Coming Home

Analyze Me

Tue, 09 May 2006 02:50:54 -0500

I have always wanted to know why I am or why I was so that someday I will know for certain why I will. It is not easy to probe into one's self, especially when I really do not know where or how to begin.

I started with my oldest memory . . . only a fragment of what I thought I remembered. I hope I am in the right path. Then , I felt a need to talk about my father, who I never knew nor remember. That felt good to let out a need or lack of an essential part of yourself.

And of course, there was my mother. I will never tire talking to and about my mother - regardless that she has passed away, what 20 years ago?By the way, I was raised a Catholic and it is natural for me to whisper to my mother even now, regardless, that she is now in a better place - to let out soft, little cries for help and redemption, letting her know how I agonize over the angst that living can give one who is not fully prepared for life's many turns amd bends. I guess, I am one who has always been sheltered and insulated for too long.

But how much can one talk in whispers? How much can one cry in the dark and alone? How much can the dead hear or the shadows take?

My Mother, Myself?

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 00:21:50 -0500

I rememember crying for hours, rolling on the floor as part of my act. I would make heart-rending sobs, and chant-like wails and pitiful sighs all in the effort to get what I wanted at the time. How old was I? Maybe, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11? And oh yes, mine were all crocodile acts.

My mother "favored" me the most, I, being the youngest - her baby, the family's pet. However, she never really picked me up and soothed me during those croc acts. I guess she knew I was just "crock-ing".

My mom - she was an admirable woman. She was widowed at age 27 and left with three very young children, 6, 4 and barely 2. She could have married again but, no, that was never an option. She never looked at another man after my father died. My mother became the willing ward of her parents. Listen, this was not unusual. In the eastern hemisphere, most single, unmarried or widowed women are "protected" by parents throughout the rest of their womanhood. And it was so for my mom.

A house, our home, was thus constructed for her and annexed to the ancestral home. (It still is, to this day). That gave me a wide place to roll over when I did those croc acts which I tended to do very often in those days. It was a safe, secure, warm place to grow up in with my grandfather ("Tatay" as everybody called him) as sole male authority and protector for all of us. He was a loving, tender, soft-spoken authority figure --- too advanced in years at the time to be truly an active, influential force in my young life.

My mother, though a ward herself, had her own rightful place in our small family. She provided for us with her income as a public school teacher. And my grandfather provided for her and her own. And he died when I was 11.

It was Mama who came next in rank. And she did very well, naturally. Mother passed way a while back. Will the natural cycle of life follow?

My Father's Chair is Empty

Wed, 19 Apr 2006 01:31:11 -0500

I was a little brat growing up. Thanks to my mother who treated me like a little princess . . . a brat princess. I remember wanting to have everything even before I knew what I really wanted. Looking back, I think my mother tried as hard as she possibly could to make up for the one thing that was most important to me but which I could not have - and will never have, as a matter of fact.

Did I tell you that I never really got to know my father? My father, according to all the people who knew him (and also from pictures of him that my mother saved for us) was a man with movie star looks and personality. Accordingly, he was intelligent, witty and talented. Did those adjectives help me know my father? No, these generic stories only made me thirst for more and left me dry-mouthed for years.

My father died in a car accident when I was barely two. I never had memories of his voice, his eyes, his mouth , his wit, his charm, his touch, his warmth, his love. I have always wondered about how he would have impacted my growing up. Would I have been a different person if he lived long enough to tell me how special I was and how precious I was to him? Are the genes he gave me enough to make me who I am today? I kept asking myself these questions during my growing years. I still do, even now that I am a grown woman.

I believe that I could have been a totally different person if he lived long enough to show me who I was and what I could become. I would give anything for one chance to sit down on his knee and look into his eyes . . . to hug him and get a hug back . . . to hear him sing a lullaby and watch me close my eyes .

Right now, there is this empty big Daddy chair in my life.

FlashBack

Sun, 16 Apr 2006 23:59:29 -0500

I can only remember as far back as when I was three years old. And I have only one memory of when I was three. I can still see my little self - a scrawny, chinky-eyed, all legs and arms post-toddler . . .

It was maybe some thirty minutes before bedtime that night . . . I was wearing an over-sized white t-shirt and performing before an enraptured audience. My mother was there, my aunt was there, my maternal grandparents were there. I vaguely remember my siblings being there (I had one older brother and one older sister). I was going through those little dance motions that only three-year-olds can do - - - definitely not a structured dance, but very cute and winning, anyway. I can only think for that three-year old now, not knowing what really was in my little head then. But I am most certain that , I was dancing like Isadora Duncan (or so I think now) because I had such an appreciative and encouraging audience. Even now, I can feel the caring attention and love of everybody in that room. They were all applauding, prompting me for encores. They had only loving words for me - those cute little endearments older people always have for their adorable diminutive pets? I loved it. Being the center of attention, then it was,

There was a lot of love from people in my home as I was growing up. Was it enough? Is love ever enough?