INOCENCIA ZITA ZUNIGA

of CONCEPCION, LUBAO
MOTHER OF SEVEN
A FORMER VENDOR
MY MOTHER
1933-2003

As night approaches, her children spread the mats on the floor. I pull out the pillows from the corner where they are stacked up, one brother ties the mosquito net to the four corners of the children's room. One by one we lie down, and she begins her stories.

My mother's story-telling is incomparable. She does not miss anything - her childhood, her family, the Japanese Occupation, her ghosts, Spirits surrounding her, her love story with my father. I can perhaps re-write her biography in one sitting. Of course she colors her stories for dramatic effects; she's always the lead actress; she's always the victim; always the underdog turned triumphant; and I stare at her like every other child: my mother will never die. She will always be sitting by the door of her room, with her back leaning against the wall and her legs stretched out on the floor. My mother will always be THE story-teller and if I find her in after-life I will see her doing the same in that other world - telling stories.

Before TV and telenovelas and all the things we enjoy nowadays, my mother has comics to read: Liwayway, Bulaklak, Love Stories. Liwayway is her favorite. She follows the novels in Liwayway without falter.

But she's also a mother, and like all mothers, they grow old, get sick and die. Like other mothers, they have a different approach in nurturing their children. And my mother is typical of Lubao mothers: strictly disciplinarian, a great believer in superstitions, very concerned about her public image, one who pushes her kids to the max, a perfectionist, has a quick temper(oh that one is severe), and extremely clean.

She never lets her children stay out beyond dinner and if they do, they better stay out because she won't open the door. And she is impatient and a great risk-taker. My mother can be the richest woman in the barrio one day and the poorest in another day. If there is any trait I like about her is that she never runs out of plans, projects, a business here, an enterprise there.

When the family had nothing to eat, she pulled the curtains she needle-pointed for years and sold them on the street. My mother is the perennial vendor: she can sell clothes, fish, anything. All the things she did in her time is difficult to copy. I know this because I can't. And because she worked so hard and risked so much, she demanded a lot from her children. The one thing that she went through that still makes my heart sink is how she hid from the police under a table of meat because she did not have the permit to vend in the market of Dinalupihan. She came out with animal blood all over her. My mother is the ultimate businesswoman. She cuts and sews clothes from afternoon to evening and then sells them in the early morning, she was a vendor everywhere from Olongapo to Dinalupihan to Balanga.

It is her hard work, perseverance and toughness that I will never forget.

For her last thirteen years I tried to give her all the things she wanted although being a typical Lubao mother, nothing was enough. But she did not have to vend and sell anything anymore since I came to America. Unfortunately, the years of toil, worry, hard work had weakened here so much her body gave way despite her tough spirit.

She passed away peacefully surrounded by her family on September 21, 2003.


To my close friends and relatives:

As of today, September 20, my mother was already discontinued from her dialysis. Her body and mind would no longer respond to treatments. The woman who never went beyond third grade in elementary school, and who basically taught me how to become a story-teller is saying goodbye to the world. I am not intending to cry over her departure. I don't think she would like that melodrama. My mother is the typical Lubao woman - tough, disciplinarian, defiant to the last minute. She is the real pillar in our home and if you find my women characters tougher than men in my fiction, it's because she was the model (in a fictional way). I am glad she is saying goodbye at a time her family is stable enough to stand without her. That's all she worried about all her life. She always thought everything would crumble without her. True to her nature, being born out of the soil of Lubao and who never stepped out of Lubao, she demanded that we build her a marble tomb, "It's a shame if you won't give your mother the best tomb in Lubao, don't you forget it." Before getting comatose, the last word she said to my sister was, "Tell that homosexual brother of yours that I remember his birthday even when he doesn't care." My birthday is in September. But that's how she expresses her affection. For thirteen years we were partners in providing the best to the family. Her name is Inocencia in Spanish, Pasensya in Tagalog, Pasing in Pampango. And she'd have a tomb made out of marble.

Alex Maskara Home