Better late than never.
I wasn’t
even born yet, and there were countless sacrifices made on my behalf.
I have been
told by relatives and acquaintances that my mom was always about good times
with friends and family, and was always at home in her native Navotas, yet she
agreed to move to a different country and leave all that behind, just to
improve the chances of us having a better education, a safe childhood and have
a clean, decent environment to grow-up-in… she had that, but she always wanted
better for me… for us.
Though a lot
of it is a blur now, I do remember a lot of good times. When I was four, I had
this dark blue coat-and-tie ensemble which I called “applejacks” for some
reason. I’d insist on wearing it on random days… even in the middle of the
night, and bug everyone to take my picture. We both laughed right after. It was
the stupidest thing, but we had a blast even though I’d take them off right
after the flash and she’d pick them up and neatly hang them in the closet for
the next day. It was a tireless and thankless task but she did it.
Up until I
was around seven years old, I didn’t really want my own room. I just wanted to
sleep beside my mom. In the middle of the night, she’d lightly pinch my ears
and check if they were cold, because that meant she’d turn the aircon down, or
put a blanket over me. She bought me the coolest sets of pajamas: Ghostbusters,
Bioman, fucking everything: it was the absolute shit. On bad nights, I’d have
nightmares because of the horror movies I had watched earlier in the day… I
would squeeze behind her and bury my face into her back while the ceilings
creaked and the nocturnal noises outside scared the bejesus out of me,
unmindful of the fact that this was such an uncomfortable habit for her… and
when I’d have nightmares, I unconsciously kicked or punched and hit her. But
she never got mad. She’d still wake up really early and make the best
breakfasts any kid could want: the perfect homemade pancakes and waffles,
cupcakes… even the kids next door said everything tasted better in our house. I
never really thought about it… I just thought it was the way things were
everywhere.
I was really
jealous when my older sister started going to school when we were in Okinawa.
Now we were living on a military base so everything was safe, but instead of
letting my sister take the school bus home alone, and because she knew I badly
wanted to act like the older kids and go to school, she’d take me there. I was
young and had the nerve to manage to slip away from her attention, but she
never left me hanging: I would sit-in older kids’ classes and fuck shit up, and
I’d see how some of the less-friendly foreign teachers give her disgusted looks
and quietly reprimand her. She’d take the flak, but never passed it on to me.
She’d let me know it was alright and buy me an ice cream sandwich, and then
tell me stories I loved hearing over and over: about how Karen Carpenter was
the greatest singer in the world, how we would soon go home to the Philippines
and how she thought my crappy drawings had real potential. And when I finally
went to school a few years later, she’d always be there when I kicked the white
boys’ asses at spelling or writing contests. There were bullies, yes, but then
my mom would fucking get medieval on their asses and threaten their PARENTS. I
turned into a bit of a crybaby, and she did spank my ass more than a few times,
but she made it clear that no one else could touch me, regardless if it was a
sixth-grade piece of white trash, sadistic Physical Education instructor or
some random dude frowning my way when I chewed gum a little too loudly in
church. Jeez, I bet that old guy is still sorry he gave me dirty looks… my mom
tore him a new one right after the fucking sermon. I was a kid, so all of this
was wildly surprising. I couldn’t understand why she put up with my shit. But
it was way cool.
The second
half of growing up in the Philippines was a different story. I learned shit the
hard way. I went to a retarded elementary and high school run by corrupt nuns,
and was flunked by almost every (not all, but a lot…) Filipino, History and
Social Studies and math teacher. It was wild. I went from straight- and-smart
to dumb-piece-of-shit. Teachers were pissed that I knew about Columbus but not
Magellan, one teacher in Filipino made the entire class laugh at me because I
didn’t know that the Tagalog term for “rainbow” was “bahaghari.” I was given
disciplinary action because I corrected my science teacher who didn’t know that
krill and “tiny shrimp” were basically the same fucking thing (that same
teacher made fun of me when I told her that chestnuts start off with a spiky
exterior and that you couldn’t squeeze ‘em in your hand…). I saw some
classmates solve their problems by giving expensive gifts and by “buying” their
grades, and I asked my mom if we should try to do the same thing. She refused
and put her foot down, and stormed the principal’s office and called-out every
teacher who didn’t give a fair chance. She made it clear that her son was not
dumb, and practically slapped their faces with all the medals and report cards
I didn’t know she kept from my earlier years.
And that
teacher who made fun of me for my chestnut-claim? My mom brought an actual
chestnut to her office and almost forced it down my teacher’s throat; the bitch
was no match for my pissed-off mother.
That taught
me a lot about principle, and about doing things the right way… the fair way,
even though the world was not fair. My mom hardly raised her voice or got mad
when she was given shit, but she’d lose it when her son, or someone else close
to her was wronged. She taught me about standing up for other people who
couldn’t do so. She gave me hell, too, whenever she’d find out that I was being
a brat. She didn’t think twice about suspending TV/playground privileges
whenever I crossed the line. Like I said, she knew where and how hard to hit me
if I deserved it.
As I grew
older though, and I swear I don’t know why, I became impossible to manage. I
talked back. I questioned rules of the house, I made fun of how she did certain
things, got into real trouble, drank way too much alcohol and developed other
addictions, disrespected a lot of relatives… the works. I was an abusive prick…
an arrogant brat who thought he could shit on his own, and on many occasions, I
ran away from home. I left. During my college years, I stayed away from home as
much as possible. I resented where we lived, but because I was a prick, I
drained my mom’s wallet whenever I’d get in trouble or wanted something, but
forgot to greet her on mother’s day, or on her birthday and even skipped going
home for more than a few New Years or Christmases, just because I felt I had to
prove something… She told me all she wanted was a diploma, but instead, I
joined a band, partied and did all sorts of shit during college. She knew about
my issues with traditional religion, so she went to church FOR me. I told her I
always wanted to be there for my friends and cared a lot about them, and she
approved, even though I now realize how shitty that must have sounded for her,
who I left alone in the house on more than a few occasions. I criticized her
taste in television shows, and her love of telenovelas… it was all a joke, but
a cruel, unnecessary one. I realize that the only reason why she watches those
telenovelas is because I have failed many times to be good company.
Now I don’t
regret any of the good times I had back then with friends, but looking back, I
realize that a diploma wasn’t too much to ask after all she did for me, and
that I had made some pretty bad calls during those days. And what’s even worse was
that I was way too full of myself to admit it. I turned my back on all those
soft-spoken reminders. I never apologized. I lost most of those friends along
the way when most of them turned-out to be complete morons, but I never lost my
spot at home.
Because my
mom never snapped – and she still hasn’t given up….
Yeah she did
raise her voice and showed disapproval on very few occasions, but most of the
time, she remained quiet. I had my friends and our dog as company when I was
letting off steam, but she took everything in on her own, and quietly fought
those battles alone. She never spoke ill of me to anyone, and on the rare
occasions friend or relatives would come over and ask where I was and why I
wasn’t home, I was told she beamed of how creative I was, and how I was in this
great band and how I was busy following my dreams, and that it was an admirable
thing that I knew what I wanted to do. Go figure.
As the years
went by, thanks to many wake-up calls and well, the advice of the good company
I’ve kept, I did manage to be less of a prick, and do away with a bunch of
nasty habits (still got a lot, but I’m working on it, I promise…), but it just
seemed like I had gotten used to not being at home. Still spent weekends and
holidays outside, instead of at home… still forgot her birthday and mother’s
day on more than a few occasions. And because of my insomnia, I’d be home for a
few hours, literally having just enough time to eat, sleep and get ready to
leave, and hardly have time to talk, except when we were either arguing about
something, or when shit was going haywire. Old habits die-hard, and it sucks, I
know. During the worst typhoon in the country not too long ago, she and my dad
had to live in an evacuation center for a few days because of the terrible
flooding and they both had to watch the floodwaters tear apart the home they
worked so hard to build, but she wouldn’t allow me to leave my comfortable
condo in Ortigas because she didn’t want me to go through the trouble of wading
through the flood. That’s the kind of person she is.
And just
last night, I forgot to greet her again on mother’s day… after not being home
for weeks, or for more than 24 hours in months.
But here’s
the thing: there’s always the greatest breakfasts being served here on a daily
basis… I mean, even the neighbors (who we barely know) like ‘em so much that
they knock on the door and ask “what’s
cooking?” before my mom happily shares her amazing recipe/s. And there’s
always an extra big portion saved in case I decide to go home (you guessed it,
a lot of Tupperware-d food in the in the fridge). And when she’s 100% sure I am
coming home, it’s always my favorite, prep-heavy dishes waiting for me (because
I’m spoiled like that…). And though my room practically hasn’t been occupied for
months, I can tell that it’s cleaned every single day, my books all in order,
newspaper clippings and magazine cutouts of articles I’ve written collected
brought out every time there’s company, and I run into random homeowners, trike
drivers, security guards and even the freaking sari-sari store owners, smiling
at me and congratulating me for my “accomplishments…” as if playing in a
heavy-ass band no one’s ever heard-of or writing album reviews or playing
guitar were in league with rocket science or medicine or whatever IS a big
deal. And even though there’s always something that manages to piss me off, I
realize that my mom continues to throw the good stuff my way, no matter how
reserved or secretive or absent I have become.
I know I
don’t deserve it, but she has given me everything, and continues to do so every
day. A hundred and ten percent… that, truly is an amazing thing… and because
I’m not really the kind of guy who’s vocal about it with her, I guess I’ll just
tell as many people as I can in the meantime: my mother is the most remarkable, classiest, lovable, principled,
sincere, generous, talented and beautiful person I know. And she continues
to sacrifice so much for such a hard-headed son who’s still fucking-up all over
the place… And it drives me crazy, and blows my mind knowing she still puts up
with me. It’s a mystery – fucking that, and the Bermuda Triangle.
I’m sorry
for being such an arrogant, forgetful prick. I really am.
Bunso e. I have no other excuse.
Happy
Mother’s Day, Mommy.
And yeah, I
can smell breakfast… mukhang magic na naman ‘to.
Sincerely,
Joey
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