My Mother's Daughter
By Michelle E. Ancheta

Bounded only by our last names, no one would have ever guessed that this yellow-skinned, flat-nosed, awkward girl, who was me, could be the daughter of the fair, elegant-looking, sophisticated woman who was my mother. In all things we were different. She was patient as I was anxious, graceful as I was gawky and beautiful as I was -- well, normal.

I've always felt estranged from her. Like a disproportionate shadow hiding behind her ruffled skirt, watching always how each stroke of strawberry blush or ebony-black mascara made me and her less and less of each other. But more than our different appearances, it was my mother's past that made me feel unworthy of being called her 'daughter.'

My mother's beauty did not emanate from her features. It was from her experience that truly made her more than she was; a woman of strength and resolute faith, a wife loyal and caring but more importantly, a mother loving and gentle -- a mother only I could hope of one day becoming. Growing up, my mother had all the luxuries. A daughter of a navy officer and a middle-class born woman, her family had owned things which at that time no one else had. Imported chocolates, and polka-dotted skirts, phonographic records and Nat King Cole -- everything new was hers. Living at the corner of 6th avenue Street at Cubao, her family was the envy of all the neighbors who, despite their mocking stares and wistful glances, never failed to peep at the moving images of their 13-inched, Technicolor T.V. that back then only her family had.

My mother had a perfect life; she was rich, spoiled and beautiful.

But at the age of 15, everything changed. What seemed like a fairy tale turned unexpectedly into a nightmare. On a hot and lazy afternoon, my mother who had always been healthy, surprised everyone when she suddenly dropped on the floor of their old Spanish house, trembling; the whites of her eyes showing, saliva spilling on her once red-stained now purple-drenched lips. Later that day, she was diagnosed with brain epilepsy and was told she couldn't go to school anymore. Her brain no longer had the capacity to learn and despite her pleads to be brought to be treated at America, her father who had all the means to do so, said "no" telling her to accept her fate: that she had no hope.

At the age of 15 my mother was told to stop dreaming -- and by her own father at that. When the Vietnam War broke out, her father was sent to serve, only to never return. Faced by an abrupt change in lifestyle, my mother had to take on responsibilities she was not taught or trained to do. Determined to finish her education, my mother took an entrance exam at the University of the Philippines. There she passed and studied for one semester, after which she transferred to St. Joseph's College where her sisters were studying. Having earned her course in psychology, my mother emerged triumphant at the day of her graduation, and finished on time even if she enrolled a year late. Her success did not come easily as she had to endure tremendous sacrifices on her part.

She still carries the wounds of her past -- the calluses caused by washing heaps of plates to pay for tuition, the embarrassment of having to use safety pins and scotch tape to keep loose socks and undergarments from falling, the pain of watching the years of her youth pass by, of having to miss late night celebrations, slumber parties, and disco dancing. My mother had been deprived of all that, fast forwarded into a life of obligation and responsibility, into a reality unshielded by the innocence of adolescence.

Yet even at 47, no trace of regret could be seen on her face. Unlike her peers, she is not bent on trying to restore lost youth even if it was taken from her. She is not one of those aging Botox-injected fanatics who, in their extravagant obsession for preservation, forgo the art of laughter. The creases and wrinkles on her face emanate a sense of honor and pride to the past that has shaped her into what she is now -- a woman that never stopped dreaming and a mother that never failed her children.

I may not look like her, act like her or talk like her, but for the past 19 years of my life, I see myself becoming more and more like my mother - my resolute desire to accomplish my goals, to reach my potential and to ultimately live out my dream is resonate of the 15 year-old girl who long ago learned to live life fully with no regrets.

Looking back, I now know that despite our differences I am and always will be, proudly, my mother's daughter.