TRANSFORMATION

TRANSFORMATION

To me, my mother was perfect. There was nothing that she could do or say that although it may have displeased me at the time had not been for a good purpose in the long run. She was all-knowing and could do anything in the world. When she was angry with me, I felt like if I could just crawl into a hole somewhere and hide from my younger brother’s jealous laughter and forget because I was smart enough to know that I could not undo whatever I had done. She never had to beat me or yell at me, just one cold glance and I would know, I would feel it. Nevertheless, I always managed to fall back into my mother’s good graces. She was beautiful to me. I used to love talking to her; just simply being in her presence was a thrill. I remember distinctly that period of time when everyone acknowledged that I was her tail. I would follow her everywhere looking at her, asking questions about why she did this or didn’t do that or trying to help her with her housework in some way. I happily did anything that I knew would please my mother. In anticipation of her praise, I wrote her poems, made her cards and brought back most of the food that I got at the parties that I attended in primary school. It was a minor tradition for me to sit reading ‘Secret Seven’ or ‘Famous Five’ books by Enid Blyton to her while she did the ironing on Sundays, ever so often asking, “Mamie, wat dat word is?” Looking back now, I don’t know how she never got tired of me; I must have been so annoying. When I awoke in the morning, I would rush to the kitchen to tell her “Good morning mamie!” Then, if I saw her somewhere else in the house during that ‘just wake” period I would chirp ‘Good morning’ again. During the usual course of the summer day, if I had to leave her side for a moment I would say, for instance, “Mom, ah going an bathe now, ah comin back, eh,” – like if she needed assurance. When she sat on the toilet in the bathroom, she could not close the door because I would sit outside the little room talking to her as I waited for her to finish her business so we could resume those daily chores. When she took a bath I was there as she bathed and dressed.
I learnt a lot from my mother.
It’s only now that I can see her flaws. I find it disturbing that I cannot remember the exact period when I realized that my mother was imperfect. But I do remember the strange feelings and thoughts I had as a result. I vividly remember that time in the kitchen when I told her that I had once believed that she was perfect and that if anyone made it to heaven, it would have to be her. My mother was surprised. She looked at me for a second then held back her head and began to laugh. She held her mouth open wide and she laughed and laughed then slapped her fat leg and told me “Chile, yuh make me laugh in Spanish!” I thought that was stupid.
When I suddenly knew that my mother was imperfect, I felt that I had to second guess everything that she said to me and consider things out more. I was now in Secondary School and I was beginning to change. I had found a new love: books and I spent all my time absorbed in these. No longer did I follow my mom around. She accused me of being lazy. At one point that would have offended me but no longer. It makes me more certain of who I am more than anything else ever did. Friends had nothing to do with this. It was the books. Somehow, I got stronger emotionally every time we had an argument. We spent less time together but out relationship was still all right. I would talk to her like a best friend and she would listen.
This summer of my sixteenth year on this earth I have come to realize that not only have I changed but my mom has changed as well. Just recently, she accused me of ‘coming out’ (growing up) just like my father: selfish and lazy were those traits mentioned that I care to remember. Ironically, I am not ashamed to resemble my father. I used to think him such a selfish person too as I grew up hearing only my mother’s side of the story but as I grew older and spoke to my father more I realized that he made a lot of sense. My mother was somewhat bossy, didn’t like to compromise, couldn’t accept someone else’s point of view and thought that I should love the menial chores of a housewife too. I realize that she wants me to be more like her. She keeps saying: “I neva thought that you would come out like dis. You ‘en grow up to be the loving, caring chile I expected nah…” Every moment of the day if the opportunity arises, she lashes out at me in some way verbally. She says all three of us kids are a disappointment to her. We are ungrateful and we don’t help her out at all. Me especially, since I am a girl. I understand her and respect her point of view on certain matters but I refuse to change and I told her so. That’s when she began her tirade on how much like my father I was. She complains that I have become secretive and that I don’t even talk to her anymore. Everything is about the computer with me. We (my brothers and I) treat her like an illiterate, she claims, because we think that she has no computer sense and no class. Strangely enough, it was my mom, when telling me about her childhood days when we used to be close when I was younger who confessed to me her inferiority complex as a result of her mother who incessantly told her that she was ugly.
I know now. How I must be. I think that I am where I want to be. I’m also content with who I am. I don’t want to change. Call me selfish if you like. I refuse to end up like my mother, slaving behind a house she loves. I once said to her: “Tell me mom, as a child growing up, which would you choose to pattern your life after: a father who is just chillin’ on the side, who just cool and happy or a woman who barks and argues everyday and always tired?” She told me that dad only looked happy – that she was the one who really was. She may be saying the truth but she forgets that I have learnt from both their mistakes – not just hers alone.
I am not nasty, lazy or selfish. I’m just more reserved than my mother. I believe, like my father, you work hard in one period of your life so that you can relax another. At least my mother admits that she is not yet ready to rest. But why should I word alongside her? Because I am a girl who will no doubt end up like that someday? Never. I don’t talk to her intimately anymore because she has nothing positive to say to me or anything negative that I care to hear. Even now, I can’t look her in the eye. She is no longer beautiful. Just flawed like the rest of us. Maybe more so.