Setting the Stage9with her? What was it like to be able to look into the eyes of
the woman I’d someday become? Mother. Such a simple, uni-
versal word... that I’d never fully understand.
It was the small things I missed the most. I didn’t hold her
hand on my first day of school as I crossed the street in front
of Komarek Elementary. I didn’t wiggle around as she tried to
brush the knots out of my hair. I didn’t argue with her about my
clothes. I didn’t roll my eyes, ignoring motherly advice to put
a jacket on before going out to play in the crisp Chicago air. I
didn’t ask her if she knew the secret to good, tight- rolled jeans.
My mama was a nurse, they told me. She was from the
Philippines and met my blond- haired, blue- eyed father at a get-
together in Chicago that my aunt hosted. Growing up, I don’t
think I could have told you the difference between the words
Philippians and Philippines. I’m sure I confused the two more
than once. My mom had been the only member of her family
to come to the United States, so I knew absolutely nothing
about Filipino culture and very little about my other family
on the opposite side of the world. I grew up with my Swedish-
Dutch dad and his side of the family.
But I’d heard a few names: Lolo and Lola, my grandparents.
Aunt Rufe. Cousin Esther Sandee. I even got a few airmailed
letters. But that was about it. I wasn’t sure how they were all
related exactly. How many brothers and sisters did my mom
have? What were their names? How many cousins did I have?
I had no idea. So much about my mother was a mystery to me.
Few things highlighted my ignorance more than the second
Sunday of May. No one thought much about the little girl who
always threw her Mother’s Day craft in the trash on the way
out of Sunday school. Holding back tears, I looked around at