"Everybody Loves Susan!" : A Tribute To My Late Mother Susana Ocasla Ligutan

My Mother had a funny accent and just about everyone in town can mimic her. She was born and raised in Macaalan, Calbiga, Samar and for her many charms, the 'waray' accent that she couldn't shake off, without her knowing or realizing, was part of what endeared her to many people. When people mimicked her accent, she would sometimes think that they were talking her down. Once, Iyo Paquit Ganot made a passing remark, which he delivered in her accent, she got very upset and ranted on him: "Uno Paquit yakatamay kaw sa ako, basin pagtuo mo pobre kami, dapayun ta kaw gani ng kwarta kuman!" ("Are you looking down at me? Did you think we were poor? I could slap you with money!") She came home that day telling me how upset she was and she would retell this incident many times over. I cannot remember now what Iyo Paquit had said to her that day, I just remember how much his mimicking her accent has upset my Mom.

(Photo: Mama with Papa and my sister Shella, on a holiday trip to see the Taj Mahal in Agra, India before being diagnosed with kidney failure in 1998.)

Back in the days, parents spank their children to set them right. My Mom was no different than most mothers in town. I have many incidents where she had chased me all around town, to ensure I come home on time from school or that I did what I was asked to do. When she was convinced I wasn't doing right, like not arriving home before 6pm or taking too long while gathering water from the public well, she would search for me in all the usual places and she knows exactly where to find me. I can hear her from a mile away. I used to call my mother's mouth, an 'armalite', for my, she couldn't stop nagging when the occasion calls for it. Carrying a piece of firewood, a bamboo stick, a guava branch or even the broom, here she comes screaming my name and chasing after me until I reach home. But for all the dramatics my Mom has, she rarely ever uses her beating paraphernalia on me. But boy, I would most times wish for the beating than hearing her non-stop mouthing! Between me and my sister Shella, my sister got some of the spanking. My sister has a habit of secretly getting away from home at night to meet up with Malyn, Rosie, Bembem and Rey (Deligero, Acierto, Quijada and Quijada) when she was supposedly sleeping. Because I know there was nothing so harmful with my sister's night-flee, I couldn't be bothered to tell on her. Besides, I always thought there was something insane on how my Mom wants to keep us locked-up indoors all the time. That particular night that Shella escaped once again, my cousin Cerelina 'Inday' Betco (now Ernst) was sleeping over and we were already asleep in my bed, Inday took Shella's spot. All of a sudden, there was my Mom hovering by the bed, hitting Inday with the paddle (bugsay) on the butt. We were in a commotion, my Mom had apparently went out earlier with the paddle, in cohorts with Mana Nesya and Mana Ermie, looking for my sister and her friends (also her classmates and our close relatives), found her and thinking she had chased her up to the house, went straight into our room in an apparent effort to give her a spanking. But Shella was somewhere else leaving Inday to receive my mother's butt-paddling mood. At the time when most of us (in Bayabas) were being chased by our mothers, we were humiliated, but we would go into stitches when we got older recalling them. Mothers with broom chasing after their daughters is what motherhood in our town meant to all of us anyway, so there was no more shame in it after all.

My Mom has a reputation for telling exactly as she thought. Kuya Mai Quijada, my favorite uncle for his love of reading and his extra-ordinary talent in playing with both the spoken and written words, and I used to laugh about my Mother's famous or infamous encounters with the many town folks. He loves to jokingly call my Mom "Saning", and would always end up with one wrapping conclusion, "If you need to hear the most honest of opinion, you have to ask Mana Sana". But when I was younger, it would embarrass me to no end when my Mom could not be bothered to edit her tongue. She would blurt out exactly what she feels and it's both amazing and shocking how whatever she says would send everyone laughing and me frowning. But I must admit, while she was brutal and frank, there was not a meanness in her, I could not ever remember her talking anyone down. If anything, she puts humor on everything and laugh about herself and life in general.

When Papa broke his neck and spinal while 'lazying' the day away in the public market, my Mom had said jokingly: "Amu sa kay hinang paatbang kan Abet!" ("Serves you right, because you're always sitting in front of Abet") I think, it made her a little jealous that the only non-blood-related woman she would see talking to my dad was Mana Abet. Unknown to many, this funny (and in-fact baseless) jealousy kicked started our moving out of town to live where everyone now knows as "Beting's Fishpond'. The only real fight I saw my parents had in all my life was on that day when Papa had nailed-close the door to the sari-sari store and the pig fence, packed his bag and move to Kamanga, living in a shanty away from town and yes, away from the public market right across our home in town. Mama had said that Papa got offended when she accused him of being 'in-love' with Mana Abet and instead of helping her with the store and feeding the pigs, he would spend all his time sitting in the 'tyanggehan, gapadisplay kan Abet' (in the market, displaying himself to Abet). We waited for my father to come back to town, but he didn't. So a few days later, tired of waiting for her proud husband, my mother with all of us five children in tow, followed my father to Kamanga. By then, the fighting mood has subsided and with a decision I can only assume to be based on their common want not to repeat the fight, decided to stay on, build a bigger house and lived in Kamanga for many years to come.

Our house in Kamanga, has become the sentimental witness to many events, happy and sad, that has taken place in our family life. We have held countless gatherings with relations and friends and welcomed endless visitors, foreign and local, through the years. The images of bangus, lukon, alimango and lechon (milkfish, prawns, crabs and roast pig) have become the visual representation of our home around the hill that me and my classmates love to reunite at every so often.

My Mom used to say, "As soon as I die, you would die too, Beting!" Somehow, she was always right, for with all my father's pride and intelligence, he truly couldn't live without my Mother. He tried, but as soon as Mama died, I know he wants nothing else, but to be with her again and he did so in such short a time. And my father, for all his shortcomings, would always prove to her that he loves her more than anything and will do everything to make her happy, even if it meant giving up his 'world' -that little town of ours, to be with her instead in that small wooden and nipa house by the foot of the hill, away from anything that would make her feel insecure, even if it was only an imagined jealousy.

I've always known it then, and it's what I cried for mostly when she died, that she was the skin that held our family together. She was the source from where we get our strength. Without her, we all fell apart - our world was never the same for the only person we know who loves us all unconditionally, with all our meanness and uncaring selves, was gone. She was every bit what it meant to be a mother and beyond -the protector, the provider, the carer, the force that bound us all, whom we never sensitively acknowledged and appreciated while she was still alive.

My Mom had a baby before she met my dad. She was the eldest of 10 children and in her young mind, she thought a man could take her away from the chores at home to a better life. The man, she said, worked in public highways, and she only found out he was married when she told him she was pregnant. I know how much it made her sad to think of Ate Leonor and that when she eloped with my father, she had to leave her behind with my grandparents. For many years, she made plans to make it up to her, but she didn't quite know how. The years of my Mother's life was spent taking care of all of us, her husband, her children, grandchildren, and many others who needed caring. To a certain degree, I know my Mom has forgotten herself, all in favor of her family.

It was from my Mom that I got my entrepreneurial skills. Many thought that my father made most of the money in our family. But they're all wrong. My Mom made her own share of the family money, they were not a lot, but she would spend it on us. My father on the other hand, would mostly keep his in his wallet. Well, until my Mom nags him into spending whatever he's got for us. Before I reached my teens, during the summer, my Mom would send me here and there to barter her rice cakes (puto, bibingka) and siopao to farms/farmers with grains and we would make dozens sacks of rice to last us until the next summer. My favorite activity with her is when we cook the 'puto and bibingka' at dawn, for it meant eating the first bake -hot and deliciously delightful for me. Exercising the seed she's planted on me, I would venture into managing the canteen in high school with my friend Rhu Maquiling. The skill to make money out of hard work is something I got from her without a doubt and incidentally my love for sweet food started with all the desserts Mama has taught me to cook.

As the eldest daughter and one whose got an endless order of suitors and wannabe suitors, my Mom had a formula for sidestepping the boys during my teens. In those days, I am literally not allowed outside the house without as much as my younger brother Silver and the puppy totting me around or worst my Mom hounding me every bit I am not within sight. There was no other way then to woo or court me, but pay me a visit at home and go through the inevitable: get pass my Mom. I always attributed my being conservative to my Mom's protectiveness -which I may say, she guarded me like Michael Jordan! I can proudly declare that I remained 'pure' way until I was old enough and ready. She was a friendly and easy person to deal with for most of the boys, and at worst, aloof to those she didn't feel quite right. She would jokingly tell them: "Uno say ipakaun nimu kang Susil kung paminyuon nimu pagsayo?" ("What will you feed Susil if she marries you this young?") I recall her saying to Pio Murillo, "Tiguwang na kaw Pio, ayaw na panguyaba yaun si Susil!". ("You're so old for Susil, you shouldn't be courting her!") Pio would laugh at her and say: "Ay-ay sab ni Mana Susan, di sa kita kaporma!" In all my recollection, it was Harry Luna that she mostly feared I would get near to or even fall for. Harry was handsome and dashing in his own right and had always made his intentions clear. My parents demeanor would change when he is nearby, cards and chocolates that Harry sends were put under scrutiny. I was puzzled why they would react to him so differently than the other boys -my Mom would always tell me to stay away from the windows when she sees him out nearby the house trying to catch a glimpse of me. Many years later, I finally understood what was it all about. My mother told me that years after I had been away, Harry patted her in the back saying, "Hello, Ma!" and when she turned around seeing it was him, said: "Nanga sa ga Mama sa kaw, wara sa kamu magkadayun ni Susil!". ("Why are you calling me Mama, Susil and you were never on.") I had to laugh when I heard this. Of course, I never told my Mom who my boyfriends were, to her they were all just suitors who never got the 'yes' -a little denial that keeps her sane. In not so many words, she told me how much she liked Harry after all and (I finally understood that) at that time, she and Papa were scared because Harry was so eligible and I was so young.

My Mom would react the same way to all the more matured suitors I have and setting modesty aside, she have had to handle many of them. As early as the age of nine, I would have suitors that would come from far and wide, the bulk of them even before I could graduate high school. But for those that were in town, she has particularly made an effort talking Jorge Quijada out of whatever she sensed I felt for him. I have a fondness for Jorge's wits and likeable rugged ways and she doesn't like seeing him hang out with my brothers at home while I am around. When my Mom doesn't agree with the boy, she tended to hate the mother too. The things she would tell me about Maa'm Alice made me roll my eyes! Of all my male friends, it was only Prescillano 'Joy' Lozada who could enter our home without reproach, and would even be allowed to literally nap beside me in our bed without being censured. My Mom loves Joy because he was respectful, unassumingly funny, and his tiny frame made him ineligible to my parents eyes. Up to this day, many male friends who has confessed to having a crush on me back then said they couldn't even try for fear of my parents. My Mom would even scold those who would serenade me at night, I particularly recall her telling Lolong Quijada and Eugene Exclamador to stop singing, go home and let us sleep. My sister Shella and I think it was hilarious for my Mom to be so dismissing of the boys. But in all these, the boys only have fond recollection of my Mother, after all they know that only a mother's love can render one so protective.

What I learned from my Mother was mothers dread the right guy coming into their daughter's life when she is not ready and fear the wrong man coming when she is.

For all the things that I love about my Mother, the ability to not depend on anyone is what I am happy to have gotten from her. She cared and gave love more than any person I know. She was so generous to a fault, she would give away her clothes, towels, food and anything to anyone who wants them. When I got older, sometimes I would reprimand her for her ways and at times, I would make her cry. I would be mean to her in telling her off when my naive mind then made myself believe she was wrong. And for all my superior attitude towards her, she never fought back or say a mean thing to me. She never did learn to say 'I love you' to any of her children, but in the silence and in her many other ways, I always know she loves us all to no end.

Nine years ago to this month, as my Mom lay dying on her bed, in a small apartment we rented in Dacudao, Davao City, she was asking us to bring a doctor to her side. She could not move what was left of her body -so lean it was almost skin and bone- anymore and I could hardly understand what she was saying. Our dearest cousin Beverly Maquiling, whose become witness and a great help in the years of my Mom's battle against end-stage renal failure, was there talking to her. Mama must have forgotten the million of times she has been in and out of the hospital and clinics, and just a few days before that the doctors had already refused to treat her. She was barely breathing and as I sat beside her telling her if is it okay for us to take her home to Kamanga so we could 'wait' there. She nodded and tiny tears formed wet circles in her eyes. Shella was counting her pulse and said, that the 'wait' could not be for more than 24 hours. Silver was upset, "We still have money, Mana," he said, "Why can't we take Mama back to the hospital?". Amongst all of us, Silver was the most in denial about our mother's condition. Following her kidney transplant, my Mom developed 'brittle bone disease', a side effect associated with prolonged use of Prednisone and Prednisolone, just two of the 50 plus drugs she has to take on a daily basis to help her recover post-transplant. She died at about 1am, between Trento and San Frans, a few hours before we reached Bayabas. Shella and I watched her as she draw her last breathe. Our other brother Dodoy (Silvestre II) cried silently, we couldn't announce that she has passed away because we did not want to upset Coco who was driving the van. Silver was sitting in the front seat with Coco and we had to keep the news from him until we reached Bayabas. I had to whisper to Papa when we got to San Frans. By the time we reached Bayabas, our eldest brother Dodo (Silvestre Jr.) was inconsolable, he too mourned a physical part of him -his kidney which he donated to our mother- that died with her.

For weeks following my Mother's death I could not cry. I needed to immediately fly back to work -go back to my life- after years of trying to cope with the disease that has affected the whole of my family and trying to make sense why the center of our universe -even when it was a realization that came too late- has been taken away from us too soon. It would be on Mother's Day that year that I would first cry and breakdown for her like I never did before , followed by so many more occasions where the wishing for her to be around is so bad -like not knowing what to do with my father when he complained that he is always alone at home with no one to take care of or not knowing how to deal with my angry brother who brought and poke a gun to us or with nephews and niece who keeps running away from home-, until today and the many more days to come in my life where the family drama is overwhelmingly difficult to deal with.

For all the things that I love about her, the capability to keep on forgiving and accepting is something I am sad not to have acquired from her. Mama would not have left when things in her marriage becomes rough. Or she wouldn't have gotten so unhappy like the way I did with my relationships, because she was simply incapable of asking more than what the other person can give. She wasn't so idealistic and as perfectionist as I am ... she would have worked on a relationship with a neglectful husband or forgiven and accepted back a partner who has committed infidelity -something that I never learned to do. Mama would have known how to talk and listen to Gagang, where I or anyone else couldn't. Gagang has asked me once, "Do you think your Mom would approve of me?" For all my so called 'perfection', she was the perfect one in loving and accepting the people around her. Sadly, my perfect skill was in rejecting -indifferent and detached, un-mattering everyone who should have mattered- incapable of truly forgiving and accepting back into my life those who have hurt me.

How I wish she is still alive, so I can share with her all my anguish and pain and that she would have comforted me. How I wish she is still alive so she can make right my misplaced pride and ideals in life -and show me what it really meant to love for better or for worse. How I wish she is still alive so she can regather our family and envelope us with the skin that she's kept our family together when she was still here. Mostly, I want her alive for that selfish reason that I will have children if she could be here to be the grandmother I so badly want her to be for them.


On the 9th Year Death Anniversary of My Mother Susana Ocasla Ligutan
19 March 2011
Hong Kong