To be fair, as the first born I reaped some benefits of a two-parent household for 11 years, most of its focus was on me. I am grateful for that time since the future did not spare its luxury after their divorce. My dad was the blue-collar working man taught to care and provide for his family. He did just that; confidently, with assurance. Meanwhile, my mom was the caretaker and the ruler of the household. My earliest memories of understanding my mothers’ role in the house was strangely…; I was looking up at her while on the livingroom floor in our Nagle Street apartment. Long black straight hair up in a ponytail, wearing shorts, a tank-top, chancletas; mopping around me, wailing “Algo de Mi” by Camilo Sesto. Her expression did not scream happy but by the way she belted the chorus, it let me know she was not unhappy. My dad would get home and she got into her ‘husband is home routine. She’d collect whatever she had asked him to bring home, she had his meal prepared, she’d ask him how his day went and then proceeded to set-up my meal for me to eat. There was little to no conversation but there wasn’t any animosity in the air. She would direct and demand; and my dad was a willing participant. Ridged, structured, prompt. Her routine was rock solid and tight; left no room for adjustment. She would stay this way in my eyes for the rest of her life.
The aesthetics of life she had maintained and cared for were ones of luxury. Cleanliness was mandatory and a character trait. Our home represented that through and through; you could eat off the floors, window sills and toilet if you wanted to. Our furniture was “imported from Europe”; “Italy” as the salesman’s stated in the raggedy furniture store from the neighborhood; whether it was true or not, She picked them. The floors of our apartment; polished and waxed to a high shine on a yearly basis smelled like Pine-Sol and Mistolin every day; she cleaned. Satin drapes, tailored made by the skillful Cubana who would entertain her bonchinches and quips; she ordered. You swear she was one of Capote’s swans but on a beer budget. I would reap those benefits too as she would keep me nitido! In style of the corresponding year, I had the gear! Osh-Kosh, Carter’s Pro-Keds, Adidas, Le Tigre, Lacoste... todo de marca! She was a woman who loved the luxuries of life; she kept herself up to date and in style, always. And she did not mind showing it off. As a kid, I remember her taking me to 6-hour shopping sprees in downtown Manhattan. The Dominican Carrie Bradshaw walking into Macy’s, going floor by floor and always ending our trips by having lunch or dinner at Tad’s Steakhouse. We may not have lived on Park Ave or Central Park West, but dayum….she sure made me feel like we did.
Affectionate, she was not. I would be lying to you if I could tell you a memory where I remember the hugs and kisses. I am sorry but I can’t. But I do remember she would buy me all that I wanted, dress me up like a prince in the best clothes and make sure all the food I ate was stocked and ready. Hugs? Kisses? Only special days. Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years for sure. Toys, games, music…that was Pops; fun Dad 101 since he wanted to be a kid himself! Mom on the other hand, half smiled during those moments. “Too many toys. So unnecessary.” She never held back her opinions; they were always dry and flat. Severely unimpressed by laughs and giggles, she would sit on a chair and watch as if she was studying human behavior and the elements of happiness like a doctor. It was only later in life that I would learn and understand that her affection came from words and actions. They were subliminal rather than direct. It was like learning another language. For example: If she wanted to say “I miss you, let’s spend time together”, she would say “Tu no busca tu madre, eh? Que? Parece que tienes algo conmigo?” Or another example: “I love you, I am so proud of you”, “Tu no me quieres a mi! Pues joderte!” Again affectionate she was not.
Her love was never easy to get, you had to work hard for it. At first, I thought her materialistic side was the way to her heart, but I remembered all the times my dad would try to give her money and gifts when she was pissed off; she would tear money in his face, flush it down the toilet and fling gifts out of our apartment windows. “A mi no me importa ni un coño!” This happened often. I do believe after the divorce, these actions turned into something else. Maybe to hide the pain of what was yet to come, but I understood very early on her formula:
“Break my heart = you can’t win it back unless you mend it.”
Her love really didn’t have a price, she just wanted love back. REAL love. Not that fake kind.
She would host friends and family on occasions. My dad was the life of the party and my mom was the chef, the maintenance crew and the bouncer. She would dance and laugh on occasions during these gatherings, but in her world….it was always back to her role and duties! Again, she was the ruler of this domain and she had to keep the jester’s in-check! I mean, if you were a Queen amongst fools, how would you rule? Mopped and swept while people danced, yelled out rules and orders with merengue and salsa blasting in the background. The music was loud, but she made sure she was louder because she had to be heard! She might have been labeled the buzzkill of a party by todays standards, but in reality…she never stopped a party from happening or denied one. One could argue, her methods were necessary to keep the good times rolling. I think that perspective is valid.
Her traumas’ were only exposed after she was isolated by the ones she loved. She made a fatal mistake which sent her world crumbling. And like anyone who had their worlds pulled out from under their feet, her rage took over. Like Anakin Skywalker turning to the dark-side: fear, anger and rage consumed her. It became her first language now; and she would let you feel the power of what losing everything was like whether you wanted to or not. Unfortunately, she would not be able to shake it off from that point forward. There was no Yoda or Obi-Wan to try and help. This is who she had become.
In raising my own children, I learned to understand the complexities of being a parent. As a father, I had learned what to do and what not to do through the template of my own dad. But I noticed somethings I learned through my moms’ teachings that would seep in from time to time. Actions that would remind me of who I grew up with, not who she turned into. The rigidity, the discipline, the commanding need to be heard, the courage to take risks and the compassion to care for others. That’s right…I said it, the compassion to care for others, I learned from her! Without going into too much detail, I’ll say that I had a hard time trying to figure out where my mom was compassionate most of my life. But it wasn’t till I had my daughter where I realized the trait of compassion came from her ability of ‘not giving a fuck what others thought!” My dad was obviously compassionate but to a fault. He showed compassion for others but at the sacrifice of himself. Shit…he showed so much compassion for my mom even after the bullshit she put him through, till his last breath! But he sacrificed a lot more of himself than was needed. My lessons learned from my mother about compassion was realizing that no one else mattered in that department other than her children. She was not sacrificing herself. “Yo soy mas madre que mujer!” would be her battle cry. Ironically, it would also be her downfall because of the one-time she challenged it; but It took me awhile to understand that level of compassion. Her motto was derived from those 11 years I saw her operate. While not full of hugs, kisses and all the fuzzy feelings that come from it. My mother was compassionate…for us. Her children.
My siblings did not get to understand these amazing qualities she had until later; it was unfortunate. It was a reality we together had to face while we cared and supported each other growing up in her household. We encouraged and supported each other while not counting on the fragility and shattered world my mom had manifested. But from time to time, during the hardest times…I would always remind them “she wasn’t always like this”. I knew it because I had lived it. I knew my mother was not who she played herself to be. The world outside of our apartment had their picture painted of my mom, but she did not have us fooled. We just wanted the original version of her to show up. We wanted the “Belicia de Leon” from Oscar Wao to come back and show us the power we know she was made of! We wanted the inspiration she possessed from experiencing what “Las Hermanas Mirabal” went through and use her courageous voice to challenge her oppressors. We wanted her to be the Minerva Mirabal to negate the label of gender roles to those who imposed it on her! She stood out just like those amazing women:
Strong, courageous, fearless, tactful….powerful! We, her children, knew she was. We did. I swear.
But man….fuck that abuse and trauma. Seriously….FUCK YOU! My Mom was not what you made her to be.
The day before she passed, I Video Chatted her before we started to march in the Carnival SF Parade. I wanted to show my mom how beautiful my daughter looked in her costume. I told my mom, “Look Mom…doesn’t Eliana look beautiful? She is so brave! She is so confident and is shining so bright! She is so proud!”
My mom said, “ I know….she looks like me.”
Yes she does Mom. Yes she does.
Te quiero Mami. Te extraño Mami….que descanse en paz.
