Maria dos Anjos, 99yo, so sharp still, lucid, and very affectionate kissing our noses, as I gave her my mano po while others kissed her. It was quite touching to feel her warmth and love on Sept. 23, 2019. She smelled of some fragrance like natural flower scent. It was so wonderful to be near her, you could feel her light aura.
Maria dos Anjos, oldest living niece of about to be Saint Lucia.
On Sept 18, 2017, St. Ignatius de Loyola of Hicksville, NY posted: “The niece of Fatima visionary Sr. Lucia dos Santos, Saint Lucia, said her aunt was a normal person like everyone else, but shared some personal advice that her saintly relative used to give: to pray at least something every day. Father Jim had the opportunity to meet with her during his pilgrimage in Fatima Portugal. She is 97 years old! Maria dos Anjos, oldest living niece of Saint Lucia of Fatima.”
“Maria dos Anjos, niece of Sister Lucia, died today, June 13, at the age of 102, leaving a very beautiful testimony of someone who lived and transmitted the message of Fatima to many pilgrims from this blessed place ‘ announced the Memorial and Archives Irmã Lúcia from Carmelo de Coimbra on social media late Monday evening. Maria dos Anjos was born on January 27, 1920, worked in the countryside all her life and had 10 children.”
“Paul Tillich once wrote of art, “every style points to a self-interpretation of man, thus answering the question of the meaning of life. Whatever the subject matter, which the artist chooses he cannot help but betray by his style, his own ultimate concern as well as that of his group and his period. Tillich’s great insight into the theological dimension of art is that a work of art reveals not simply the concerns of the individual artist but also by the entire community that directly (or indirectly) supports the artist. A work of art does not stand simply as a unique expression of an individual artist but also expresses the deepest concerns of the artist’s community.” – Alejandro R. Garcia – Rivera, Wounded Innocence: Sketches for A Theology of Art, 2003.
“Ysabel’s new series entitled “Rosie” was made under the guidance of the renowned NY-based American artist Howardena Pindell. Howardena’s works are part of the collections of the NYC Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), Harvard’s Fogg Art Museum, Smithsonian Museum of American Art, Yale University Art Gallery, and many more. Howardena was also awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in painting,” Dodjie Simon (Ysabel’s dad) described the impressive body of work of his daughter’s mentor.
Ysabel opened her first solo art exhibit, “Meeting Rosie,” at the Philippine Consulate on Fifth Avenue, NY on Sept. 5, 2019. It was on exhibit from Sept. 2 to 20, 2019.
Umuulan ba?
Is it raining? Rosie would ask Ysabel ten times each day in August, the hottest month of 2019 in Los Angeles. Temperatures reached the nineties, yet the question persists from Rosie. Is she recalling her days of looking after Ysabel after school?
When Ysabel was under 10 years old, she spent afternoons at her Grandma Rosie’s house, doing homework. She got picked up from Miriam College (formerly Maryknoll) and her family visited Rosie on Sundays, gathered for Sunday meals together. When it rained, Rosie and Ysabel would watch the rains in silence, savoring each other’s presence.
The exhibit’s theme narrative read: “Rosie was born in 1936, in Cabanatuan, as Rosie Tanaka to a Filipina mother and a Japanese father. After she lost her sister and father during World War II, she with her mother escaped her hometown, changed her last name, and lived in the big city where she helped her mother sell sandwiches to augment their income. Rosie had to start school as an older child. She worked hard, graduated top of her class, and became a nurse in the field of mental health. After the birth of her fourth child, she built a halfway house, first of its kind, to care for people with mental health problems. She worked until she couldn’t. She never even took vacations. After the halfway house’s 50th anniversary, Rosie officially retired in August 2018 and joined her daughter to live in the U.S.”
Rosie asked and asked again. “Is it raining?” Was her feeble, fragile mind trying to recall her past with Ysabel? “I grew up surrounded by schizophrenia, there was no stigma around mental illness, it can be fixed, like a common cold,” Ysabel stated while she saw those patients regularly and meeting them became a normal part of her childhood.
“Do you know the significance of rains?” I asked Ysabel. Shaking her head for a no, I chimed in: “Rains are God’s blessings to us, a form of undeserved grace. Your name is Ysabel Grace, the middle name is a constant reminder that God is always blessing you.”
Our interview turned to her parents. She kept telling her dad that she always wanted to be named Elizabeth only to discover later, that Ysabel is the Spanish spelling for Elizabeth. She got what she wanted.
She is more blessed to keep getting what she wanted. She secured the exhibition space for her first solo exhibit with her dad. When she was training to audition at the Fame High School in La Guardia, she spoke about her mom being supportive and got admitted. Even her brothers are fondly talked about as she got the needed support she needed from them, Joshua mounted the paintings, while Ely helped in outreach.
Child of privilege and propitious future?
When Ysabel graduated in Chatham Middle School in New Jersey, she received an Outstanding Achievement in Fine Arts. That summer of 2012, she enrolled at the Art Students League of New York in Manhattan. She would do figure drawing and paint for four to five hours. After lunch, she took the subway to Queens and at Bridgeview School of Fine Arts, to paint for 3 to 4 hours more.
“I would cook dinner and sleep in the living room couch, as my mom was working and she had the bedroom in our apartment. I was given a map and I figured out the trains all by myself. I brought all my stuff, carrying my art box with art pads, portfolio, about twenty pounds, in the subway,” she recounted.
I sensed no resentment, just a feeling of accomplishment on her part, “I had no complaints, it did not feel like work, it was fun.”
She prepared for a three-part audition to get into the “The Fame School” (Fiorello H. La Guardia High School). It consisted of Part I: 3 drawings (live model, still life, composition in cray pas); Part II: written Q and A and an essay and Part III: art portfolio and academic records. When her mom asked how the audition went, “I don’t know,” was all she said.
A few days later, her dad received a call. Ysabel got wind of how voices quieted down. It was a call informing her dad that she was not accepted. Her choices would then be: Baruch High School or go back to New Jersey high school. But, her brother was going to New York for college, while her parents would be working in NY. She got quiet.
Her dad quickly put the rejection call into perspective, “God has another plan.” Ysabel prayed for God’s plan to manifest in her favor. True enough, her character was tested, as the rejection call later became an acceptance call.
Had Ysabel imbibed this rejection as a deficiency in her identity, what would have happened? Instead, her parents knew how to guide her with: “Leave it to God as God knows!”
Thirty minutes later, the director admitted the mistake and called to inform Ysabel was accepted.
She even excelled during the audition for high school admission. Sounds of screams, then a dinner to celebrate.
Her propitious future: ebbs and flows
Ysabel went to New York. She took the train to high school from their apartment. It took her forty-five minutes to an hour, one hour and a half to two hours, both ways on the train. She was so driven that she did not mind.
I posed another question to her, “Are you not a child of privilege? How do you feel about that status in life?” Without any hint of being entitled, she wisely responded, “Yes, I am a child of a privileged family. We are blessed with so much. We don’t deserve all these things. I am living from the fruits of the hard work that my parents have done, [and still do] and my dad never lets me forget that part of our Filipino culture: to be humble and God-fearing.”
Ysabel wanted her first solo exhibit to be about mental health awareness, that we need not stigmatize mental illness, that it can be managed, and that it is simply a result of a chemical imbalance in the brains.
She witnessed folks get well under her grandma Rosie’s care, and under the care of her licensed psychiatrist mom’s Elisa who was then practicing in the Philippines.
Ysabel consented that I share her self-diagnosed depression. It was a result of pursuing three semesters of computer science and devoting zero time to painting while in college. “My mom kept tabs on me, I showed no interest in going to classes, until my Mom and I developed a plan: change majors, change universities, and even go abroad. We then talked to my dad.”
“I went to Florence, Italy. Andi Nufer was my teacher. She emphasized to us to lower our threshold for happiness. After the Santa Croce’s bells rung, our class started. She asked that we go to the courtyard, and listen to nature before class. She taught us to appreciate sunshine, birds, flowers, blue skies so that when we encounter a big moment, we would be filled with deeper levels of happiness,” Ysabel learned abroad.
”I got my focus back and now I am taking multi-disciplinary studies majoring in Business, Asian and Asian American Studies and Studio Art. I am taking a linguistics class (anatomy of English words), finance, advanced lithography, and Korean language. I have an interest in languages and am fluent in English and Tagalog. I studied French, Italian and Japanese. I am currently learning Korean at Stony Brook University. I am also painting in a studio,” she happily shared her current status.
Ysabel Rocks in New York: Her family of artists
Ysabel is the niece of Ben Cabrera, the National Artist of the Philippines whose paintings are housed in Baguio, in a BenCab Museum and whose name has been a household name for almost a half century now. Paul McCartney owns one of his paintings.
Evelyn Mandac, the only Filipina who has sung with the New York Opera, is her aunt.
Dodjie Simon is her dad, and who has composed 65 + songs, music and lyrics, one of which is Ikaw Lamang, created for his muse, Elisa (his wife), and popularized by Zsa Zsa Padilla and revived by Janno and Jaya in the Philippines. Dodjie is also an author of A.I. Hacked, a book on artificial intelligence that was successfully launched.
Aside from a lineage of artistic and intellectual genes, Ysabel developed her artistic talents and aesthetic sensibilities through arts exposure, sheer hard work, and discipline.
I met her when she was a 17 yo high school student at Fiorello H. La Guardia High School of Music, Art and Performing Arts. She went with me to interview Ronald Cortez, a seasoned realist painter featured in my book, Even The Rainbow Has a Body.
With her parents’ approval, she and I did the interview, while her parents explored nearby Rockefeller Center. It was a beautiful chilly Halloween evening in NY in 2015, but inside, our interview was heartwarming.
Both seasoned painter and student painter easily shared their portraits, what they have done – portraits and sculptural images stored in their I-phones. They asked questions about these images, what they are trying to achieve and the artistic process.
Ysabel asked how to paint a series. Ronald responded: “Just like the rice painting, I had three to four in a series. It allowed me to change canvasses, to focus on another view. I can’t afford to rest, it prolongs the process so I move to [paint] another canvas.”
She asked about motivation, to which Ronald said, “Let the bees, trees, and the birds teach you to paint.”
I then asked Ysabel during our Sept 2019 interview: do you believe “art is a highly sophisticated storage system for understanding communication with cultures over a period of time,” and what if these Rosie’s paintings could speak, what would they say?
“It is about sharing of human experiences, an exchange of perceptions. I want the viewer to know more about mental illness. I did these series of paintings from October 2018 to August 2019. I already knew it would be a series. I remember Ronald giving me advice on how to do a series. He helped me,” Ysabel answered.
In 2016, I chose Ysabel to create the artwork for my first book cover. She drew inspiration from my muse, my granddaughter.
Ysabel shared her intentions in completing the book cover: “As legacies are intended to be passed on to the next generation, there is no better image that reflects the promise of new beginnings and hope than a child’s face. Children remind us of the choice to believe in the part of humanity’s innate creativity, resilience, goodness, and beauty in man in the midst of the constant push and pull between mediocrity and excellence, old and new, good and vile. One part of our self is what we inherit, the other is what we make of it, thus only half of the child’s face is shown.”
Shortly after, she drew an oil portrait of her grandmother, called Tinik, a fishbone hanging out of her grandma’s mouth while eating her dinner. She entered a citywide competition and won. She was then asked by her high school to represent the school in Times Square for an interview.
Tinik was exhibited at the Metropolitan Museum of Art from June to October 2016. The image of Tinik was e-broadcasted in Times Square for a whole week. Ysabel was asked by her high school to represent them during a Times Square interview. The awards ceremony was held at the Met.
Was Ysabel’s propitious future, a prosperous one, being shown to her, while in high school?
The Fragility of Life
It was NY’s Fashion Week, and folks gathered in NY’s Times Square. It was even the week of US Open held in Queens, NY. Looming gray clouds had spritzed water from above.
It was quite cold but, inside the Philippine Consulate in New York, we were greeted warmly by Ysabel, her dad, her mom, her aunt Joy, and her two brothers, Ely and Josh.
Josh Simon, her brother shared his insights and feelings: “Meeting Rosie’s portraits represent how we have seen our grandmother progressed from taking care of us, sharing her experiences, teaching us, to what she has become. We did not see the slow progression of her disease [Alzheimer’s]. When I saw her, it was heavy on me; spending months taking care of her, just as she spent time taking care of us when we were young. Our whole family became caregivers taking care of our grandma, and the heaviest load fell on Ysabel Grace, as both my mom and I were at work. Grandma is now under full-time care, 24/7 with supervision from a trained nurse back in the Philippines.”
Multigenerational aficionados, art collector, filmmakers, doctors, community friends, family members, students came while some flew in from California, her Tita Joy and her mom, Elisa who works in California. Over a hundred folks’ came to the September opening of “Meeting Rosie,” an exhibit of 10 oil paintings of Rosie, five of Ysabel’s family (mom, dad, brothers, and uncle) and lithograph studies of Rosie #1.
I met Amy Liu, 21 yo, aka Juanwen Liu, a graduate of Stony Brook University, who emigrated from Guangzhou, China during the exhibit. Amy is a dim sum chef, opera singer, painter, and writer of psychological thrillers who said: “I saw all these paintings in my class, spending time with them in the studio as a T.A. (teacher’s assistant). Looking at these oil paintings gave me a sense of serenity and peace and it has subtle shifts [in moods] to pique people’s curiosity, raise questions, what makes the grandmother the subject of the exhibit, why the flowers, the aesthetics, what do the flowers say?”
I sensed that Amy was in an analytical, creative mode of expression, so I asked, “What do the flowers say from your perspective?”
Liu has a B.A. in Studio Art, pursuing courses like creative writing, art history, digital arts minor and opera minor. She responded, amidst the cacophony of noise in the exhibit hall, excited for young Ysabel to open her solo art exhibit.
“It shows so much to appreciate. At first, I thought the flowers are there to memorialize someone, in memory of, but I learned that she is still alive. So for me, the delicate flowers show playfulness, appreciation, a reflection of youth and fragility of life,” Amy articulated.
“This is an amazing art exhibit for a young Filipina American. The consulate and the Philippine Center supports young Fil-Am artists – I want them to know this is their home to reach their potentials and truly, [they can] make this an exhibition space for their artworks,” Vice Consul General Armand Talbo remarked.
Loida Nicolas-Lewis, who previously provided airfare to a painter from the Philippines to travel to NY where his paintings were exhibited, a story which I learned from friends in the community, wrote on the exhibit’s souvenir book: “Wow! A prodigy at such a young age of painting! Our Own Renaissance Painter!”
Loida is a NY-based art collector, philanthropist, billionaire, and a community leader in civil rights and empowerment for the Filipino American community. She got a Jack and Jill Anniversary Award from the Jack and Jill Foundation dedicated to working on issues affecting African American children and their families.
She elaborated later in an email: “I wrote it [the feedback] because painting or drawing the portrait of a person requires great concentration and particularity. Ysabel’s ability to depict and paint in oil the different moods, expression, and attitude of her Grandma in several stages of her life as a senior citizen is remarkable and awesome.”
Recall that Renaissance Art was a period around 1400s – 1500s, which paralleled with the developments in philosophy, literature, music and science? Recall that Leonardo da Vinci had painted Mona Lisa roughly 1503 to 1507, and Michelangelo sculpted the Pieta in 1499?
Ysabel completed 9 oil paintings of Rosie, 4 lithographic prints (made in editions) as part of the Rosie series (only 2 out of the 4 lithograph works were showcased in the exhibition) in a year and were showcased in Sept. 2019.
“The process of lithographic printmaking requires you to be familiar with the subject. Drawing and printing again and again. I must have worked on Rosie’s face more than 50 times for just one print, “ Ysabel stated.
This writer was blessed with an unsolicited gift of Rosie #1, a lithograph. I cherish this as it has become a topic for conversation in my family.
Ysabel’s brother, Joshua, shared his interpretations of her paintings, depicting shifting moods.
Rosie #1 – lithographic print troubled but serene like looking in a mirror
Rosie #2 – similar to #1, disappointed
Rosie #3 – manic, talkative, happy
Rosie #4 – confused, angry
Rosie #5 – paranoid, anxious, controlled
Rosie #6 – supported, scared, controlled
Rosie #7 – angry, annoyed at being told what to do
Ask Ysabel who her favorite painter is and she will point you to Gustav Klimt in the Neue Gallery near the Met, whose portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer #WomaninGold was painted in 1903 to 1907, inspired by 6th Century Byzantine, after Gustav visited the Church of San Vitale in Ravenna, Italy. “It is a painting created without modeling. It reflects the richness, luxury, Japanese lacquer work, an epitome of refinement and nobility, while lavished in gold,” as described by Susanna Partsch in her book, Gustav Klimt’s Painter of Women.
Can you feel the community’s showers of support for Ysabel’s Meeting Rosie’s exhibit? Did she succeed in sharing or elevating awareness on mental illness, communicating adeptly across cultures about her love for her grandmother and across times?
“When you go the second mile – give more to your work, are more than thoughtful and kind to people, become a joyous giver and a gracious receiver—suddenly life takes on new meaning. On the second mile, you find true happiness, true friends, real satisfaction in living,” Eric Butterworth wisely wrote in his book, Discover the Power Within You.
Ysabel went for more than the second mile and became integrated into the community of caring folks, the true and beautiful supportive members of a very diverse New York community.
It’s all right, you made an error but you can start again. And maybe it wasn’t really a mistake but an opportunity for deep learning. I did the same thing earlier in life. It’s not easy to acquire wisdom, but it’s possible and eminently worthwhile. Just keep on in your journey.
Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, From Age-ing to Sage-ing, 1995
Rabbi Shalomi’s words sounded like my mom. I underlined every word as it almost was verbatim, my Mom’s words to me: patient, tender, wise and compassionate and ultimately, using each moment as a teaching opportunity.
Like a sour soup of sinigang, flavored with plum tomatoes and the right balance of salt to the broth, eaten on cold nights, my mom’s words soothe me just right. Time with her is like having my ‘well balanced sinigang’ and her life’s examples become my balanced hot sour soup for life.
It is not like pinapaitan, a bitter aftertaste one gets from conversations that cut deeply with stern criticisms. It is not like kare kare, a dense soup of peanut butter, which drags you down from self-absorbed tales.
My mom tries to take up less space. She listens to your words, but mostly your sentiments and even an unexpressed desire to live up to some ideals. I try to live up to her example, but the more I try, the more I feel I will never be like Mom. When she was in her seventies, she went back to school and studied Mandarin language. Why, I asked, to which she responds, “I feel like I am conversing with your dad, but in Mandarin, as he used to share Chinese words with me. Now, I know how to say thank you – Xièxiè.”
It was Saturday morning in Manila. “Halika na, (come now) we have to be there early as there will run out of fresh fish.”
She takes her purse, matching her simple yellow sundress, fitted to her size 2 figure, and step-in to boot. Her hair is well-coiffed, the result of having them in pink tube rollers and bobby pins that held the curls in place the night before, now unfurled to reveal soft curls that draped her shoulders. She is a proud, dignified, well-dressed woman.
Prosy’s deconstructed sinigang. | Photo taken Aug. 1, 2017
We are now walking to the Central Market, few short blocks from my home. It is a Saturday routine that I did with my mom, some days willing, and some days not. She presents me with a choice, a choice she patiently tells me: “If you come, I can carry some fruits for our panghimagas. If you don’t, then, I can only carry the ingredients for sinigang.”
She deliberately pauses. Pausing allows me to decide. Pausing allows me to step up, be mature, and be helpful. Pausing also tells me that my mother trusts my good judgment. And prompted by her faith in me, not wanting to disappoint her, I choose to go.
She uses so little words, and when she does, I easily recall the hierarchy rule she followed as we bought the sinigang ingredients.
“Mom, how do you choose what to buy?“
“Oh, I go with what your dad wants. Then, if he is not firm about his choice, I go with what your Ate Rose wants next, then, you and so on down the line.”
“Oops, I told myself, that means, I will always be kulelat, as I am third in line.”
So I had to devise a plan. “Mom, what about if I choose the fruits?” After all, she said my dad’s choice for entrée, then, my Ate Rose, so perhaps I can get what I want, lanzones and atis? She agreed.
When we got home, I thought I had the whole basket to myself. But, at the table, a fair simple rule is followed, the fruits are counted and they are divided equally amongst us all: five sisters, my parents and our helper, eight in total.
I remember when the counting started for lanzones. “Ito lima sa iyo, lima sa kanya, lima sa akin…at sa iba pa. (Five for you, five for her, five for me.)”
I tried to reason out that a small size does not equal the big lanzones that another sister got. Maybe I was trying to convince her, but perhaps because she looks at me, seeing I am about to cry, my Mom conceded. Maybe she simply played along, and then gave me her portion.
“Nandaya na naman ang kapatid namin.” Sigaw ng lahat. (Our sister is outsmarting Mom).
“Dad, nandaya na naman si Tabachoy (Dad, our sister is less than honest).”
I was called Tabachoy to poke fun, to diminish me a bit for outsmarting them in the counting of lanzones. And soon another label, ‘pilyang kapatid (mischievous sister).’
I laughed and plotted my next strategy. I had many nicknames: Tabachoy, Tabby, all related to my chubbiness.
Just when I thought I had outsmarted my sisters, my dad and my mom devised another way of leveling the playing field. They called my name and declared it was my turn to wash dishes.
Except, I foiled their plan. I hid inside the toilet, feigning diarrhea from eating too much lanzones, but most times, God must have been on my sisters’ side, as I sit there “Ere ere, ere” and like a car engine that would only rev..and not start, my innards sounded loud, and my bottoms hurt. Two parts of my body hurt from outsmarting fairness.
So, my Ate washed the dishes, foaming in the mouth, fuming mad, as the chore defaulted to her. Ate promised to get me. To this day, she still waits for the score to get even with the ‘pilya.’
Yet, the true lesson I came to learn much later-on was “ the one who outsmart others harvest their detriment.”
Those family dinners gave me my early lessons in life, the need to share and share fairly.
After a full day of teaching at least 30 children in science, my mom gathered us at the table for our fish sinigang.
“Kain na habang mainit ang sabaw (Eat now while the broth is hot).” She waited until everyone gathered at the table. She handed out the bowl, spooning the rice, then, the sinigang and she hands it to each of us.
It was a routine she kept night after night, regardless of how tired she was. Sometimes, I wondered where her energy came from. But, for us, all we knew were our hungry stomachs bidding us to the table.
In rushing downstairs, we slide down the polished wood banisters, for our sit-down meal.
“Ma, ang sarap!“ (Mom, it is delicious). Where did you find all these good looking vegetables? The colors fascinated me: white, purple, green. It was my way of acknowledging the hard work she did, to call attention to it, and to let her know she nurtured us well.
I took some kangkong, okra, eggplant, and turnips. I chose them for colors mostly, but soon, my taste buds felt satisfied, and now, my tummy felt full from eating the fish sinigang.
Her fish sinigang tasted good. It had enough tamarind juice flavor, the right balance of tomatoes, chilies, onions and a hot broth, flavored with fish sauce, with the tilapia fish that we just bought from the market.
She mustered her last ounce of energy to extend herself, even more, just to listen. All five of us, sometimes in overlapping conversations, no different from what she did for her students. Without passing any judgment, with just an open ear and an open heart, she gave us advice for the next day of school.
After, a feeling that her sinigang hit the right spot, a feeling that all was well around the table, a feeling that the circle was complete. I felt full. I felt the love of my mom and my family.
Later that evening, more like early dawn, I got up. I saw Mom studying. I was not aware she gets up each night, quietly reading her books, while everyone was asleep.
“Ma, what were you doing?“ She showed me her books, studying for finals for her Master’s of Science subjects. She stayed up till four am, and three hours later, went to school to teach thirty students. She came home, had dinner with us and corrected her exam papers, and later, studied again, repeating that cycle night after night for years.
She could have brushed me off not answering my question, but she paused. She stopped to converse, to show me what she was reading. She was patient with me. Such is my mom, ever so attentive, even while she pursued her desire for higher education.
I glanced at her table lamp, a single light bulb with enough brilliance to read from. I never forgot that evening; it became part of my path in life, her footsteps to follow, and equally, her love for higher learning. I did the same, many years later, and obtained my Juris Doctor degree. At that time, I made no correlation at all that I was following the path my mother carved out for me – while working, pursuing her personal interests, but also taking good care of her family.
One day in California, I called her, wondering where she was. She was 70 years old then. She nonchalantly shared she was going to adult school.
“But, why Mom? You are now retired. You are not working anymore,” to which she answered, “I wanted to follow your dad’s experience, I am curious as to what it takes to learn a language. And now, I can even count: ling, yi, er, san, si, wu, liu, qi, ba, jiu and shí. “ I am also learning about their culture.”
But she did not stop there. At 80 years old, she acquired a new skill, a reconnection with cooking, not her passion, as she abandoned this some years ago, when my dad took over cooking for her. I gave her a cookbook, Memories of Philippine Kitchens by Amy Besa. She called me to ask where to buy the ingredients. She was so delighted that she got to make two recipes.
Today was my regular call, every Tuesday. My mom sounded joyful. “I cooked myself leche flan and sinigang. I just followed the recipe from the cookbook you gave me, remember?“
I stayed present to her joyful moments, asking her how she did it, where she got the ingredients, and imagining the fish sinigang, the ingredients we bought together in Manila, and the nightly dinner conversations we had. But what I remember most was her sense of independence.
For Corina, my daughter’s graduation in high school 27 years ago, my Mom insisted on taking the bus.
“No, I do not need a ride.”
“Ma, I will pick you up,” I offered.
In testing the power of wills, my mom will always prevail. She was so proud, as she was the first to arrive, ahead of anyone who drove their car to the event. She proudly came on time. Later, she shared her journey: she took three buses and three hours to travel 25 miles.
While traveling in New York recently to see the Statue of Liberty, I walked to 86th and Lexington, a distance from 92nd and Madison, took the subway, then the Staten Island ferry. I cried a bit, as I recalled the hardships my mom took in being present to all of us, even to her grandchildren. She also went to New York first, and endured the harsh, cold winters for six months and then, went home. It was not till years later she immigrated with my sister Rose and lived in California.
My mom taught for nearly three and a half more decades, science and math at middle school, at Los Angeles Unified School district and Artesia-Bellflower-Cerritos School District. When she bought her house in Cerritos, we got worried with her long commute to Virgil Junior Middle School, but she persisted and reassured us she can handle all these bus stops. Later, we learned she was bothered not by the commute but the lingering cold winds while waiting for the buses.
At 80 years old, she would not think twice about standing at the bus stop just so she can get to where she wants to go. She did not believe in asking her children for rides, but she scheduled her Saturdays with Asuncion, my younger sister and together, they would do the errands and cap it with Saturday lunch with her wisdom shared with my sister.
Yes, Ma, I remember. You are my model of strength, my model of persistence, my model of self-discipline and my model of independence, a feminist ahead of your time. Yes, Ma, I will never forget what you taught me; just like the fish sinigang we shared, I will always remember how you fed my hungry heart and me.
And, today, I am fuller! Maraming salamat sa lahat ng pangangalaga mo. (Thank you for all your caring efforts). I love you very much!
Footnote: Fast forward to 2019. I just visited my mother’s tomb. Next to her is my Ate Rose, who passed away in 2016, 60 days of my Mom. Next to my Mom is my Dad, who passed away in 2000. Three of them now have gone home to God. I stepped out to the backyard and a white butterfly with a black dot on its right wing flew next to me. I know that is my Dad watching over me, my angel in heaven.
#MeetingRosie Sept.2-20, 2019 exhibit at the @phinnewyork by @ysbls_rt, who was described as “Our Own Renaissance Painter,” by Loida Nicolas Lewis on September 4, 2019. @ysbl_smn is related to the Philippines’ National Artist Ben Cabrera and her father, Dodjie Simon, is a musical composer of over 65 songs, some of which were popularized by @zsazsapadilla, @martinnievera and more. @ Philippine Consulate General in New York
At the @the_met_museum_of_art where the exhibits showcased Beatles instruments, Gustav Klimt, Kyoto artisans, Chinese atrium, and Buddhist art. @ The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
“It’s all right, you made an error but you can start again. And maybe it wasn’t really a mistake but an opportunity for deep learning. I did the same thing earlier in life. It’s not easy to acquire wisdom, but it’s possible and eminently worthwhile. Just keep on in your journey.”- Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, From Age-ing to Sage-ing, 1995
Rabbi Shalomi’s words sounded like my mom. I underlined every word as it almost was verbatim, my Mom’s words to me: patient, tender, wise and compassionate and ultimately, using each moment as a teaching opportunity.
Like a sour soup of sinigang, flavored with plum tomatoes and the right balance of salt to the broth, eaten on cold nights, my mom’s words soothe me just right. Time with her is like having my ‘well balanced sinigang’ and her life’s examples become my balanced hot sour soup for life.
It is not like pinapaitan, a bitter aftertaste one gets from conversations that cut deeply with stern criticisms. It is not like kare kare, a dense soup of peanut butter, which drag you down from self-absorbed tales.
My mom tries to take up less space. She listens to your words, but mostly your sentiments and even an unexpressed desire to live up to some ideals. I try to live up to her example, but the more I try, the more I feel I will never be like Mom. When she was in her seventies, she went back to school and studied Mandarin language. Why, I asked, to which she responds, “I feel like I am conversing with your dad, but in Mandarin, as he used to share Chinese words with me. Now, I know how to say thank you – Xièxiè.”
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It was Saturday morning in Manila. “Halika na, (come now) we have to be there early as there will run out of fresh fish.”
She takes her purse, matching her simple yellow sundress, fitted to her size 2 figure, and a step-in to boot. Her hair is well coiffed, the result of having them in pink tube rollers and bobby pins that held the curls in place the night before, now unfurled to reveal soft curls that draped her shoulders. She is a proud, dignified, well-dressed woman.
We are now walking to the Central Market, few short blocks from my home. It is a Saturday routine that I did with my mom, some days willing, and some days not. She presents me with a choice, a choice she patiently tells me: “If you come, I can carry some fruits for our panghimagas. If you don’t, then, I can only carry the ingredients for sinigang. “
She deliberately pauses. Pausing allows me to decide. Pausing allows me to step up, be mature, and be helpful. Pausing also tells me that my mother trusts my good judgment. And prompted by her faith in me, not wanting to disappoint her, I choose to go.
She uses so little words, and when she does, I easily recall the hierarchy rule she followed as we bought the sinigang ingredients.
“Mom, how do you choose what to buy?“
“Oh, I go with what your dad wants. Then, if he is not firm about his choice, I go with what your Ate Rose wants next, then, you and so on down the line.”
“Oops, I told myself, that means, I will always be kulelat, as I am third in line.”
So I had to devise a plan. “Mom, what about if I choose the fruits?” After all, she said my dad’s choice for entrée, then, my Ate Rose, so perhaps I can get what I want, lanzones and atis? She agreed.
When we got home, I thought I had the whole basket to myself. But, at the table, a fair simple rule is followed, the fruits are counted and they are divided equally amongst us all: five sisters, my parents and our helper, eight in total.
I remember when the counting started for lanzones. “Ito lima sa iyo, lima sa kanya, lima sa akin.. at sa iba pa. (Five for you, five for her, five for me.)“
I tried to reason out that a small size does not equal the big lanzones that another sister got. Maybe I was trying to convince her, but perhaps because she looks at me, seeing I am about to cry, my Mom conceded. Maybe she simply played along, and then gave me her portion.
“Nandaya na naman ang kapatid namin.“ Sigaw ng lahat. (Our sister is outsmarting Mom).
“Dad, nandaya na naman si Tabachoy.“ (Dad, our sister is less than honest.)
I was called Tabachoy to poke fun, to diminish me a bit for outsmarting them in the counting of lanzones. And soon another label, ‘pilyang kapatid,’ (mischievous sister).
I laughed and plotted my next strategy. I had many nicknames: Tabachoy, Tabby, all related to my chubbiness.
Just when I thought I had outsmarted my sisters, my dad and my mom devised another way of leveling the playing field. They called my name and declared it was my turn to wash dishes.
Except, I foiled their plan. I hid inside the toilet, feigning diarrhea from eating too much lanzones, but most times, God must have been on my sisters’ side, as I sit there “Ere ere, ere“and like a car engine that would only rev..and not start, my innards sounded loud, and my bottoms hurt. Two parts of my body hurt from outsmarting fairness.
So, my Ate washed the dishes, foaming in the mouth, fuming mad, as the chore defaulted to her. Ate promised to get me. To this day, she still waits for the score to get even with the ‘pilya’.
Yet, the true lesson I came to learn much later on was “ the one who outsmart others harvest their detriment “.
Those family dinners gave me my early lessons in life, the need to share and share fairly.
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After a full day of teaching at least 30 children in science, my mom gathered us at the table for our fish sinigang.
“Kain na habang mainit ang sabaw.” (Eat now while the broth is hot). She waited until everyone gathered at the table. She handed out the bowl, spooning the rice, then, the sinigang and she hands it to each of us.
It was a routine she kept night after night, regardless of how tired she was. Sometimes, I wondered where her energy came from. But, for us, all we knew were our hungry stomachs bidding us to the table.
In rushing downstairs, we slide down the polished wood banisters, for our sit-down meal.
“Ma, ang sarap!“ (Mom, it is delicious). Where did you find all these good looking vegetables? The colors fascinated me: white, purple, green. It was my way of acknowledging the hard work she did, to call attention to it, and to let her know she nurtured us well.
I took some kangkong, okra, eggplant, and turnips. I chose them for colors mostly, but soon, my taste buds felt satifsfied, and now, my tummy felt full from eating the fish sinigang.
Her fish sinigang tasted good. It had enough tamarind juice flavor, the right balance of tomatoes, chilies, onions and a hot broth, flavored with fish sauce, with the tilapia fish that we just bought from the market.
She mustered her last ounce of energy to extend herself even more, just to listen. All five of us, sometimes in overlapping conversations, no different from what she did for her students. Without passing any judgment, with just an open ear and an open heart, she gave us advice for the next day of school.
After, a feeling that her sinigang hit the right spot, a feeling that all was well around the table, a feeling that the circle was complete. I felt full. I felt the love of my mom and my family.
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Later that evening, more like early dawn, I got up. I saw Mom studying. I was not aware she gets up each night, quietly reading her books, while everyone was asleep.
“Ma, what were you doing?“ She showed me her books, studying for finals for her Master’s of Science subjects. She stayed up till four am, and three hours later, went to school to teach thirty students. She came home, had dinner with us and corrected her exam papers, and later, studied again, repeating that cycle night after night for years.
She could have brushed me off not answering my question, but she paused. She stopped to converse, to show me what she was reading. She was patient with me. Such is my mom, ever so attentive, even while she pursued her desire for higher education.
I glanced at her table lamp, a single light bulb with enough brilliance to read from. I never forgot that evening; it became part of my path in life, her footsteps to follow, and equally, her love for higher learning. I did the same, many years later, and obtained my juris doctor degree. At that time, I made no correlation at all that I was following the path my mother carved out for me – while working, pursuing her personal interests, but also taking good care of her family.
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One day in California, I called her, wondering where she was. She was 70 years old then. She nonchalantly shared she was going to adult school.
“But, why Mom? You are now retired. You are not working anymore,” to which she answered, “I wanted to follow your dad’s experience, I am curious as to what it takes to learn a language. And now, I can even count: ling, yi, er, san, si, wu, liu, qi, ba, jiu and shí. “ I am also learning about their culture.”
But she did not stop there. At 80 years old, she acquired a new skill, a reconnection with cooking, not her passion, as she abandoned this some years ago, when my dad took over cooking for her. I gave her a cookbook, Memories of Philippine Kitchens by Amy Besa. She called me to ask where to buy the ingredients. She was so delighted that she got to make two recipes.
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Today was my regular call, every Tuesday. My mom sounded joyful. “I cooked myself leche flan and sinigang. I just followed the recipe from the cookbook you gave me, remember?“
I stayed present to her joyful moments, asking her how she did it, where she got the ingredients, and imagining the fish sinigang, the ingredients we bought together in Manila, and the nightly dinner conversations we had. But what I remember most was her sense of independence.
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For Corina, my daughter’s graduation in high school 27 years ago, my Mom insisted on taking the bus.
“No, I do not need a ride”.
“Ma, I will pick you up,” I offered.
In testing the power of wills, my mom will always prevail. She was so proud, as she was the first to arrive, ahead of anyone who drove their car to the event. She proudly came on time. Later, she shared her journey: she took three buses and three hours to travel 25 miles.
While travelling in New York recently to see the Statue of Liberty, I walked to 86th and Lexington, a distance from 92nd and Madison, took the subway, then the Staten Island ferry. I cried a bit, as I recalled the hardships my mom took in being present to all of us, even to her grandchildren. She also went to New York first, and endured the harsh, cold winters for six months and then, went home. It was not till years later she immigrated with my sister Rose and lived in California. She taught for nearly three and half more decades, science and math at middle school, at Los Angeles Unified School district and Artesia-Bellflower-Cerritos School District. When she bought her house in Cerritos, we got worried with her long commute to Virgil Junior Middle School, but she persisted and reassured us she can handle all these bus stops. Later, we learned she was bothered not by the commute but the lingering cold winds while waiting for the buses.
At 80 years old, she would not think twice about standing at the bus stop just so she can get to where she wants to go. She did not believe in asking her children for rides, but she scheduled her Saturdays with Asuncion, my younger sister and together, they would do the errands and cap it with Saturday lunch with her wisdom shared with my sister.
Yes, Ma, I remember. You are my model of strength, my model of persistence, my model of self-discipline and my model of independence, a feminist ahead of your time. Yes, Ma, I will never forget what you taught me; just like the fish sinigang we shared, I will always remember how you fed my hungry heart and me.
And, today, I am fuller!! Maraming salamat sa lahat ngpangangalaga mo. (Thank you for all your caring efforts). I love you very much!
Footnote: Fast forward to 2019. I just visited my mother’s tomb. Next to her is my Ate Rose, who passed away in 2016, 60 days of my Mom. Next to my Mom is my Dad, who passed away in 2000. Three of them now have gone home to God. I stepped out to the backyard and a white butterfly with a black dot on its right wing flew next to me. I know that is my Dad watching over me, my angel in heaven.
