The
hands pulled my strands of hair softly. My mother worked my tresses, rolling
them into papelillos, paper bag
strips...a way of curling hair in Cuba during the fifties.
Except
for our hair my sister and I were ready to go. It was Mother's Day and my mother
dressed us alike. She copied a pattern from the fancy stores in Havana, those
that brought in the stylish garments from the States, and she paid a seamstress
to make the dresses. Ruffles, lace and pastel colors dazzled our outfits...matching bows on our hair. The Gacio girls appeared dressed like any well
dressed American girls on Mother's Day...except for one thing. They both had a
special adornment pinned to the top of their dress. A red rosebud.
My
mother wore a similar red flower though larger on her dress but when my Abuela Tata came in I soon noticed hers
was different, snow white. So I asked...
"Mami, we wear red flowers and Abuela Tata white? Is it because she
doesn't like red?"
My
mother took me aside and whispered. "No, Mayi. It's because her mamá is in heaven. Ours are here with
us. The Cuban custom is to wear a flower on Mother's Day To honor your mamá. The color chosen tells where your mamá is."
Every time I saw my Abuela Tata
that day I looked at her white rose and felt sad for her. No mamá.
My Two
Mothers / Cuban
The
first mother I ever knew is my Cuban mother. She nursed me through the illness,
called polio, when I was four. She worked so hard trying to give life to what
lacked it...my leg. She patiently and constantly draped heated cloths on my
paralyzed leg, following the doctor's orders. When we came to live in the states, for a very long time, my mother
bought very few garments for herself. Always the concentration remained on her
daughters. She didn't want us to be embarrassed if we had to attend a school
function. Any money that could be spared went for the benefit of her girls. My
Cuban mother taught me what it is like to love sacrificially.
My Two
Mothers / American
An American lady came into my life more than
thirty years ago. I was going through a trauma and became an emotional and
spiritual cripple. This lady brought in the light. She worked so hard trying to
give life to what lacked it...my soul. She understood what I was going through
and she patiently stayed and prayed with me till the storm passed. Her kindness
and example motivates me, even to this day to help others going through the
same kinds of experiences. This lady honors me by calling me her Cuban daughter.
My mother, Hilda Gacio. My mother, Betty Robinson.
CUBAN AMERICAN
Once again,
this Mother's day, I'll be on the hyphen. One arm around my Cuban mother and one arm around my American mother.
This
Mother's Day, the Lord willing, we
will have a family reunion at our house. In the air will be the Cuban's
favorite scent of a clean house, Pinesol,
competing with the aroma of my husband's American style turkey with stuffing.
There will be flan and apple pie. The happy rumble of Spanish spoken by many at
once will rock us all with laughter when we can't understand the words
spoken. And the American order of a meal ready on time will still baffle me. This Mother's Day I will sit on my
hyphen and once again love it all. And on our table there will be...red roses.
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