A Story

The smell of latex. The warm, soft glow of hallway lights. The continuous beeping of the life support machine. The dreadful fear of the many beeps becoming one. These past few months have been the absolute worst. Walking back and forth to the flimsy coffee machine, having to endure yet another cup of cold, bitter caffeine with the hopes that it will keep you awake long enough to not miss one living second. Yup, these have been the absolute worst months I have been through. But, ya know, I came to appreciate the greatest woman I have ever and will ever know in my lifetime even more than before.

About two weeks ago, before my mother’s tumor grew so large that it prevented her from speaking, I sat down and had a heart to heart with her. Not one of those "What did you want to do when you grew up" heart to hearts. It was a REAL heart to heart. A corazon a corazon. I sat down next to her and I, through the lump of crying shame in my throat, uttered the words, "Mami, I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry for not always being the best daughter I could be."

Nonchalantly ignoring my pathetic attempt at an apology, she said, "Ay, mijita. Please, sit down. Let’s talk. Let me tell you about my life because once I’m gone, there won’t be anybody to pass the story along." So I pulled up a chair next to the stiff concoction that the hospital labeled as a bed, grabbed my cup of stale coffee, and prepared to hear the best story of my life.

"I have been in this country for 35 years and there are still things I am not used to. But I was quick to realize that if you get used to it, you get used to it, if not, you fall behind. So, for the sake of my four children, I got used to it. For example, here in the US, girls start wearing make-up, having boyfriends, plucking their eyebrows, and shaving their legs as young as 12. I think its probably gotten younger while I’ve been in the hospital, pero bueno. In Cuba, the first time a girl could even dream of make-up and arched eyebrows was the night of her fifteenth birthday. So when you and your sisters would come home in tears because some other girl was making fun of your bushy eyebrows or your hairy legs, it broke my heart, but I knew that if I wanted to keep our culture sacred, I could not give in. You girls would come home excited about your little driver’s ed courses and I simply sat there bewildered. That wasn’t important in Cuba, not as important as it is here. Girls were not to be concerned with getting their licenses or their little part-time jobs. The youngest age a woman was to get a job was at 21. Before then, it was to stay at home and prepare for marriage. It was to learn how to cook, clean, and sew with your mother. And girls got married young, too. To think, I was considered old when I got married and I was only 18! But dating sure was a funny thing because my father was so strict in some aspects and yet so confusingly lenient in other aspects. There, it was mandatory that a chaperone always be with a boy and a girl while they were out on a date or anywhere for that matter. So the chaperone was understandable. But my father always had this weird rule where I could not go to the beach with a boyfriend. And if I did go, I had to stay fully dressed and not go in the water. My father had the belief that the only time my boyfriend could even possibly glance at my thighs was after we were married. Can you believe that? But my father did something to me that I would never even imagine doing to my girls. When I was14, I had a boyfriend. My father then suddenly decided that I was at the age where boys and school could simply not be together. And so, at the young age of 14, I had to make a choice that would impact the rest of my life. Being young and naive, I chose the boyfriend and so began the horrifying roller coaster that has been my life. Now, you would think that after not having any education whatsoever, I would feel it necessary to depend on a man, but I did not do that. Do you think I depended on my first husband to get me out of that communist country? No, I didn’t. I did it myself and I went out to do excruciating agricultural work in the scorching heat while I was pregnant with your brother just to be able to breathe in the free air of this country. I was doing a job that grown men would resign from because they could not deal with it. Did I depend on your father to bring home enough money to buy food and pay the bills? No, I didn’t. I contributed what I possibly could. I would iron bundles and bundles of the neighbor’s clothes for only $10. I would iron a man’s long-sleeved business shirts while his wife sat at home and wallowed in her soap operas. I did what I had to. I made these sacrifices for my children, for my babies. I endured the heart wrenching comments against my "non-English speaking ass" and my refugee status to ensure that you all would live a better life. That you would have more choices for jobs and education. But at the same time, I held onto the culture that makes up each and every one of your hearts. I held on to the traditions and the tendencies, but let go of the ignorance and the things that just didn’t make sense. A woman’s life is made up of sacrifice, whether she likes it or not. A woman does what she does to survive, but always, whether she admits it or not, always keeps the well-being of others in mind first. A woman is naturally giving, naturally loving, naturally natural. So, do you think with the short time I have left, I can write the story of my life?"

The lump in my throat had become dry and my tongue had to be pried off of the roof of my mouth. I tried my best to control my tears, but I couldn’t. They just flowed. I grabbed my mother’s tiny fragile hand, the hand she would iron with, do agricultural work with, sew with, cook with, change diapers with, discipline with, and I lightly kissed it.

"No te precupes, Mami. Don’t worry. I will write the story for you."

She then said, "But it wasn’t my story. It was your story, both your sisters’ story, your brother’s story. You four are the reason I have done everything I have done. Love the story. Embrace the story. Live the story." And with that, she closed her teary brown eyes and fell into a gentle slumber. And I took a sip of the vile black liquid, promising myself I would not miss one living second of what remained of this incredible woman’s life.

**My mother is perfectly healthy, but the story of this life is her's