I don’t know how I can portray my mother. She’s strange, as I think most mothers are to their children’s eyes. She’s a walking contradiction, one moment she’s angry and the next moment she’s laughing. I don’t know but my mother is weird. My mother is not educated. She kept telling me that she only reached grade two, but boy she reads a lot. My mother is a nagger. Heavens, she can drive people nuts, and I admired my late father’s patience because when she nags, boy, she really nags. My mother is a hysterical historical. Whenever she gets angry she blabs about how she does things for us, how she sacrificed her time for us, how she cook food for us etc. And I hate her when she does that. My mother is a bigot. She judges people harshly and unfairly. My mother is a politically incorrect person—she’s impulsive and tactless. My mother is poor she has no money. My mother is an imperfect mother.
After the death of my father I became a bumbling drunk. I was in second year high school then. I was confused and full of anger, and my mother became the object of all the anger. But still my mother bought me my first guitar just to inspire me to study, and I did study—how to play the guitar. And I made a career out of playing the guitar. I became the most sought after guitarist in purok dos. In lamays, in pangngaluluwa, pagkakaroling, pagtatambay name the occasion and I would be there strumming those chords away. And I would see my mother watching me from a distance. Whenever and wherever I am drinking there she was watching in the shadows like an angel of darkness...err…I mean my guardian angel hiding in the dark.
She enrolled me to colleges whenever I get the urge to study. And the urge usually lasts a month or two. I collected two college IDs, one computer institute ID, and two vocational school IDs. That’s how far it went. No, class cards just those damn IDs. I don’t know how many times she cried because of my failures.
I never realized how strong and good my mother is until I looked at the wall of our old house. My mother is the mother of seven children (five biological, two are nephews that she adopted). Two of her children are doctors of theology (i.e. if the one finishes his dissertation), two are masters’ degree holder, one in education and one in divinity; two are fresh graduate one is a logistic specialist and the youngest is now a teacher. How can a so imperfect mother have children like these? Fate, faith, luck, I don’t know. If you’re counting, I’m the seventh, a son, a walking migraine. (Formerly...eh…formerly)
My mother is strange, she’s a walking contradiction, she’s not educated, she’s a nagger, she’s a hysterical historical, she’s a bigot, and she’s a politically incorrect person.
There are a lot of better mother but no matter how imperfect my mother is, she gave me the best gift a son can have—a second chance (or was it the third, maybe the fourth, or maybe fifth, sixth…I lost count) and I never even apologized to her.
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