Dear Mom; hey...
Hey. I’m not sure if what I’m going to say is appropriate to say to you. I hope that you never get your hands on this letter. I don’t want you to think that I hate you in any way, shape, or form. I definitely don’t want you to think less of me. Sometimes, I feel like you already think lowly of me, but then you brag about the accomplishments I’ve achieved and then I no longer think those dismal thoughts.
I’m writing about you for a reason. For the past week, we’ve had a workshop called Mommy's Hands. You were the first woman I thought of. Admittedly, I didn’t think of you frequently but you were still there. Your name stared , no, glared back at me for most of the workshop considering the fact that I put you down for a lot of things. I put you down as nurturer, as the person that brings harm into my life, as the hitchhiker, and a few more. As much as I tried to keep your name from flowing from the ink of my pen, I couldn’t. Your name jumped around the page with starting truth to it. I hated it, yet loved it.
When your name sat there for me to watch, it unnerved me. Your name on my paper made me remember things. Small things. Everyday things. Like how when I’m eating, you constantly remind me of my weight by the way you stare at the food that’s on its way to my mouth and by making hurtful comments of how I’m getting “bigger”. And when I don’t eat because I’m not particularly in the mood for eating, you pester me to eat and you still stare at the food on its way to my mouth. Like when I’m exited for a new something and you make a face of disdain at what I’m saying or doing and you say your classic “¿Oh si?” Without losing the sour face. You make me feel so small. Like I’m insignificant. Like in order for you to like me, I have to be someone completely different. I wish it wasn’t the case, but it is. Sometimes I think that maybe if I screamed all of this from the top of the apartment building, then you’d notice that those everyday things mean the universe to me. That when you do those things, I feel like crying and hiding from the world; that I feel like an ugly soul. Because if I’m not good enough for you, then how the hell am I good enough for anyone else?
You’re name isn’t comprised of all bad things though, you’re also the good, the delight, the joy, and occasionally, the happy. The pride that shines on your face everytime I sing on stage at church, and when I come off a stage sweaty and sore for trying hard on a dance performance, and when I give you my occasional finished “masterpiece” even though it’s not something that would go up in a museum or gallery, brings me joy in knowing that you cherish the little things I rarely do. But most of all, I love how proud you seem when I wake up every morning with a big ass GOOD MORNING loud enough to awaken the whole apartment block. You seem so delighted when I smile at the silly things that our family does. Like when we bake, most of the batter ends up on the floor or in the trash or actually on the baking tray because of the countless mistakes I make while we’re working and you see me with endless laughter. Or when we go to my Abuela Martha’s house and we go down to the beach and make a hole big enough to bury my uncle vertically and just dance and do tricks around him while giggling hysterically. You especially seemed happy when you saw me smile during christmas because I got the only thing I asked for. These things all make me realize that I’m not as small as I sometimes feel and loved more than I think.
I’m not sure if I’m quite ready to unearth and speak about the other things we have going on, but I’m pretty sure I will with a little more time.
With sincere love,
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OMH Writer's Workshop participants.