To Nanay with love

I grew up being surrounded by strong women in my family. My mother was not an exception. The earliest vivid memory I have of my mother was her telling Tatay something like, “The problem with you is you are spoiling the children. You have to be firm with them once in a while.” You see, when my younger brother and I were growing up, Tatay was the ‘softer’ parent. He indulged us most.

I am not exaggerating when I say that Nanay was a formidable personality within the family. She knew what she wanted and stuck to it no matter what. She was far stricter than Tatay, so much so that we were more scared of her than anybody else. She was not one to raise a voice. I just knew that we were being naughty when she would keep too quiet for comfort.

Even years later, when Tatay learned to use the belt when we practiced the art of being hard-headed, we were still more afraid of Nanay’s silent treatment. Do not get me wrong, my brother and I were really a pain in the neck.

When I was eight, my brother and I fought over the last piece of iced candy in the freezer. We really quarreled over it that Nanay was forced to tell us to just break it in half so we could share. Being both stubborn, my brother and I refused to listen to her. True to Nanay’s form of discipline, she took the iced candy from us and threw it into the garbage bin. “Since you do not want to share, nobody will have it,” she said and walked away calmly, leaving my brother and I glaring at each other.

Another time, our househelp was extracting coconut meat by using a coconut grater stool, the one that is being typically used in the barrio. Perhaps fascinated by the deed, my then seven-year-old brother insisted on trying it. Nanay quietly said, “No, we’re pressed for time already, just sit at the back of the wooden stool.” But my brother was insistent. The next thing I knew, Nanay asked the househelp to give the other half of the coconut for my brother to finish, a task that he immediately found tedious. Nanay, unsmiling this time, told my brother, “You wanted to do, then do it. You cannot stand up from that stool until the last scrap of flesh is taken off the shell.” Crying and tired, with some blood on his little hands, my brother knew Nanay meant business. He finished the job, we had our lunch, but since then I have never seen my brother go near a coconut grater stool again.

Fast forward. In high school I realized that our relationship with Nanay was different from that of my friends with their mothers. In our family, there were less hugs and never have I experienced public display of affection. Sure, we were not neglected. There were always new clothes and books, and food abound the table. But whenever my brother or I achieved something academically, there was not much rejoicing at home. It was as if it was technically expected of us already. There were smiles and nods, yes, but nothing more. Instead of being displayed in prominent places like the usual practice in the provinces, our trophies and medals were kept in negligible nooks and crannies of the house.

Of course, we never questioned Nanay’s love for us. At the most trying times, she showed her support. During my high school graduation, when I defied my principal’s order to wear toga for graduation after clashing with her on so many issues, my mother stood by me. Indeed, it was unusual for her to attend our year-end academic exercises and stay till the very end. But at that time, she was there lending support to the ever-defiant me.

Ironically, my parents value academic excellence so much. This became a secret point of contention between us. My siblings and I grew up in an atmosphere where education is a non-negotiable endeavor. In fact, we practically grew up with a one parent alternately taking care of us because the other is out on a scholarship pursuing post graduate study. My early years were spent with my grandparents because both Tatay and Nanay were abroad pursuing individual scholarship grants. In effect, I felt that they were expecting us to follow in their footsteps.

One of the many forms of rebellion I devised was to swear off post-graduate study, something which I know disappointed my parents a lot. When I graduated from college, I told Nanay that I was through with school and I hated studying. Needless to say I swallowed my words because a decade since, I was on a pursuit of a master’s degree. Yet, I kept everything under wraps until a few days before I was to leave for Tokyo. I dread their telling me “We told you so.”

Nanay and I still don’t agree on many, many things, but our relationship has definitely improved. I remember arguing with her when I was 10 years old about the world’s over-population, and to this day it has never been resolved. Early on, we also debated on the origin of the species, with her taking up the religious side while I armed myself with Charles Darwin’s theory. Today, she finds me wanting in my Catholic upbringing, even declaring that she should have sent me to UST or La Salle to inculcate proper “values” instead of UP’s liberal attitude. I argue that I have always been more spiritual than ritualistic. She thinks I should be more settled now, I feel the need to roam and discover new places. Indeed, my headstrong countenance often brings us to the warpath but I can better understand her these days. She no longer questions all my decisions, calming me in return. My rebellious and fierce nature has retreated, resulting in our maternal truce.

For all these and more, I have learned that love can be expressed in various ways. My mother did that to us and without her knowing it, half of me has gradually become her. Indeed, the evolution continues.