Nanay Haidee

Iris Palma in Ang Pinoy Stories

May 25, 2020 • 4 min Read

I loved my Nanay. But I cried harder at my father’s funeral. My nephew asked why. Perhaps because the day my father died I realized that I have no parents anymore. Or maybe because I loved my Tatay more.

I grew up with my mother. But for the life of me I could not remember a time when she would bathe me as a child or feed me. I remember she cooked alugbati with pork, monggo so dry that one serving would go ‘phlook’ on my plate, yellow corn powder on a humid afternoon — but I did not see her cook these dishes. I do not remember her taking me to elementary or high school to enroll me. I see my aunt and my elder sister.

I remember asking her that I wanted to join the track and field but she said ‘no’ because I would just fall flat on my knees. I remember her screaming and giving my teen brothers a roundhouse kick when they came home late from playing outside. I remember her walking out of the house in the middle of the night so angry because her kids were laughing at a movie on a Good Friday night.

I remember her going up the stage at the end of every school year, strutting so proud because she would be praised by teachers for having such a very smart daughter. I remember being forgotten throughout the year. How? She served my elder sister her lunch but forgot to leave something for me. I remember her waiting for my elder sister on Christmas Eve thinking she would be home for a late dinner. But I do remember her making one batya of fruit salad to serve to my classmates who came on my 12^th birthday.

I remember her dressing me in a terno and telling me to dance in houses along with her friends every summer. I remember going down a tall flight of stairs in her arm. I came out unscathed, she broke her elbow, I think.

I remember accepting my half-sister when her mother died and telling my father it was okay. I do not remember asking my own mother if the arrangement was acceptable to her. I remember driving out my half-sister’s uncle and screaming at him for thinking it was okay to show his face to my mother every week or so. I remember driving out my half-sister for disrespecting my mother.

I remember not looking at her because I hated the idea that I would look like her when I grow old. I consider it a curse to look like her. Her real name was Adelaida but she preferred Haidee. My friends call me ‘Haidee’ and laugh — I did not know how to react. I could not comprehend my emotions.

I remember my mother washing our clothes, washing the plates. I remember her telling me that being poor is okay. What was not acceptable was to look poor. She walked the talk. She went to parlors, had her hair permed or colored or trimmed. She had pedicure and manicure. She loved 24k on her nails. She smelled good. Her armpits smelled nice. She used Oil of Olay and she had the most amazing skin at 50, 60, and 70.

We had a rocky relationship because I have always sensed that she loved my elder sister because she was useful in the house, she loved my brother because he was the biological son, and she loved the youngest because she was the youngest. That left me and my adopted brother out of the equation. Were it not for my features that were perfectly similar to hers, I would have assumed that I was adopted as well.

She passed away in 2011 from liver cirrhosis. In my dreams, she did not speak. She was even angry once when I was at odds with her youngest. But she told me once in a text a few months before she died that she loved me. Nothing else. She said she loved me. I did not respond. But heaven knows I love her. I only answered her back once. I was an obedient daughter. I gave her medals.

I have no regrets loving her silently. I have no shortcoming as a daughter. But I still could have given her assurance that I loved her back. Perhaps an angel can whisper my love for her.

“I love you, Nanay, with all your peculiarities. See you in heaven soon.”