pool season
Manila, 12 May—When I was younger, way before easily accessible beaches were a thing, my mother used to take us to the hot springs in Pansol, Laguna. Every year, there would be at least one outing, and my sister and my cousin would be there, and we’d go night swimming while our mothers and aunts prepared dinner off the side—grilled fish and barbecue and hotdogs and Coke.
This was before I actually learned how to swim, so it was basically just us kicking around in the pool with goggles and inflatables. I remember trying to teach myself to swim by reading a book; I remember summers stretched out on the bed, book open and arms and legs extended, while I tried to figure out how to move, pretending I was underwater.
I did not learn how to swim like that; we ended up spending a couple of weeks in formal swim class, the summer before sixth grade, when we were still young enough not to care about how dark our skins would be after all that sun. That’s how I learned how to swim.
Anyway, swimming skills notwithstanding, what I loved about the whole exercise was not the water, but the idea of my mother being extra and renting out an entire place just for our family, even if it was only for the night. To me, this was Peak Mom: she was the center which always held, somewhat. She gathered everyone to her, and kept everyone together. That was her gift.
I suppose this was the gift I inherited from her—a penchant for gatherings. I try to honor this function as often as I could—making it a point to initiate a gathering when warranted, specially now that we are living separately all over the city.
But even with my mother gone, we still manage to share this function, every so often in a year, especially during those moments when we come together to remember her: Birthdays, Christmases, her death anniversary, and of course, Mother’s Day.
There’s a scene in the movie Four Sisters and a Wedding that I did not quite expect to get to me. It happens during that grand confrontation scene, where the siblings are having this Big Fight and their mother comes home to find them in the middle of a shouting match in the living room so they had to tell her what everything has been truly about.
Overachiever Bobbie tries to give the moment over to her older sister Teddie, who sinks to her knees in apology. This movie was sold to me as a comedy, but this moment genuinely tugged at heartstrings—who hasn’t lied to their mothers, after all? But more than the guilt, it’s their mother’s initial response that gets me: Did you honestly think I would not understand?
Coney Reyes nails these stone-cold exterior, soft-hearted interior mom characters all the damn time. I was raised on Coney Reyes on Camera, which was a weekly drama anthology that ran until the mid-90’s, and I remember sitting there watching with Auntie and teasing each other whenever Coney’s character reminded us of my mother.
My mother, who was a strict disciplinarian. My mother, who ran a tight household and nagged us whenever we left a light on anywhere, or if we kept opening and closing the refrigerator door, or if we were out playing so late we had to be called in for dinner repeatedly. (One time I went home missing a slipper because of Tumbang Preso and oh boy.)
So yes, she was stern, but my mother was also my number one fan in school; the one who got me a Math tutor in second grade because I couldn’t quite subtract with decimals and mixed fractions; who enrolled me in self-improvement and speech classes so I could be confident in speaking up in class because my advisers kept telling her at PTC, She’s always so shy, your daughter.
My mother was also my number one enabler: She bought me my first bike, even if it meant one day I would go home with a horrendous gash on my knee because I fell right into a ditch while on it; let me build a basketball ring in the garage even when it meant I’d keep hitting our gate with the ball; and bought us roller skates, even if it meant one day we would break her huge decorative and very fragile vases inside the house.
For the record, I did break all of them eventually, one at a time; every time, Auntie and I would spend an inordinate number of hours trying to put them back together before my mother got home from work. The first time I broke a vase we had to tell her because the glue we used was BLUE and the vase was brown hahahaha.
Anyway, Four Sisters: we head into Bobbie’s monologue, which was equally relatable—who hasn’t been misunderstood and/or blamed for things that are not really our fault? Bakit parang kasalanan ko? Story of our lives, right? Bea Alonzo also nails this scene perfectly, saktong pa-strong lang and trying not to lose it, but yet again Coney Reyes deals the finishing blow: Instead of raising her voice to defend her parenting choices, she backs down softly, and apologizes.
My mother and I didn’t have enough time to argue on significant matters, like college courses or even my partner choices. Sometimes I wonder if she’d be as accepting as Auntie, or if my mother would want to micromanage that part of my life as well (weddings! kids! firstborn shit!). There’s a nagging feeling in me that she would, because that’s how I remember her, but then again I don’t think the time we spent together was enough for me to come to an accurate conclusion.
So yeah, I also wonder how it would have been, to have had the opportunity to argue. To have had time for older emotions, for angers and epiphanies and, yes, apologies.
It was actually Cheryl Strayed on Twitter who reminded me that Mother’s Day is coming up.
This made me feel seen and comforted. I’m passing it along to anyone who might need it.
Further readings
Last year’s Mother’s Day entry.
The last time I wrote about my mother and mangoes.
Happy mother’s day, xo
K