My Mother’s Son

My first word was Mama. Not surprising. I was her first born and she was my constant companion the first four years of my existence, as I was hers in the early years of her married life.

And even if I’d like to think I brought joy to her life, it must have been lonely to be the wife of a soldier who would often need to fly on assignment and leave her at home in an airbase 750 kilometers away from the city she had lived in all her life.

But she understood this was part of the deal when she fell in love with and married a young graduate of the country’s premier military academy beginning his career in the air force. For Mama, love is sacrifice.

M is for Mama. Mama taught me how to read. She was a stay-at-home mom until my sister, her third child, was of school age when she began to work, first as a test proctor in the International School, and later as a ticket rep in Philippine Airlines.

But before she started working, she had her full attention on my education. She actively read my notes, reviewed my homework, and helped me with my projects. She hates it when I bring it up now, but back then, she even implemented a “discipline” system to ensure I did well in school.

Everytime I brought home the results of my quizzes, I would be “punished” for every mistake I made. It was of course just a slap on the wrist (literally on the palm of my hand) but it was enough to make me strive for perfect scores.

One time I got one exam so consistently wrong that I scored zero out of ten. (It was an English class on the proper use of “born in” and “born on.”) I don’t know if it was due to shame or fear, but it was the first time I effectively lied to my mom by throwing away the exam and not bringing it home.

Many years later, arguing about something else, I recall confronting her about how much stricter she was with me compared to my other siblings. I don’t think I was even that serious bringing it up, perhaps it was more to score points in an argument, but I was surprised by the grave expression on her face and the tears in her eyes when she said that she really did not know what the right way was to raise children as I was their first one. I didn’t say it then, but I should have said sorry, and no Mama, I do not take it against you. I certainly would not be where I am now without you.

Life After Papa. When my Papa died in 2010, I would not have been surprised if Mama had followed him to the grave within the year. They were married 46 years. He was her life and her world revolved around him. Even when she started working, she chose jobs that allowed her to leave anytime in case my father needed her to attend a military or diplomatic function.

Mama was so devoted to Papa that it is now part of our family’s oral tradition how she patiently sat through a military turn-over parade, after an unfortunate slip a few minutes before it started, only to find out later that the fall had resulted in a broken hipbone. As someone with a very low tolerance for pain, I cannot imagine how Mama sat on that grandstand without crying, much less finishing the whole ceremony without complaint.

Early on I recall learning that there were no secrets between my mom and and my dad. I don’t remember anymore what offence merited punishment from my dad with a belt to our bottoms but I distinctly recall thinking one time an offence was meant to be a secret between me and my mom. So when I ended up getting punished for it, I remember looking up at my mom as I received my dad’s punishment. Whether I was looking for mercy, or was accusing her for squealing on me, her face betrayed no indication that she was not one with my father in agreeing that I deserved the consequences of my action.

While I feared the worst for my mom after my dad died, she ended up surprising us all as she blossomed into a woman of her own volition. She became active in church activities and cultivated a set of friends with common interests, outside of the wives in my father’s circle.

Looking back, I should not have been surprised. Back in the 1990’s, when I was taking my masters in the US, I went home for a short Chirtmas visit. In the airport in Manila for the plane trip back to Boston, Mama was able to bring me all the way to departure gate, a perk of working for an airline. Just before saying goodbye, she handed me an envelope. I sheepishly asked if it was some kind of allowance and she didn’t respond with a yes or no but said that I should just open it in the plane.

While seated on the plane, my heart stopped when I opened the envelope. In it was another envelope addressed to my parents with a letter from an ex-boyfriend with whom I had a bad break-up. In the letter he goes on to reveal intimate details about our relationship including what we were doing in his bedroom everytime I would sleep over for an assignment.

It was the longest flight of my life and I was awake the whole time from the sixteen hours crossing the Pacific ocean, and the six hour layover in Los Angeles, to the four hour red eye flight to Boston. When I got to my apartment, I made the long distance call to Manila to talk to her.

Once I got her on the phone, all she asked me was if we had a fight and I said yes. She then said that she got the letter at home but did not share it with my father. She said he already had too many things to deal with and did not want to add to the list. I said thanks and never talked about it again.

It was the first and only time I saw my mom keep a secret from my dad. Knowing her and her relationship with my dad, it must have taken a toll on her to keep what happened a secret. But I should have known then that my mom is so much stronger than the subservient wife she always seemed to be.

Mama-in-Love. While theoretically my mom already knew I was gay as early as 1990 when she received that letter from my ex, we never really acknowledged it specially since both of us acted as if the letter never happened.

Even as I eventually came out publicly in 2014, it was still not a subject we talked about. I was definitely not eager to bring it up knowing how deeply religious my mom was and the Catholic faith’s stance against homosexuality.

But soon after I came out, my sister decided she wanted to invite my partner Keith to her birthday dinner with the family. Burying the lead, my sister informed me of the date of the dinner and said Keith was invited. When I asked about Mama, of course she had already cleared it with her.

“I don’t mind as long as he is happy” were the words my Mama said to my sister when she gave her blessings to inviting Keith. It’s been nine years and since then she has made it clear not only does she not mind but how much she loves me regardless of her religious beliefs and how that love extends to Keith as my partner and part of the family.

Mama’s love is selfless and all-encompassing. She has taken Keith as her own, exchanging messages with him, sending gifts without any occasion, and even confiding fears she has not shared with me. The kindness and affection she has shown Keith is the same she has extended to the partners of all my siblings and their offspring. We are all her children.

In my youth, I strove early on to gain the means to live on my own. I didn’t want to be dependent on my parents who I saw as authority figures whom I had nothing in common with — the military man and the pious housewife — and who would never accept the real me.

But the older I get, the more I recognize them in me. While I have my father’s temper, which most of the time I have managed to keep under control, I also got his conviction to principles and his resolve to stand up for his beliefs.

I am definitely not the priest nor the religious person my mom would have wanted me to be, but from her I got the compassion to try to understand others and always give the benefit of the doubt.

I never got the chance to know if my father would have accepted me, but I know with all my heart that my mom has, and frankly that is all that a gay man needs to face the rest of the world. Thank you Mama for everything that you are. I will always love you.