Mom

We have heard a little bit about my dad, but I want to talk about my mom now. My mother, Claudia, is debatably the best mother the earth has had the pleasure of knowing. I know a lot of people say that about their moms, and I’m sure all their moms are great, but they aren’t Claudia. My mom raised my brother and me alone from the day her and my dad got divorced in 2003. I was born in 2000, and my brother was born just a few months before their divorce, so neither of us have any real memories of a house with both mom and dad in it. Divorce rates would seem to indicate this story is anything but rare, but regardless it’s the way I grew up. We visited dad on the weekends, and occasionally went on a week-long vacations with him over the summer, but for all intents and purposes my mom raised us.

I remember my Papa Armando (who’s picture you can see on the homepage of this website) telling me just about every time I would see him that I was the luckiest boy in the world for having grown up with my mom as my mom. He would shamelessly say this in front of his other grandkids – my cousins – who did not grow up with my mom as their mom. I always just kind of took this as the ruminations of a man who was proud of his daughter for raising kids by herself and didn’t really think about what exactly he was saying until quite recently. The more I think about it though, the more I realize how right he was. I grew up with, and still grow up with, the best mother on planet earth.

I will of course explain why this is this the case, but first let me describe my mom to you. An incredibly smart, hardworking, caring, and short woman, my mom was born in Mexico City, but quickly moved to Rio de Janeiro in her early youth. She then moved back to Mexico City, then to Tarrytown – a small town in New York State – for a year or two, then back to Mexico City, and then to New Canaan, Connecticut. All this moving around was because of her dad’s work for an American company and the ever-changing locale of his office. Wherever he went, the family followed. She went to college in Los Angeles, then law school also in Los Angeles, and finally she settled down in San Antonio where I was eventually born. Throughout all this moving around, my mom was raised by nannies and caretakers while both her parents were out working until she finally got to the age where she could be self-sufficient. When I talk to her about her upbringing, she often says that she doesn’t remember being around her parents that often in day-to-day life, and that they only were all together as a family on vacation or during holiday breaks. Despite this seeming lack of a role model for parenting in her youth, she somehow seemed to have it totally figured out when it was her turn to raise a family. While I’m sure on the inside she was like most parents who are constantly under immense pressure and have absolutely no idea what they are doing, to me as a child she had all the answers. In sum, my mom had no business being as good of a parent as she is, but she did it.

I know this journal is supposed to be about me, and I know this entry is shaping up to be substantially longer than many of the rest, but the story of my identity would be incomplete without an exploration of my mom and my upbringing, so bear with me.

Let’s get into why my mom is the best, and how she shaped the man I am today. The full list of reasons for her greatness is entirely too long for this, so ill pull out two highlights and then some things that relate directly to the task of figuring out my identity.

Firstly, she somehow found time to get my brother and I ready for school in the morning, walk us to the bus stop, go to a full day of work as an attorney, get home before the school bus dropped us off at home, and go to all of our sports games or art exhibitions throughout my entire childhood and adolescence. She would bring work home if it meant she could be back before the school bus, and she would work weekends if it meant getting to go see my flag football team lose by 40 points. Again, I acknowledge that this herculean task of time management of sleep deprivation was not unique to my mom, but nonetheless it was incredible.  

Secondly, she supported my brother and I in whatever we wanted to do no matter what. Bass guitar lessons that I fell out of love with after a week? Have at it. Want to learn fencing? She found a place. Want to play lacrosse all of a sudden even though I don’t know the rules? We will figure it out together. All my endeavors, no matter how clearly temporary they were, I was able to try. Nothing was ever too dumb or too crazy to try, but with this privilege came an important lesson. I was never, and I mean never, allowed to quit anything I started. Those bass guitar lessons? I hated it after one, but I went three times a week for 3 months until the course was done. I was awful at fencing, but I damn sure went to the tournament at the end of the season and got my ass handed to me a dozen times. I got injured during my third season playing lacrosse and was out for the season so the coaches told me I didn’t have to come to practice anymore. No no no, I went to practice, and I learned the plays I would never run, and did I physical therapy because my mom told me I had to. That was the rule: you can start whatever you want, but once you start it you are going to finish it.

There is a whole lot more stuff unrelated to identity I could get into like how she was always there when I needed her, and how she would move heaven and earth to support my brother and I if we were in need, and more life lessons about hard work and perseverance. It’s all there, but alas there is no time. Just know, if you’re looking for some advice on parenting you won’t find a much better tutor than my mom. Now for the good stuff, the identity stuff.

My mom is Mexican. She raised my brother and me speaking Spanish and ran the house like most Mexicans do. Catholic Mass on Sunday morning was mandatory, and we were always dressed to the nines. Now that I think about this dress code I think Mexicans hold onto this sense of decorum more than most Americans I know do. We even dressed up to go on planes because “that’s just the way you do things.” Anyways, back to the house. There were crucifixes on the walls and hospitality was key. We were taught to give the shirt off our backs and the food off our plates if it meant our guests, invited or not, would be more comfortable. You worked hard and you didn’t expect to be recognized for that work, because working hard is just the way it is. It was, and is, a Mexican household with one key exception: the food. My mom, bless her heart, cannot cook to save her life. She tries, she really really tries, but she just can’t seem to get the hang of it. Luckily, we got our fair share of Mexican food from our grandmother, who can indeed whip up some of the classics.

My Mexican identity comes from my mom and that side of my family but growing up this wasn’t really a conversation or a thing we even thought about. It was just life. At home we were Mexican, but we were also Americans in just about every other situation and I never considered the difference until recently. My mom raised us to be proud of both of these identities. She highlighted the brilliant parts of Mexican culture and work ethic, and also encouraged us to endeavor into our American selves through our interests and passions. She could have easily just assimilated into the white suburbia we lived in, and let our Mexican identities take a back seat to our American surroundings, but she didn’t do that. She fostered these identities, and ensured we were connected to our roots. For that, I am grateful.