Portrait of Ma
Black and white photo of a woman in a floral dress holding a baby facing away from the camera .
By. Lydia Isales
I am blessed to have a mother who loves me unconditionally. She's that way with each of her five children. My dad would often tease her, saying she somehow made each of us feel we were an only child. Her love envelops us like a protective shield. Through my sixty years of life, my mom's love has been a refuge, a safe haven, a place of humor, hope and support. Presently I am sick with two aggressive cancers and with a poor prognosis. But though hundreds of miles separate us, my mom continues to provide me with infinite love and support.
What follows is a kaleidoscope of memories and stories regarding my mom captured through the prism of my experience.
In 1954, a twenty-one year old white medical technologist met and married a brown thirty-four year old Puerto Rican doctor in Quincy, Massachusetts. The following year, upon completion of my dad's studies, they moved to Puerto Rico with one child in tow. So began my mom's married life in a foreign world. In time she learned Spanish, and although always the 'gringa', she adopted Puerto Rico as her new homeland.
My parents spoke little of the resistance they encountered with their decision to marry. But the awkwardness that existed in some of the familial relationships was evident, even to a young child. Those improved but never fully disappeared. However, that tension didn't spill over into my life or that of my siblings. We had a blessed childhood that included our many aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents.
My three brothers, my sister and I all grew up speaking both Spanish and English, effortlessly flipping between the two with ease. To this day I have trouble answering the question, what is your native language? Why can't I have two? In time, my mom would also use both languages with ease, and ran errands with five young children in tow. We were usually obedient kids but one time in a supermarket my mom had to settle us down. Turning to us, she sternly said “Basta!” (meaning 'Enough!') An American couple nearby heard her and gasped because with her Boston accent it sounded like she was calling her children bastards.
In a similar vein to having two native languages, I also struggled when I moved to the United States, with the insistence of being placed in one, and only one, ethnic box. Related to this, my mother recounts how when we were young, she would be asked why she married a man with five children and chose to move to Puerto Rico to be their stepmom. With her paler complexion it was assumed that she clearly couldn't be our birth mother. It is such a joy for me to see to many more multi-cultural families now; I feel like I was an early member of that tribe. Ma and I have often compared our life choices. She, to be the 'gringa' in Puerto Rico while I chose to live in the US as a minority.
When I was nine years old, I had an epiphany moment and acquired a new appreciation for my parents. Not as Ma and Pa but as individuals. I was in the front patio of our house, rocking back and forth on a rocking chair (it was hot but also it was fun), thinking of my parents' busy lives. In that moment I saw they were people with multi-faceted lives, that they were individuals with lives that had preceded our births. There was no requirement for them to love and provide for us as they did; it was their choice to put so much effort into raising us. I felt deeply grateful for being their child and belonging to my family, and that feeling has never left me.
Our family life was enriched by my parents' many interesting friends. I have many cherished memories of invigorating, intellectual conversations that I barely understood but that kept me rooted to the dinner table during the 'sobremesa', the after-dinner conversation. One of my parents' dear friends was a Catholic priest who would have a midday meal with us every Sunday, would often stop by during the week and even go on family vacations with us. Another friend of the family was a knowledgeable engineer as well as a gifted thinker and speaker on many political and world events; I would sit quietly and listen to him talk about the issue of the status of Puerto Rico (a topic of unending discussion among Puerto Ricans). In such an invigorating environment, my siblings and I flourished.
In high school my friends often complained about their overbearing parents. I couldn't commiserate with them. I had nothing to complain about; our home was one of peace and companionship. My parents' curfew restrictions were fair, my friends were always welcome at my house; all my needs were addressed. So I made up unfair rules I had to deal with and shortly thereafter confessed. My mom assured me she didn't mind, she could understand why I would feel that way. I stopped lying to my friends, simply saying I had nothing to complain about. It was one of many times I realized how truly lucky I was.
My dad often teased my mom of the consequences suffered by anyone who crossed or hurt her children; claiming she would hunt them down. Mom has never denied this, and to this day, the lioness roars when one of us speaks of a setback.
Illustrative of her maternal spirit was an event that occurred when I was in college. My husband and I had married the summer before our senior year in college and lived in an apartment, below the seventy plus year old landlady. She did not like me because I am Latina; she made that evident in casual interactions when we encountered each other entering or leaving the home. But she did like my husband; his white skin, blond hair and blue eyes met with her approval. Dealing with her caustic comments was not difficult. I had three years under my belt living in the 'States', so I was accustomed to receiving the occasional prejudiced sentiments. But when mom came to visit that spring, our landlady met my mother. I tried to make a quick introduction and move on but I failed.
“This is your daughter?” she sniffed.
“Yes she is!” my Mother said proudly, thinking a compliment was to follow.
“But look at you, you are American (meaning white), and I can understand you obviously, I don't know what she says when she speaks, why can't she speak English clearly?”
Knowing what was coming, I quickly stepped in between them and said to my mom in Spanish: We live here, we are leaving in two months' time, she doesn't matter. I have encountered many people like her, I will continue to encounter them. Leave it alone please. No vale la pena (It's not worth it.)” I still tease my mom at how I had to firmly propel her toward our apartment door as she continued to berate the landlady for her prejudicial attitude. (My mom's words were a bit stronger than those).
My mom is a generous person who cares for others and demonstrates it often. She has always believed in making every casual interaction pleasant and will always be the first to utter a good morning and how are you today to all she encounters. She also likes to bring small moments of joy with unexpected, inexpensive gifts to those she sees regularly. So she will bring cookies to the employees at the post office, stop by with a cup of coffee for the gentleman who sells lottery tickets in front of the supermarket, or run out with water bottles and chips when the trash collectors stop at the house. My mom has an unending thirst for learning, and after the youngest of us started middle school, Ma returned to school, earning both a college and a law degree. Afterwards, she had a distinguished career in telecommunications working for the government of Puerto Rico. She was personally involved in helping her employees deal with health challenges, providing practical support regarding use of leave, and helping them get medical advice and providing gifts for their families.
My mom and I also share so many moments of laughter; we are good friends. Once we were traveling in a rental car on a long road trip in Florida and it was her turn to drive. She wanted to open her window and instead turned on the seat warmer, a convenience with which she was not familiar. She started mumbling that she was getting warm, what was going on, her seat was getting hot! I suggested she might have turned on the seat warmer, and at that point she proceeded to blindly press every button found on the driver's door. She succeeded in turning the seat warmer to its highest setting and started squirming, while still driving, and imploring me TO DO SOMETHING! We still giggle together when one of us mentions how I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned over her driving figure to reach the buttons and bring her some relief.
Another more recent event that also makes us laugh is when we were at a frozen yogurt 'build your own sundae' shop. We love going to get ice cream or frozen yogurt together. We happened to be the only customers in the shop at that moment, and I had already served myself some chocolate yogurt and had moved on down the line. My mom asked me what kind of yogurt I had chosen and said she would serve herself some of the same. As I continued to peruse my topping choices, I heard my mom: “Oh, what? How do you stop this? Somebody help me here!” When I turned to her and saw that the shop employee was already on her way to my mom's rescue, I just stood there and took in the scene and laughed. Ma with chocolate yogurt overflowing over the cup, onto the catch basin and from there onto the floor. The lovely shop employee, upon checking the machine, indicated there was a mechanism that had not been returned to its proper place at the recent machine cleaning. The problem, she surmised, had not arisen with my serving likely because I had pushed it back firmly. She then politely informed my mom that there would be no charge for the yogurt that had continued to flow from the machine.
So many motley memories of my mom continue to wash over me. And the thread that unites them is that bright, white light of maternal love. My mom's reaction to my diagnoses are typical of her, she accepts them but refuses to believe that there isn't hope and firmly asserts that miracles do happen. So the child in me chooses to believe she knows best and that somehow she will protect me. Even from afar, I can feel her holding my hand, giving me strength. Whenever and whatever happens, I take comfort that I am immensely fortunate to have been given the mom I have.
After 30 years as a federal government environmental lawyer, Lydia Isales is now retired. Lydia grew up in Puerto Rico, but raised her two children in Pennsylvania. She married a gringo who after 40 years of marriage can still make her heart beat faster when she spots him across the room. Lydia has had a handful of other essay published, along with some short stories.