She was only 25 years old when she had me – her third child. She reminded me of this fact when I turned 25 years old (some years back) and was still single. There were layers of meaning in that sentence and if my relationship with my mother were just a tad complicated, I would have been pushed to a loop of self-recrimination.
This is about the woman who in my tender years could send me scampering to obey just with a single look. We called her mother (my grandmother) Tiger Eyes and there were times that we see the same ’sipat’ from our own mother — that same look of obey-or-you’re-gonna-get-what-you-know-is-coming-to-you. Strangely though, I only remember one instance in my entire life that my mother actually hit me. That Tiger Look was enough to quell almost all signs of rebellion among her strong-willed children. Early this year, I was shocked to hear a friend telling me to stop looking at him with "Tiger Eyes". Aaargh.
I was more of a Papa’s Girl when I was growing up. What they say about daughters
instinctively loving their fathers the first minute they look at each other — applied devastatingly to me. All that fetch-his-slippers behaviour? Did that. The first person I thought I hated was my grandmother – this is because I overheard her saying negative things about my father. I was only 5 years old that time.
Again, this is about my mother, not my father. This is also NOT about me.
It is Mamang’s 57th birthday today. I have sent her a box of her favorite butter cookies. She also ended up with the Baywalk shirt that was supposedly for my brother. (Too small for him.) My mother always ends up the lucky one when there are care packages. As my sisters and I shot up and across in height and weight, our mother ended up the smallest in everything. She barely reaches 5 feet and she can fit in size 4.5 to 5 shoes. None of her daughters got her Chinese physique. My sisters and I are all of good Bukidnon stock.
Thank God – her only granddaughter seems to be showing some of her facial features (including the now legendary Tiger Eyes).
This is about my mother – not about my sisters, or her granddaughter.
My siblings and I grew up with several aunts and uncles from both sides of the family tree. We all have individual relationships (anywhere between the love-hate continuum) within this extended family. One of the most amazing relationships I have the luck to witness is my mother’s relationship with her two sisters. I grew up seeing them ride the waves of fortune and misfortune without losing grip on each other. They’ve each had public and secret lives of tele-novela magnitude. And yet, when they visit each other, they are just sisters discussing their everyday lives while nibbling peanuts. When they talk about their problems and dreams and funny recollections, I picture them as TV viewers of their own lives. The stories move them to copious tears or send them to rolling fits of laughter. At the end of the show, they pick-up after themselves and move on to the chores of the day. With a group session like that – you would not need a psychiatrist to get you through the dramas of your life.
My mother and my aunts’ lives would be a wonderful subject for a novel. Throw in the Alzheimer factor (my grandmother) into the gene pool – and surely a bestseller is underway. But again, I digress from my main topic.
My mother was my teacher — literally, when I was in Grade 4. She taught Science in our class of 40 students in a public school. After periodical tests, I help her correct the test answers of my classmates. I wanted to help her prepare the test questions too but she said that I am not THAT smart yet. She did let me compute my own grade after every quarter. I had to look up in her grade record book all the scores I had in all my quizzes and homework for the quarter. I was probably one of the few in that grade level who can explain "weighted grade average".
My mother has been a public school teacher for 35+ years now. Multiply that with 40/students/section times 4 or 5 sections a year and you will get enough voters to make her a minor political force. That is also the same number of people who personally know my siblings and me. There is very little chance for anonymity in our small town. To an adolescent and later, a wannabe independent freethinker – that is a curse.
My mother complains a lot about her load (and her co-teachers, and their meager salary and DECS management and the government) but not once did I hear her say that she does not want to teach. She jokes around a lot about how her English and Math is only up to Grade 6 level (her current class). She’s achieved her masters and passed all requisites to be a principal and she’s got additional faculty roles left and right. Yet, she is at her saddest when she talks about the declining proficiency of elementary graduates. She talks endlessly about what she will do when she retires but I know that it will not be easy for her to stop when the time comes.
Each of her students would have a different story to tell about my mother. Am sure those whose knuckles got rapped have interesting anecdotes. Also, Tiger Eyes would probably figure prominently in there somewhere. Yet, none of those stories would ever do her justice. In the same manner, not one of the previous paragraphs defines her entire being. It is only in the sum of all possible stories and all the people whose lives she had touched can she be truly described.
As for me, she is MY mother. The one woman God picked from all the rest to make the best person out of me. And therein lies my blessing.
It was fun going around the place and poking at all sorts of things — from old furnitures to all kinds of whimsy. There were several carved Narra and other hardwood furnitures being refurbished right there on the street. We saw a chest of drawers with mother-of-pearl embellishments being loaded to a pick-up truck for delivery. Mismatched chairs are all around (see pic for my favorite find). There were at least two secretaires with legs made from old Singer sewing machines. The spinning wheel still intact! 
We found bauls of various sizes and shapes but none called out to me for special attention. The wood is either too thin or too heavy or the carving too fancy.
Michael noticed that a lot of the whimsy stuff are souvenir items from various parts of the world. I told him that’s why I never buy those things in the first place. They are great for visual aid when recounting your travel adventures but they soon lose their novelty.
Did I say already that we found all sorts of things in the shops? Here’s one I have never seen before — a mini-portalet. I could not figure out how it works so I just took a picture.
