Tattered Check: The Road To Healing

Who Am I?

I was already a first-grader when I realized I don't have a mother. I thought that my grandma had been my real mom at the time I started going to school. Then one day, my teacher asked us to tell something about our family. It was then I realized I do not belong to the "normal" family. Although I have no idea of incest at that time, I know my grandma is my father's mother so she cannot be my real mother.

When I came home, I remembered asking my father about my mother but he was silent, as usual. Even at a young age, I could feel my father's coldness towards us. Seldom did he include us in his world. That was probably why we were attached to my grandma. It was her who told me stories about my mom. She showed me a picture of my mom, carrying a small baby in her arms. Mama (my grandma) told me I was the baby in the picture. The picture was typical of the 70s, we call it sepia nowadays. She was a petite woman from what I observed, wearing a dress that is the fashion of those days. I think it was a dress with a plain bodice and checkered skirt, about 3-4 inches clear of her knees. My mother, from what I remembered, was a beautiful woman, with bright eyes and slightly curly hair. She was holding me near her chest. I was about 3 months old in that picture.

Then there was a 2x2 sepia picture of her also. My youngest sister was about 3 years old then but she resembled our mom. My brother and I looked more like our dad.

Fragments of her came to me through my grandma. She sometimes tell me as I asked, other times she told me randomly. I was the archivist of our family, the receiving end of my grandma's stories of her family, her lovelife, my mother, how I came to be. She would tell me whenever she is in the mood for my proddings - while she sat on the ubiquitous rocking chair ridding my hair of nits or when she wanted to distract me from a game of Scrabble. Those were the times when the pleasant part of my mom were revealed. When she was pissed at us in anything, the evil side of our mom surfaced, comparing us, the nitwit children, to our irresponsible mother.

I believed her stories. How could I not? I suppose that when you are angry with someone, only the bad things are remembered. But she told us the good side of our mom, the little giant, her moniker for my mom being efficient even in her small stature.

In my mind, my mom was painted well. It seemed that I knew her as I grew up, not as an absent parent. I knew what ticked her, what pleased her, how she was as a mother in her placid and raging moments. I saw her as a sleeping dragon, placid in her sleep, disastrous in her wake. I knew that she can be a doting mom who taught me songs and memory verses but not to be crossed because she would either throw a cup at me or kick my butt. And I came to hate her, really hate her I couldn't even say her name.

There were times I dreamt of being born to my grandma. My father excluded us in his life, we cannot even watch him while he was working, his things are a no-no, a slight infraction can mean a nasty wacking. My mom, too weak to take her responsibilities seriously, took off without a second glance, leaving me and my two siblings behind. At least my grandma was there for us. She can be nasty but she was there.

Well, that's what I thought.