{"id":11642,"date":"2012-07-16T00:01:51","date_gmt":"2012-07-16T07:01:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dvan.org\/?p=11642"},"modified":"2018-10-14T22:01:52","modified_gmt":"2018-10-15T05:01:52","slug":"reflections-on-my-mothers-life","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dvan.org\/2012\/07\/reflections-on-my-mothers-life\/","title":{"rendered":"Reflections on My Mother’s Life"},"content":{"rendered":"

Mothers are the figures of our lives, whether our maternal relationships are happy or complicated otherwise. Guest author Christina Vo reflects upon her own mother, the present yet absent figure who continually shapes her daughter’s own life. Here, “My Mother” offers a quiet meditation on one daughter’s experience of her mother and the ever changing perspectives of that one unique woman.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/em><\/em><\/em>\"\"<\/a>“My Mother”<\/p>\n

I never really knew my mother when she passed away.<\/p>\n

She died when I was 14\u2014before I could really see her as a person, or ask questions to better understand the decisions and sacrifices that shaped her as a woman.<\/p>\n

At the time of her death, her primary and only role seemed to be that of caretaker to our family.<\/p>\n

Over the years, I’ve put together pieces of her story based on conversations with the few people who knew her intimately\u2014her siblings and one very close friend. Her death, as much as her life, helped define the woman I am today. Her absence gave me a space to imagine my mother\u2014this woman I barely knew. Her life, once I could form a somewhat coherent narrative about it, inspired me and gave me courage.<\/p>\n

As a child, when I\u2019d seen black and white pictures of the younger version of my mother, I was struck by her beauty. The young woman in Cambodia, where she was born and raised to Vietnamese parents, was so stylish and slim with her bold-printed headbands, a bobbed haircut, and a broad smile. I would pore over these photos quickly, unable to believe that the intriguing person staring back at me could\u2019ve actually been my mother. What remains most disturbing is that it wasn\u2019t so much her beauty that I disbelieved, as the fact that she looked so happy, effervescent even. That bold, radiant joy never seemed to surface in the daily monotony of child rearing.<\/p>\n

I’ve never forgotten those photos, remaining in awe of the woman I saw in them.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>In my own reality, I never thought my mother was beautiful. She was \u0111i\u1ec7u<\/em>, the Vietnamese word I would learn much later in life that described a person concerned with their appearance. When I think about my mother\u2019s wardrobe and the walk-in closet I’d sometimes peruse, I recognize now that my mother cultivated a powerful sense of style. She shopped compulsively\u2014at my father\u2019s expense\u2014and seemed equally as obsessed with her children’s appearances as she was with her own. She dressed my sister and me like dolls\u2014in matching outfits from expensive children\u2019s boutiques that we could never really afford. Every evening before we went to bed, she demanded that we select our clothes for the next day. She made sure she approved of the chosen outfits, assuring herself that we’d be presentable and put-together. If we didn\u2019t make a decision, she would select an outfit for us.<\/p>\n

Strangely, my mother never talked about her history. On occasion, my parents would make a passing reference to how my mother had been a doctor in Vietnam (she’d met my father in medical school in Saigon). My father once mentioned that when we lived in Connecticut, she had opened a restaurant. I was too young to remember my mother\u2019s restaurant. \u201cBut she was too nice,\u201d he added, shaking his head. \u201cShe gave too much food away to people she liked, so she could never make a profit. She wasn\u2019t a good businessperson.\u201d<\/p>\n

From my uncle, I learned a little more about the young woman from Phnom Penh. He told me how she loved to dance and play ping pong. The mother I knew, by contrast with this vital young woman, was too timid or embarrassed even to play ping pong with me in the privacy of our basement. My uncle told me she was beautiful, fashionable, and loved to dress up. He told me she had a crowd of fans and admirers\u2014not only because she was attractive, but also because she was kind and giving.<\/p>\n

I knew for certain that my mother cared deeply about other people. My mother didn\u2019t drive, but she had an unusual capacity to befriend strangers and neighbors, who would eventually become our willing transportation\u2014rides to the hairdresser, the mall, even the farmer\u2019s market. My mother, always generous and gracious, would return these favors tenfold. She wrote thank you cards in response to thank you cards. She would make egg rolls and other Vietnamese dishes for anyone who helped us. She prepared food for the salespeople at HH Gregg, an appliance retailer in Indiana, and at JCPenny, where she purchased her jewelry on layaway. I still remember the plastic plates stacked with spring rolls left on the kitchen table, carefully prepared for my father to bring to his colleagues at work. Her primary\u2014perhaps her only\u2014currency was her food.<\/p>\n

She was a domineering parent, to put it mildly. She was strict, volatile, often inconsistent. But as quickly as she rose in anger, she would calm again and rest in a place of unconditional love. Needless to say, for a child, this repeated experience felt confusing: one minute I was grounded for “not listening”; the next moment, out of guilt, she would be excessively doting and loving. \u201cNext time we go to the mall, I\u2019ll buy you something,\u201d she would say, trying to regain my affection.<\/p>\n

My mother was totally and entirely dependent on my father\u2014for rides, for money, for almost everything. Once, after they’d had a huge fight, she told us that my sister and I would move out with her and live in a place on our own.<\/p>\n

Initially this sounded fun, maybe even somewhat liberating. Then I thought about her plan more carefully and wondered how we would possibly be able to survive.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe can live in an apartment in town, behind the mall. Then we can just walk everywhere,\u201d she claimed.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut what are you going to do for a living? How will we have money?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can work at the grocery store and bag groceries,\u201d she responded.<\/p>\n

Her idea didn\u2019t convince me because I could never imagine my mother working\u2014and I doubt she could have either.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>At times, I remember feeling the weight of my mother\u2019s sadness and loneliness. As much as she gave to us, she also needed us desperately. My sister and I were more like companions to her than offspring: we softened the solitude, along with anyone\u2014the Avon lady, the Schwann\u2019s salesperson, the Electrolux man\u2014who might so much as pass by the house during the day<\/p>\n

When we were in elementary school, I remember she would often ask us to stay home with her. \u201cI\u2019ll write a note to the teacher and tell her you were sick,\u201d she would say. But her efforts to keep me near her, only made me want to leave even more. I could never imagine other mothers asking their children to stay home from school.<\/p>\n

She loved us, I never doubted this. In fact, she loved us to the point of smothering us, never allowing us to be free from her reign. Rarely she would loosen her grip, ultimately only to pull us back more tightly. Had she lived until we were much older, I am certain she would likely have found it anguishing to watch us grow into adults, to let us live independent lives.<\/p>\n

After a time, I reached the conclusion that her love was fragile because it was constructed out of need. At certain points in my life\u2014often during the periods when I was living abroad\u2014I would consider the idea that there was no way my mother could have been satisfied with her life. I felt certain that she would\u2019ve chosen a different path if she could have, if she’d only had the option. My aunt told me once that my mother never wanted to go to medical school, and that in she’d loved languages and her real dream was to be an interpreter for the United Nations.<\/p>\n

Often, I’ve wondered why she hadn\u2019t pursued her own dreams.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

On a recent visit to my older sister and her family in Indiana (she married in her early 20s; her children are seven and nine years old), I saw my mother in her, in the way she cared for her kids and the razor-like focus she placed on family life. Like my mother did, she seems to live for her children, and she excels at showing them love and support. She rushes them from soccer practice to dance to basketball to roller skating birthday parties. When they come inside after playing with their neighborhood friends, mugs full of warm hot chocolate await them.<\/p>\n

My sister, I believe\u2014though we have never talked about this\u2014interpreted my mother\u2019s life differently from me. I believe she saw my mother as generally happy and that she derived joy and satisfaction in raising us, in being there for us, taking care of us. My sister seems to know that exact desire: to give almost all her time and attention to her children. Whereas I viewed our mother as a strong, capable woman who never lived her full potential\u2014something that made me fearful, in my own adulthood that if I gave too much, there would be nothing left for me.<\/p>\n

I was surprised to hear my sister talk about how she pictures her life after her kids are raised. \u201cMaybe I\u2019ll go to nursing school, and then work as a traveling nurse. I\u2019d love to work in another country,\u201d she told me. \u201cAfter the kids grow up, I\u2019ll have time.\u201d<\/p>\n

It would surprise her, I’m sure, if I confessed that I love the idea of raising a family and living a domestic life. But that image sometimes contradicted the woman I wanted to be\u2014the one who was independent and self-sufficient. The woman who was well-traveled, career oriented and lived life on her terms, not at the whims of another\u2019s wishes or desires.<\/p>\n

I wanted to talk to my sister about those contradictions. I wanted to tell her that there were a few years in my life when I thought I\u2019d be devastated if I were to remain childless. And, at the same time, the thought of having children and relinquishing my freedom felt equally as devastating.<\/p>\n

During my visit, I observed my sister\u2019s life\u2014the quiet comfort of family and the love between her and her children. One afternoon, when I asked my niece where my sister was, she responded, \u201cMom is in the kitchen. She\u2019s there, she\u2019s always there for us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, your mother is always there. That\u2019s true,\u201d I responded. Then\u2014silently\u2014I wished that when she grew older, she\u2019d be able to see and know my sister as more than just her mother\u2014the person who was always there for her. I wanted her be able to know her mother as a whole person, someone with complex feelings and tastes, with a unique history and ultimately, distinction.<\/p>\n

That visit, I think, helped me reach a more nuanced understanding of my mother. Feeling more comfortable in the gray areas, the zones of contradiction, I recognized that both my sister and I have lived out different facets of my mother\u2019s personality: the devoted caretaker and the free spirit.<\/p>\n

By choosing a domestic life, my mother didn\u2019t outright disregard certain aspects of her own character. She made a choice, I tell myself. And while I\u2019m sure there were many moments of unhappiness and uncertainty, she negotiated and overcame those challenges, like we all do. Now, I take some comfort knowing that she must\u2019ve derived satisfaction from loving us, giving to us, and creating an environment in which we would feel safe, secure, and loved. Maybe raising a family was her dream?<\/p>\n

I have also recently decided that the vivacious spirit\u2014the one I thought existed only in black-and-white photos from Cambodia\u2014was very much part of my mother\u2019s personality. I see it more clearly now, a more complex image of her comes to the surface. She was an intelligent woman, she was a devoted mother and wife, and she was a good friend. She was a creative woman who put such passion in the food she prepared for us\u2014trying new recipes, baking homemade bread, buying at least a hundred cookbooks to line the bookshelves in our sunroom. She was the woman who planted a beautiful garden and enrolled in a correspondence course to study interior design. She was the woman who in the last months of her life found two French women in our small town in southern Indiana to teach her to knit and crochet, leaving behind a half dozen blankets that she labored over\u2014two still drape the sofa in my father\u2019s living room.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

I still wish I could again hear her words, her thoughts about what she might do differently. On the one hand, I think she\u2019d tell me that we make choices and live through the consequences, and that life will always require a delicate balance of love and commitment to others, as much as to oneself. That\u2019s something we learn to negotiate, and hopefully get better at with time.<\/p>\n

But, in other moments (and this is probably the more accurate picture), I imagine sitting at our kitchen table. She would put a homemade meal\u2014maybe a yellow chicken curry and a warm baguette\u2014in front of me.<\/p>\n

And then she’d say:<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Tina. Don\u2019t worry about it. You are like your father, you think too much.\u201d<\/p>\n

Born in Connecticut to Vietnamese parents, Christina Vo grew up in Tennessee, Utah, Illinois, and Indiana, and then attended college in North Carolina. Unable to decide where to live after she graduated, she tried as many places as she could: Hanoi (on three separate occasions), Saigon, London, San Francisco, and Geneva. While in Vietnam, Christina worked as an account executive for JWT, a communications officer for UNICEF, a program manager for Solidaridad, and even toyed with the idea of designing handbags. She happily and thankfully settled in\u00a0San Francisco and spends as much spare time as possible working on her first book.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u2013<\/p>\n

Do you enjoy reading diaCRITICS? Then please\u00a0consider subscribing<\/a>!<\/em><\/p>\n

Please take the time to rate this post (above) and share it (below). Ratings for top posts are listed on the sidebar. Sharing (on email, Facebook, etc.) helps spread the word about diaCRITICS. And join the conversation and leave a comment! What are your reflections on your mother?
\n<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Mothers are the figures of our lives, whether our maternal relationships are happy or complicated otherwise. Guest author Christina Vo reflects upon her own mother, the present yet absent figure who continually shapes her daughter’s own life. 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