looking forward to more!
All best,
Cassandra
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