Advice from a 79-year-old with purple hair
+ morphing out of mercury in gatorade :)
Have you met my mom yet?
Here she is.
She’s 79. She’s been retired since her mid 60s. Her husband, my dad, died 15 years ago and she happily lives alone.
My mom raised 3 daughters while working full time as a chemical engineer. She took us to church every Sunday and, begrudgingly for us, sometimes on the weekdays too. She left the Philippines in the 1960s to the land of opportunities. While her husband was stationed somewhere around the world serving in the US Navy, my mom arrived with a few bucks in her pocket. To make money and avoid government assistance, she hustled. She learned to sew clothes for people’s wardrobes.
As kids, we often questioned why mom pinched pennies, refused to pay for cable TV, and tried to convince us that sewing our clothes is way better than cheaply made crap we bought at Mervyn’s.
But none of us now, as adults, question how badass it is for my parents to fully pay for 3 college tuitions. None of us had to take out loans.
She cooked organic before it was cool even though all I wanted was to be like the kids on TV and eat TV dinners. She made kombucha in the 90s way before all you jumped on the bandwagon with your probiotic drinks.
Growing up, she was just my mom. The one who worked a lot, who paid the mortgage on the two-story track home I grew up in, plus another house she bought for my grandma, aunts and uncles who followed her across the world to the land of more opportunities.
Mom had short hair, wore practical clothes, and worked in a lab that had a couch for employees to nap on because they worked 12-16 hour shifts. I remember after I ate my breakfast on sunny days, she’d come home from the graveyard shift and went to sleep in her walk-in closet, the darkest windowless room in the house.
Sometimes I wished I had other moms, the white and hip young ladies, who volunteered at school and went on multiple field trips. But my mom was the “old one,” who had me when she was 40, spoke with a thick Filipino accent, ate fermented fish, bought rice by the sack, and made a killer long bean dish.
She made sure we responded to family with respect, “It’s ‘yes, grandma’… not ‘YEAH!’” she would harp on me. She was incredibly strict, which I hated and resented — and now understand as a mother myself. She made sure we did our chores and finish our homework without being asked. She made me dust the leaves on her house plants. I’d groan under my breath at this ridiculous task, unknowing the grit this would teach me 30 years later.
I recently wrote her a handwritten letter with a few questions.
One of the questions asked, “Now that you are 79-years-old, what advice would you give to people younger than you?”
While we got together for my son’s birthday, she told me her advice.
“Don’t wait until you’re old or retired to do what you love.”
I knew what this meant. This advice came with depth. It came from an immigrant mother’s heart, constantly filled with hopes and dreams for more. She set aside much of her wants for a better life for us. Halfway through university, mom said she didn’t enjoy chemical engineering but so much had been invested in her education it was not an option to change. She stayed in this career until the day she retired.
After my dad died, she didn’t opt to remarry, often saying “I don’t want someone to tell me what to do.”
Remember how I told you when I was little, she was just my mom?
Well, she’s still just my mom, but she’s so much more. In the past decade or more she’s become progressive with her beliefs yet further rooted in her spirituality. I would say she has reinvented herself and it’s been pretty fun to watch.
She has purple hair and loves the attention she gets from it. My mom has closets full of dresses, specifically ones that look good in a reverse turn or a cha-cha-cha. She goes dancing four days a week. It’s her lifeline. Ballroom dancing keeps her blood flowing, pumps happiness through her veins, and is her fountain of youth. I’m pretty sure it’s the reason my mom can still pull her own weeds and looks pretty damn good for hitting 80.
On Monday, I had a whirlwind of a morning. It was a cluster of weird and unfortunate events. My dog ate my kid’s moccasin boots to the sole and puked up laces and fringe on my nice rugs. After I dropped off my kids at school, my car wouldn’t start in the parking lot. We had to cancel an interview for my podcast because of it. I was sweaty. I was stressed. I was in disbelief of my morning, joking about how “mercury is in the microwave,” poking at the phenomenon of “mercury in retrograde,” the belief that “when the planet Mercury enters apparent retrograde motion, that marks the beginning of a span of misfortune down on Earth.”
I still don’t understand it, not really sure I believe it. Regardless, my day started out undesirably weird.
Then I looked down at my phone, a text from my mom. Normally, I would have read it later but I opened the message in the school parking lot, waiting for my husband to come and jump my car.
It had been less than a day since we saw each other and she took the time to answer the rest of my questions, all dancing related.
In addition, she added more to her life advice.
“I would have spent more time on my family. I did the best I could to have a better life for my next generation.”
My shitty morning turned up once I read that text.
Mom, when you read this, we never thought we were robbed of time with you. My sisters and I grew up watching you hustle and build one heck of a life. You modeled hard work and perseverance. You created the epitome of the American Dream. You accomplished many generations worth of work into one.
Because of you, I didn’t have to wait until I’m old or retired to do what I love.
So incredible for you to take the time
For this reflection and to document it and then to be brave enough to share it.
I enjoyed reading your mom’s story , I can relates some of it.I did sew women’s clothes to make money on my younger age.I’m now retired and widow . I’m enjoying my grandkids and mostly my ballroom dancing.