Mamá
Today in Spain it's Mother's Day. I'm a mother, and even though my daughter is all grown up now, I still like to cuddle her. She knows me, so she just takes it in stride and hugs me back. I remember I loved to climb into my mother's lap when I was a little girl because she was so soft and warm. She would hug me back and let me stay on her lap a little while. When I grew into an adolescent, though, the differences appeared and I found her totally unreasonable many times. I'm sure she found me unreasonable, too.
But our problem was the enormous generation gap and the cultural gap. When I was born my mother was three months shy of her fortieth birthday. She was almost old enough to be my grandmother. The cultural differences were tremendous. I grew up in abundant America, where I never went hungry or cold and had all the clothes I needed. I went to school and never had to work other than to do my schoolwork. I went to the library and read all I wanted about whatever I wanted and could watch television and interest myself in the world around me. My mother grew up during the Spanish Republic and after the Civil War, during the years of famine. She ate what her parents' land could produce after the surplus was sold for money. She had one dress for the week and one for Sundays. She wore clogs in the winter and went barefoot in the summer. She went to school long enough to learn to read and write and basic arithmetic. After that she had to work in the fields to support her family. She never owned a coat until after she was married. And to buy it, she and my father illegally cut wood at night to sell.
All of her privations made her a practical person who eschewed what wasn't necessary. She also knew the slaps in the face life could give, and because she didn't want me slapped, she never encouraged me to dream. Whenever I mentioned something I would like to be able to do someday, she would try to dampen my aspirations by saying I would probably never get to do it. I understand she wanted to save me heartache, but I would have taken the heartache and learnt from it. That's one thing my mother was wrong about and something I've always done differently with my daughter. My daughter got her first major disappointment when she wasn't accepted to college in the U.S., but she learned that though sometimes dreams are unattainable, you have to reach for them. Now she's happy and making other dreams for the future. Not all will come true, but some will, at one point or another. My mother would have smiled, shaken her head and said, "Don't dream, you're not meant to have that." Part of that belief came from her time and place, when the poor were expected to stay poor. Or at least never attain enough to be like the land-owners.
But one thing she gave me, which I have passed on to my daughter, was love. Even when I was angry with her over an opinion I knew she loved me. She over-protected me, but because she loved me. I was her only child and she loved me to the moon and back. And when you think about it, our mothers' love is the first love we receive. It's the love that stays with us all our lives. Now she's been gone for almost ten years, but what I remember most and will always cherish is the love she gave me.
But our problem was the enormous generation gap and the cultural gap. When I was born my mother was three months shy of her fortieth birthday. She was almost old enough to be my grandmother. The cultural differences were tremendous. I grew up in abundant America, where I never went hungry or cold and had all the clothes I needed. I went to school and never had to work other than to do my schoolwork. I went to the library and read all I wanted about whatever I wanted and could watch television and interest myself in the world around me. My mother grew up during the Spanish Republic and after the Civil War, during the years of famine. She ate what her parents' land could produce after the surplus was sold for money. She had one dress for the week and one for Sundays. She wore clogs in the winter and went barefoot in the summer. She went to school long enough to learn to read and write and basic arithmetic. After that she had to work in the fields to support her family. She never owned a coat until after she was married. And to buy it, she and my father illegally cut wood at night to sell.
All of her privations made her a practical person who eschewed what wasn't necessary. She also knew the slaps in the face life could give, and because she didn't want me slapped, she never encouraged me to dream. Whenever I mentioned something I would like to be able to do someday, she would try to dampen my aspirations by saying I would probably never get to do it. I understand she wanted to save me heartache, but I would have taken the heartache and learnt from it. That's one thing my mother was wrong about and something I've always done differently with my daughter. My daughter got her first major disappointment when she wasn't accepted to college in the U.S., but she learned that though sometimes dreams are unattainable, you have to reach for them. Now she's happy and making other dreams for the future. Not all will come true, but some will, at one point or another. My mother would have smiled, shaken her head and said, "Don't dream, you're not meant to have that." Part of that belief came from her time and place, when the poor were expected to stay poor. Or at least never attain enough to be like the land-owners.
But one thing she gave me, which I have passed on to my daughter, was love. Even when I was angry with her over an opinion I knew she loved me. She over-protected me, but because she loved me. I was her only child and she loved me to the moon and back. And when you think about it, our mothers' love is the first love we receive. It's the love that stays with us all our lives. Now she's been gone for almost ten years, but what I remember most and will always cherish is the love she gave me.
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| A long time ago at Government Center in Boston. |
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