When we lived in Quito, I used
to ride the school bus home for lunch. My mother would sit at the table and watch
me eat.
“Sit up straight,” she would
say, followed by:
“Don’t put your elbows on the
table.
Chew your food well.
Digestion begins in the mouth.
You’re slouching again.
Don’t scrape your knife on
the plate.
And take the hair out of your
eyes. I want to see your forehead.
Elbows!
Why are you hunched over?”
At this point, even the
afternoon algebra class began to seem appealing. “I have to go now," I would say, getting up, "or I’ll
miss my bus.”
“Put your chair back where
you found it. Wipe your lips. Fold your napkin. María! (calling the maid) Take
the child across the street. Her bus is almost here.” I was almost an inch
taller than tiny Indian María, and I have to give her credit for keeping a
straight face as she wiped her hands on her apron and walked me across the
street.
As justified as my mother’s
admonitions were, I did not take them with good grace. The brand-new hormones coursing
through my veins, while giving me the external attributes of a woman, were
doing nothing to turn me into a lady. Instead, for a last, blessed reprieve, I
clung to my childish conviction that I was fine just the way I was.
But my mother was an
optimist. No matter how much I resisted her, she was convinced that she would
prevail. In fact, it was her duty to prevail. “Do you think I enjoy
having to correct you so much?” she would say when I complained about her
constant monitoring. “I do not! I would much rather be doing something else,
like going for a walk, or reading a book.”
I was skeptical. I couldn’t believe that anybody could devote so much
time and energy to something they didn’t enjoy at least a little.
“And your grumbling and
protesting,” she went on, “do you think I enjoy that? Don’t you know how much more
pleasant my life would be if I let you do as you please? But what
would happen if I did? What sort of person would you become?” She would shake
her head sadly, indicating that she didn’t have much faith in my future if I
were left to my own resources. “No! I am your mother, and it is my sacred duty—sacred,
do you hear?—to correct you when I see you doing something wrong. Even if it
means that you love me less sometimes. I must put my own feelings aside and do
what I know is right, no matter how much pain it brings me.”
This usually shut me up. How
could I argue with her sacred duty? How could I complain when she, who loved me
more than anything in the world, was willing to sacrifice herself in order to
do the right thing? In her youth my mother had studied law, and
she brought her best courtroom technique to these confrontations. Like an
ill-prepared defense attorney, I capitulated before her prosecutorial skills.
But I had to do something to
get her off my back, at least temporarily. If I couldn’t defeat her in argument,
I might be able to negotiate with her. So I offered her a deal: I would accept
her corrections without complaint every day of the week if she would agree, on Wednesdays
at lunch, to let me eat without comment.
To my amazement, she gave in.
When Wednesday came around, there was soup for lunch. I tucked my hair behind
my ears, bent over the bowl and, as my mother watched in silent disbelief, lapped
up the soup like a dog. The soup was hot, and it dribbled down my chin and onto
my uniform blouse. There were chick peas and chunks of meat floating around,
and it was hard to catch them without using a spoon. It felt disgusting, but I was intent on demonstrating
to my mother that she had to respect our deal no matter what, and I persevered
until the last drop was gone.
The next Wednesday, assuming that
I had made my point, I intended to make full use of my silverware, and simply
looked forward to a critique-free meal. But as soon as I picked up my fork my
mother said, “I know it’s Wednesday, and I’m not supposed to say anything. But
do you realize that your left elbow’s on the table?” I rolled my eyes, dropped
the elbow, and continued eating. My mother cleared her throat. I looked up and
she pointed silently at my napkin, which I had neglected to place on my lap. The
next time she opened her mouth, before she could even speak, I sat up straight.
It was no use, and
so I gave up my campaign. For the first time ever, I saw my mother not as
someone who, along with my father, stood practically next to God in goodness
and omnipotence, but as a woman who was helpless, because of some quirk of her
psyche, to quell the urge to polish me until I gleamed like a mirror in which
she could see herself.