Day 14 — An Old Photo

This photo is of my mom, circa 1969.

I adore it.

It reminds me of when I was just a young girl and she still dressed up. And wore wigs. (It was during the 70's after all.) And make-up. And perfume that I actually liked. When she still worked outside of the home and not with hardened, jaded, homeless people. It reminds me of that time when your mom (or in this case my mom) was still glamorous.

I've had to doctor this photo a bit since the original is yellowed with age. It has been in the same frame for forty years, I'm sure. When I took it out to scan it, I don't even want to think about all the different types of dust I let loose from all the places we lived where this photo has traveled.

Again, I don't have the story behind it. I don't know where it was taken, although I assume it was still in the Philippines and it was before I came into the world. I don't know why it was taken. Was she on her way to a party? Just another night out? Was this how she always looked or was there extra effort in getting ready for the shot?

It reminds me that my mom, although she was always a bit tomboy-ish, could still be a woman. Elegant. Confident. Feminine. Classy.

I remember her more as the brassy, no-holds-barred, loud, direct woman she was during my teens and twenties. She mellowed some with age, but if she had an opinion, she wasn't afraid to share it. I guess she had to toughen up some because of the homeless people she served. The emotional baggage they carried. The world-weary stories she heard.

It's no secret that we didn't get along very well. That our relationship was tumultuous at best, downright head-butting at worst. She had different views and opinions on things than I did. I think a lot of it was cultural for her. And age for me. I just wasn't mature in my interaction with her. I wasn't as patient with her as I was and still am with others. I held onto mean things she said to me while I was growing up and never fully forgave. Or forgot. In the years after my dad passed it was really difficult for me to deal with her. We both grieved for my father in different ways. I didn't fully understand the loneliness she felt. Nor did I recognize that she was ill herself. I don't know that for fact because she refused to allow me to take her to a doctor for evaluation. But in my heart, I KNOW something was wrong. I don't know how to explain it...and as much as it sounds like an excuse, I don't mean for it to be.

But even in all of that, I was proud of her and the way she was devoted to feeding the homeless and out of work. I see now the sacrifices she made in marrying my father, namely leaving her home country and all of her family. I know in the beginning she still kept in touch but as the years passed I think it was more emotionally difficult for her to hold on to them rather than just let them go. It had to have been tough. And like I said, I was too immature to notice.

I know I don't often share about my mom. My go-to topics are usually my dad, my son, and I hint at things about my husband (because he REALLY likes his privacy, I don't ever delve too deeply to respect that), the insignificant and mundane of my own life. But if I'm honest, scarily and profoundly honest, I KNOW I have some of her traits: her temperament, her boisterous nature, her devotion to her husband and her fear of being alone in life. And as much as I'm not acting on it at this time in my life, her spirit of service is still within me. The need to care for others and the desire to make the world a better place for those less fortunate still run through my daily thoughts. I think it's my internal gauge of remembering where I came from even if it wasn't always rainbows and gumdrops. Because of that, I am absolutely positive that my personal resolve will get me through the tough times. And I have her to thank for that.