Contradictions

Once in a mall, a woman accidentally stepped on my mom's toes. The woman apologized rightly enough. Still, my mom shot a dark look at the woman’s retreating back and muttered, “You may be sorry, but my foot still hurts.”

For such a small person, she has mastered the art of looking down her nose at the stupid. “Stupid” being loosely defined as someone who doesn’t exactly fit in her idea of how one should be—in dress, behavior, decorum, etc, etc.

I’ve been stupid recently. Or on better days, labeled hopeless—after all, we can’t have anybody insulting her daughter. I got a tattoo, pierced my navel, refused to quit smoking, and the biggest no-no of all, quit graduate school in order to explore writing.

She was not happy, to say the least.

A year ago on my birthday, for example, I met her and my aunt for lunch at a Chinese restaurant. It wasn’t anything fancy, so I came in olive green pants that hung a bit too low, a shirt that was cut a bit too high, flip-flops, and a belt bag. I got the lecture on dressing my age—I’ll be 26 this year—and on being a dignified young woman. Ouch.

But I’ve seen her give matter-of-fact, bracing advice when a cousin was drowning in sympathy and self-pity. She still helps my other sister with her rent, as my sister is finishing her Master’s degree. She has generously offered that I study creative writing, and on her expense, when I should be earning my own way by now. And she has been nothing but supportive when I told her I got into my first ever writing workshop in Bacolod City next week.

It’s been 6 months since I’ve been back from Japan, and I’ve learned to slowly, slowly try to fix the fixable with my mom. As well as to patiently, patiently pray that she learns to accept the inerasable.

Today, for the first time in the past 6 months, I wore a tank that showed my tattoo while gallivanting at a mall with my mom. In was completely comfortable, and my mom didn't say anything. Funny how something as simple as that can reassure me that everything’s on its way back to all right again.

*****

I have these dangling earrings conspicuously shaped like old-fashioned keys. Every time I wear them, people can’t seem to help but comment, Why a key? And every time I answer, Because I like them, they seem confused—as if that could not be the only reason.

This confuses me. I mean, why the hell not? Isn’t it reason enough that I liked them the minute I saw them? Why do people expect there to be hidden meanings in things that seem a little bit unique, if not odd?

I drew my own tattoo and refused to choose from a catalogue simply because I don’t want to end up naked with somebody in the future who has the exact same design. But every time I tell people this, the next question inevitably becomes, What does it mean? It doesn’t mean anything—I stayed up late drawing tattoo designs one night, I really liked what came out, decided I’d have someone ink it into my left shoulder. That’s it.

I was with someone once who asked me why I loved him. Rattled, I rattled off some reasons which did not suffice—I was left feeling foolish, while he was probably unconvinced. Finally, I shouted, I just do! I realized then that I could name a few million little things, which added up still wouldn’t fully answer why.

It seems that liking something, or even loving someone, requires not only a reason, but a rationalization. The very much hidden romantic side of me refuses to accept this. About this, does anyone care to know why?