Why Are You Sad, Mama?
My mother’s unhappiness in a small, somber town
I believed then, and even until now, that I was the second saddest person in that far-away town.
The first one was my Mother.
Her quarters would be closed, locked from the inside. It was quiet and dark. My mom would stay in her room for days, not coming out for reasons we did not know.
At night, I would sit below the tall, mirror cabinet guarding her door, my ears pinned against the door, waiting for any sound of life from inside. I wanted to make sure she was alive, dreading to wake up with this room forever sealed.
Then on weekends, her room would be slightly opened, and we would slowly be creeping in, relieved that she was up cleaning, folding clothes, fixing the beds, scribbling on her notepad. There would be no words, no talks. Just that she was back again, at least maybe for another round, another bout, until the dark beckoned once more.
One by one, she would call us, her five daughters, to braid our hair, trim our nails, and clean our ears. It was almost like her saying —
“I am here now, back from the abyss. I am here now, I have crawled from the depths of gloom, for you, my dear, beautiful dolls.”
Mymom would be missed for days in school, but when she was around, she was a presence, a force of energy and a ray of sunshine. Students would be peeping in her classroom windows as her class performed and delivered their oratorical pieces, under her careful watch. She would act on and direct stage and street plays, write original scripts or modify existing materials, her teams would win and excel in school and higher-level competitions.
“Your Mom is the best theater arts teacher we ever had.”
“She is our favorite English adviser.”
But it was all there was. As in any impoverished country, ours had too much politics for career and economic advancements. It was not how good or hardworking you were, it was who you know, or often, how much can you deliver.
After some time, my Mom would be screaming, screaming in her room, her wails echoing through the house, the shrieking bawls of an educator in frustration, an artist in agony, a woman in despair. There was no space to grow, no inspiration to flourish, no dream to pursue in that tiny world.
My Mom was trapped in a game with rules she refused to play, enslaved by people she could not bow to, within a culture she did not choose to belong, in a system she cannot change.
“Why are you sad, Mama?” It was the white elephant in our house, the loneliness that soaked our childhood, the void that marinated our young lives. It was the unarticulated question in our minds, which we dared not speak, afraid that doing so would mean losing her more.
During fine summer days, my mom would bring us to the beach, all of us in our blue frumpy swimsuits. We would frolic and have fun; she would be with us, but not really, I guessed. She would be looking at the horizon, past the islands fronting the bay, to some other dimensions I did not know exist.
Coming home, we would then find her seated at the edge of her old, double-sized wooden bed, her left hand crossed over her chest, pinching her upper right arm, that flabby part just above the elbow. Her eyes were blank, her face morose, her body plumped and fragile.
Sometimes, with a few, short-time friends, they would be out partying, coming home late. That our grandparents did not understand her only added to the tension and confusion in our home.
As a married woman with no husband, this was a town that frowned upon single mothers dating or seeing other potential partners. In a rural area, at a time when there were no mobile phones or internet, wagging tongues were the favorite pastime. Hypocrisy was the middle name of most.
“Why are you so sad, Mama?”, I always wanted to ask her, but never did. We all took the shell of who she was as a precious blessing, the time she was well were the times she was our Mom, and that was all that mattered.
During the 80s and the 90s, mental health was not something that was openly acknowledged, managed, or treated. Depression was not a thing, rather it was called laziness, stubbornness, toxic negativity, discontent, ingratitude, or lack of faith in God. If you insist, it was called insanity, and if you are- the stigma will haunt your lineage, for that “crazy great-grandmother” must surely run in the family.
There was no support, no access to education and information for these conditions, especially for the young and the women.
Today, mental health, depression, and suicide continue to plague our country, with the far-flung rural areas still wanting basic aid and assistance to address these issues.
Maybe we were a bunch of misfits because we were not good enough for such a beautiful town, or maybe we were too much. Or maybe the town was too tight, too tiny for us. I had no idea, and I am not sure if I will ever find out.
After more than 20 years in the province, in the boldest decision she ever made and against all odds — my Mother moved to the country’s capital city, at first bringing along her youngest daughter, until eventually, she had all the girls with her.
By then, she must be long dead already, if not barely alive inside, or so I thought.
“A pale ghost has nothing to lose anymore,” she must have mustered.
And so, for that last breath of hers, she did what she always wanted- she forcibly unlatched her garrison, claimed her freedom and sought her peace.
Today, many years later, through her thriving children and grandchildren, I hope she has finally, finally found them.
She grins whenever I see her now, maybe I can ask her, finally — What’s with the smile, Mama?
