The last time I visited my family I wasn't pissed off, which is generally a good sign. I felt something in between cautious (that I wasn't pissed the fuck off) and feeling alright; I felt like I went to do something there and it got accomplished without a hitch, without a fight. I think that meant I had a good time. Or something like that.
As my 14-year old brother rolled my suitcase from the airport's garage to the ticketing booth, I felt... neutral. My mom walked behind my brother, dressed in a tight, long, black skirt and a blouse that hugged her torso. I looked back just to make sure I wasn't walking too fast for her. Not because she's not an agile woman but because I still remember the times she slapped me across the face, as a teenager, when I lied or did something wrong. I guess I'm always watching over my shoulder when I'm around my mom. I'm always trying to make sure I'm not fucking up. That's probably not healthy and probably a sign that I still need therapy.
She had no make up on and her hair was freshly washed.
Before coming to airport I helped her color her hair. My mom has long, curly, jet black hair that is constantly threatened by grays daring to spread from the roots to the ends. But she's not letting age win: "Fuck no," or whatever her war cry against aging is. She exercises almost every day and eats healthy, so at 50-something years old, she actually weighs the same as me (120) and has less cellulite. But that's not what I saw when I looked back.
Well, first of all, when I looked back, the first take I did was to make sure she wasn't too far behing.
The second take I did was because her siren-like figure caught my eye.
In an 8-second span, I saw her marvelously (is that a word?), sinewy black hair drape over her shoulder and her hips move in perfect cadence with her torso. I checked her face out and she didn't look 50-something, she looked 40. And hot. Like really, really hot, beautiful. God-beautiful.
I looked away because I felt shame, not because I thought my mom was marvelously beautiful but because I used to think she was ugly.
Yah, back when I was kid, someone called my mom "ugly," and I let them because I thought so, too.
My eyes watered and I had to exhale really slowly to fight those guilty tears.
I didn't have time to process right then at there because before I knew it I was standing at the American Airlines line waiting to check in my bag and she and my brother were right there.
And then I had to go through security and take off my shoes and be padded for bombs or whatever the fuck they think someone leaving Nashville, Tennessee would carry.
It wasn't until I was almost in New York when I thought again about my dumbass ideas of beauty. How, when, what gave me the right to ever think of my mom as ugly? JESUS, did I ever really look at her?
I'm a stupid person.
And this is not about some silly feelings of guilt... I mean, my mom has had a pretty challenging life. Somewhere in her early-30s she had a motorcycle accident (because she used to ride a motorcycle/A.K.A. being "fierce") and the doctor told her she'd probably never walk again. But she did, just fine. In her late 30s she moved from South America to the US, had no one here, and then got her masters in education and is a teacher here, the same profession she had in our other country.
No one can say she's not one hell of a fighter.
No one can say she's not self-made.
No one can say that she's not heart-breakingly beautiful.
God, it's taken me so long to realize that. Why does it take, some of us dumb creatures, so long to see beauty in the people who are closest to us?
We admire the beauty "out there," but what about the beautiful people who raised us?
Who slapped us in the face when we lied?
Who taught us that honesty is more important than not looking like an asshole? (I mean, if you're worried about not looking like an asshole, maybe you are behaving like one.)
Those people who teach us the most important lessons in life don't always look beautiful to us.
Is this because they make us see the truth in our actions?
Because they put a mirror to us and say "Look! Really look."
I finally looked mom, really looked.
-Tatiana
(Guest blogging while Aurin is away at Silent Camp).
As my 14-year old brother rolled my suitcase from the airport's garage to the ticketing booth, I felt... neutral. My mom walked behind my brother, dressed in a tight, long, black skirt and a blouse that hugged her torso. I looked back just to make sure I wasn't walking too fast for her. Not because she's not an agile woman but because I still remember the times she slapped me across the face, as a teenager, when I lied or did something wrong. I guess I'm always watching over my shoulder when I'm around my mom. I'm always trying to make sure I'm not fucking up. That's probably not healthy and probably a sign that I still need therapy.
She had no make up on and her hair was freshly washed.
Before coming to airport I helped her color her hair. My mom has long, curly, jet black hair that is constantly threatened by grays daring to spread from the roots to the ends. But she's not letting age win: "Fuck no," or whatever her war cry against aging is. She exercises almost every day and eats healthy, so at 50-something years old, she actually weighs the same as me (120) and has less cellulite. But that's not what I saw when I looked back.
Well, first of all, when I looked back, the first take I did was to make sure she wasn't too far behing.
The second take I did was because her siren-like figure caught my eye.
In an 8-second span, I saw her marvelously (is that a word?), sinewy black hair drape over her shoulder and her hips move in perfect cadence with her torso. I checked her face out and she didn't look 50-something, she looked 40. And hot. Like really, really hot, beautiful. God-beautiful.
I looked away because I felt shame, not because I thought my mom was marvelously beautiful but because I used to think she was ugly.
Yah, back when I was kid, someone called my mom "ugly," and I let them because I thought so, too.
My eyes watered and I had to exhale really slowly to fight those guilty tears.
I didn't have time to process right then at there because before I knew it I was standing at the American Airlines line waiting to check in my bag and she and my brother were right there.
And then I had to go through security and take off my shoes and be padded for bombs or whatever the fuck they think someone leaving Nashville, Tennessee would carry.
It wasn't until I was almost in New York when I thought again about my dumbass ideas of beauty. How, when, what gave me the right to ever think of my mom as ugly? JESUS, did I ever really look at her?
I'm a stupid person.
And this is not about some silly feelings of guilt... I mean, my mom has had a pretty challenging life. Somewhere in her early-30s she had a motorcycle accident (because she used to ride a motorcycle/A.K.A. being "fierce") and the doctor told her she'd probably never walk again. But she did, just fine. In her late 30s she moved from South America to the US, had no one here, and then got her masters in education and is a teacher here, the same profession she had in our other country.
No one can say she's not one hell of a fighter.
No one can say she's not self-made.
No one can say that she's not heart-breakingly beautiful.
God, it's taken me so long to realize that. Why does it take, some of us dumb creatures, so long to see beauty in the people who are closest to us?
We admire the beauty "out there," but what about the beautiful people who raised us?
Who slapped us in the face when we lied?
Who taught us that honesty is more important than not looking like an asshole? (I mean, if you're worried about not looking like an asshole, maybe you are behaving like one.)
Those people who teach us the most important lessons in life don't always look beautiful to us.
Is this because they make us see the truth in our actions?
Because they put a mirror to us and say "Look! Really look."
I finally looked mom, really looked.
-Tatiana
(Guest blogging while Aurin is away at Silent Camp).
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