When I was younger, my mom used to ask me to undo some knots in her back when she’d come home from work at night. Despite what sometimes felt like a chore, I looked forward to these nights with my mom. In exchange for relieving the tension in my mom’s back, I’d ask her for “funny stories,” perhaps looking for my own release of tension. Quid pro quo.
I’d sit perched on the back cushion of the couch, using my hands and elbows to undo the knots in my mom’s back. While this happened, she’d tell me stories from when she was young in her home province in the Philippines– She’d be tasked with going to buy pandesal for the family and given just enough money so that there’d be almusal for everyone. She would return home to grimaces, coming back short of the dozen she was instructed to buy. It turns out she and my manang managed to snack on more than a few on their walk back home. Other times she’d recall the earlier days of when she immigrated to Hawaii, before she had me. When she too was in her 20s living in a place that she only recently called home, she’d tell of a slippery incident she and my aunt had while riding the bus home together after work on a rainy day. Though, my favorite ones to hear and drew the most curiosity out of me were always the stories she’d tell me about when she and my dad first met.
At some point she’d end up telling me the same stories two, three, maybe even four times. I didn’t care. I’d still laugh. I’d even ask questions to try and see if I could get even juicer details that time around– “So did you and manang get scolded when you went home with 8 pandesal instead of 12? Who ended up not getting a piece?” Eight-year-old me was in awe of how special it was that my mom wanted to tell me about all these silly moments and times. But most of all— I was amazed at how cool it was that she had these stories to share with me. I wanted to have my own arsenal of stories to tell too one day.
As I grew into my teens, my mom and I had less of these nights. I hunkered down with school work and the prospects of a future beyond the four walls of our house grew more daunting. I got involved with extra-curriculars, and spent more time with friends. Her stories weren’t exactly so “funny” to me anymore either. I started to question if these were the only stories she had for me. And I discovered that they weren’t— they were just the ones she chose to tell.
I learned about the apprehension she’d have to talk about the not-so-funny stories– the ones that talked about hardships, specifically the ones that were left unresolved or still have yet to be overcome. Eventually, I also realized the nuances in my mom’s stories; she’d talk about how ina and ama would send boxes from Hawaii to her and her family in the Philippines, how excited she would be to open them. I know now that this meant she grew up without them around.
Hitting my mid-twenties now, I realize that the “funny stories” I’d barter for are tokens of quality time that I still cherish. Warmly, it allowed me to see my mom’s humanity. These stories were and are the narratives that I use to paint my understanding of who my mom is as a person. I realize now that she’s not just my mom– she had a life before me, her eldest and only daughter. What a life that must’ve been— when she didn’t have to worry so much about being a “good wife/mother/daughter/sister” or role model for her kin.
I thank the joys she’s experienced before needing to think about my joy.
What was relief for the knots in my mom’s back is now relief for 25-year-old me.
When I began to write this, I came in with the intention of expressing gratitude for the year that will soon be behind us— 2024— for being a year that’s given me stories to add to my arsenal of tales to one day tell my kids when I have an aching back. But, with the fortunate timing of my mom’s birthday, I discover generational joy (after only being well-acquainted generational trauma) in knowing that I’ll have my mother’s stories to share too.