We are so different yet so alike, to a point that it's scary.
We have the same obsession with clothes.
We both have quirky personalities that come out, only in the comfort of our homes and only in front of immediate family.
We both have secret obession with the famous American-made burger.
We both have the most stubborn streak and inability to voice our sorries when angry or hurt.
We have the same eyes, though I didn't gain her beautiful tan skin. Nope. I got my papi's.
Darn.
Me and her though the same . . . are different. It's because of those differences that we find ourselves in arguements a lot. Especially lately, with me going off to college and all. It scares her but she doesn't voice it out loud. She hinds it.
It might seem odd for many but for me it's the usual.
My mother has never been a vocal person. She never said "I love you" often, nor did she praise us for our work.
All I ever got was critism after critism.
Whenever I did something wrong she voiced it. I was never praised for a good act.
It urked me. It made me angry and sad. I was confused, wistfully looking at other childrens mothers who lovingly coddled them.
In time I learned to ignore the nagging voice of her judgements and though it still hurt, I let it go as it came.
Then after one particular nasty arguement, which ended with her completely ignoring me and having me in my room in tears I learned something.
It was the next day that when I came from school. I went up into my room, surprised to see it clean and to find new clothes lying on the bench.
My mother is a funny person. I never got the "Oh! Look what I got for you!" when I came home. It was always a silent act of lovingly folding new clothes or placing new items in my room.
I never thanked her. I took it as a normal occurance. And continued to wear the clothes she got for her daughter. Clothes that she never got to wear.
You see. My mother was born in, literally, the middle of nowhere in Laos.
Her father died when she was five, leaving my grandmother a widow with two little girls. My mom and her little sister.
Communist soldiers invaded their village, leaving them to flee for their lives with nothing but the clothes on their back. My grandmother met up with her deceased husband's sister and they traveled together. While traveling my grandmother noticed the children were sleeping for a long time and were strangly quiet.
They were drugged to sleep. They couldn't risk having them cry from hunger or fustration. Not with communist soldiers scouring the jungles.
They urged my Grandmother to drug my mother and her little sister. She said no. She explained to my mother what was happening. For a little girl, at age six, she understood. She never cried or spoke. She kept her silence.
One morning my Grandmother woke up to find her youngest cold in her arms.
Dead.
They buried her on the trail. Marked only by a mound of dirt.
My Grandmother then got sick and she was left behind with my mother by her sister-in-law. They couldn't afford to wait for her. My mother sat patiently, hiding under giant jungle leaves as my Grandmother struggled to gain her strength back.
When she did they got back on the trail again, catching up to the family at the MeKong River.
However, they didn't have any money. They watched sullenly as the rest of the family paid the boat fees and climbed on. A Thai villager took pity on my Grandmother and her little daughter.
They blew up plastic bags and tied them around my Grandmother. My mother was then hoisted onto her shoulders and then they were dragged across the almost 3-mile river.
I don't know much of what happened between their landing and entering the refugee camp. All I know was that they ate rancid rice, dirt, and banana leaves.
My Grandmother remarried. However since my mother's father was a Vue, that made her a Vue. She belonged to that clan. My Grandmother married a Lor. So off she went with her new family leaving my mother with her cruel aunt.
My mother didn't come to the states until she was thirteen. The time between then was filled with catching frogs for her dinner, sewing items to sell at the market, and cleaning the tiny hut she occupied with her aunt. Through all of this she found time to sneak into the school. She sat in the back, learning everything she could. Drinking in the knowledge she knew was precious. Her aunt would be furious but she didn't care.
Sacremento, California was where she came to. Her first steps in the States. She went to school, fustration leaving with her as she tried to adjust to the English language.
She took care of herself.
She was alone. She had nobody. Her aunt didn't pay for her school nor any medical bills.
My mother did her best. She learned to care for her teeth, often pulling her own teeth that others would go to a dentist for. She earned money to buy a car. She learned the latest fashion and learned how to dress. She even joind the cheerleading team at her school.
However, the money she earned was suppose to go to her aunt. My mother can recall one experience in which she was eating ice cream on the sidewalk. Bought with her own money. She saw my aunt walking down just as she took the first lick. The ice cream was ceremoniously thrown down the garbage. She didn't want to take the consequences.
At fifteen she joind the church. She told me it felt right despite everyone, her own people, shunning her. She said the church, the gospel made her feel as if she had a father hugging her everyday. She felt right and that everything in her life led up to this moment. It was meant to be.
The story continues with my parents elopement late down the road. But that is another story for another time.
My mother who was raised so differently promised herself to raise her own daughters with love. She had no mother. She had no father. She did not want that for me. She does not want that for my two little sisters.
My mother shows her love differently. The clothes she buys so we aren't teased at school is one of the many testaments of her love.
Dinner was always ready, food that tates so amazing. (It's asian duh!)
The house always fresh smelling and clean when I came home from school.
My mother is also very protective.
I can remember questioning my mother on shaving. Yes, shaving. In middle school, it seemed all the girls were doing it. I asked and my mother just looked at me.
"No." That was the end of that topic.
I didn't shave untill this past year. My senior year. And the first time my mother grabbed my leg and put it on the counter then did it for me. That was a different experience but she didn't want me to cut myself with the shaver. She was scared I would hurt myself and if my clumsy nature it was possible.
She didn't let me put make-up on myself. She did it for me for two years before I went to school everyday. Then finally she taught me the basics and I got to doing it myself.
During my very shy, and ugle duckling stage, I had a habit of folding my arms and tucking myself in when I walked. A sort of protective stance to keep people form looking at me I guess. She worked so hard to break that habit. She wanted me to stand tall and be confident, despite my glasses and horrid braces.
Whenever I commented on how one girl at school was wearing this or that. She would say that's stupid wear your own clothes and whatnot. She helped me create my self-identity. One that until the past two years didn't realize existed.
She said be yourself. Then went off to rambel on how I need to dress better and get ready for school. I retaliated that I was fine with wearing sweats. That if she told me it doesn't matter what other people think then why is she so worried about me dressing good. She told me it was because it was for myself.
I never got that. Until last year. I realized she wanted me to have confidence in myself. To show other people that I'm my own person.
My mother seems to put out a silent type of person.
Ha!
Not true.
She is loud. Quirky. And oh so weird.
She hates sharing cups with anybody. One time she sipped the straw of my aunts by accident, thinking it was her cup. She washed her mouth in the sink then went and rinsed her mouth three times in the bathroom. All after she screamed loudly and moaned as if her life was over.
Don't even get me started on her voice impersonations and opinions on high school relationships.
Booger-eating love. That's what a high school relationship is. Attention teenagers, we share and eat each others boogers.
Or her sillyness in thinking its funny to shove people's faces in other peoples armpits or fit to smell. When we do it to her she gets angry and won't speak to us for the entire day but she loves doing it to us.
Or the funny looks she shoots us when we get all lovey-dovey and hug her exclaming "We love you!"
One time she pulled out a twenty dollar bill to that response. Sadly it doesn't work anymore :)
I understand now my mother. . . . . maybe. There is still an air of mystery around her. But I realized now how lucky I am to have her.
It often seems such a tiring task to talk to her becuase she hides her emotinos and I am a very emotion based person, but I love the bonding moments we have.
The wonderful shopping moments when I walk out of a fitting room and she'll exclaim out loud that I look like a hooker.
The bored faces she holds on her face while I go off about the latest drama that has entered my life.
I would never trade her for any other mom. Ever.
I take the critism and try to do better. I take the clothing, "I love you" ringing through my head. I hug my mother just to see the weird look she gives me. I tease my mother constantly, hands, feet, and other items flying towards my head. I sneak behind the walls to scare her, or at least attempt to everyday. I love her. So much. I am bad at saying it constantly and this year will strive to say it everyday. Whether seriously or teasingly in Chinese :)
She isn't like any other mother. She may seem mean to others for the acts she does . . . but that's not true. She is the nicest. She spoils me with clothes and feeds my sweet tooth. Yet she taught me to work hard. She taught me to clean. She taught me to cook.
She is the nicest mommy anyone can ever have. Protective, quirky, and serious.
And she is mine.
Living in American Fork backin 2002 or 1 . . . It's old. I was like 8 or 9. Too lazy to do math.
This past summer in Moab. She's the one the the hat . . . . She didn't want to get darker. Haha.
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