Mom’s short stories, long life: walk a mile in her... bare feet
Mom’s short stories, long life: walk a mile in her... bare feet
My kids started school this week. Halfway through day one I realized I didn’t take a first-day-of-school photo. I was bummed for two seconds and then I remembered, in exchange for struggling to corral my kids with a forced pic, we had a peaceful morning. Zen first days are rare.
Here I was, the conductor delicately waving my baton, each kid in harmony with the morning rhythm of breakfast, changing clothes, brushing teeth, packing lunch. The orchestra rehearsed so well the little drummers had enough time before leaving to play ball with the dog and check on our chicks in their coop.
We got in the car, no fuss. Then for a majority of the 20-minute drive, the conversation was so captivating no one noticed our usual playlist wasn’t on. Instead, we discussed our current superpowers, like trampoline skills and ultimate lego creativity. Also the superpowers we’d like to have one day. Making ice with our fingertips and super speed are top on the list.
Who needs a back to school photo? I’ll take this sweet memory.
In honor of the little ones starting school, it felt like a great time to chat with my mom about her elementary school experiences. I asked mom about her most vivid memories. One involved her feet, another her hands.
Morning commute
When I think about raising these 2nd generation half-filipino kids, I am shocked by the stark difference of two generations. I purchased new shoes in time for school, both my kids feet sprouted to the next size. My mom, who grew up in the Philippines in the 1940s and 1950s, walked barefoot to school.
Yes, I know, we’ve all heard this boastful older generation gripe, “When I was your age I had to walk uphill 5 miles in the snow… there and back… while carrying cinder blocks!”
But, listen, mom truly did! Except mom walked through the forest, in dirt, and through creeks. No one wore shoes to school either. I imagine a beautiful pitter patter, sounds of brown-skinned soles lightly thumping the ground.
By the time she went to a Catholic school in 6th grade, Mom had to wear a uniform and shoes. But she walked to school barefoot to help her one pair of shoes last for an entire year. A foot washing station was located outside for kids to clean off their commute before slipping into their footwear.
The one set of shoes was all they could afford. And the pair couldn’t stand the wear and tear of walking to school, too. If her feet grew too much within that year, it meant tough luck and scrunched toes. Now it finally makes sense to me when I think back to 1st grade. At Payless, mom insisted we buy shoes two sizes too big, then stuff tissues in the toe box to fill the gap. My little piggies still have PTSD from those days.
Corporal punishment
The beautiful innocence of Filipino kids' toes free to roam and play in the schoolyard immediately disintegrates in my mind when mom told me what happened when a student got a math problem wrong. They got whipped with a stick. Then sprinkle insult on the injury. The teacher wouldn’t dare do the dirty work. She would appoint a student to do it for her.
Can you imagine playing tag with your friend Pete at recess and come back and he’s assigned to slap you until it hurts? Or having dual purpose class supplies like using a ruler in the morning to draw straight lines only to have it used against you in the afternoon when you realize 4+8 is, in fact, not 13.
Shocking. Or is it? I can’t tell! I just found out that corporal punishment, the act of physically punishing children in school, is still a thing here in the US. It’s legal in 19 states.
To avoid peer punishment, mom and a few of her classmates had a deal. Since answer options were multiple choice, with the letters a/b/c/d, if they didn’t know an answer, they’d write the letter c. Switching papers during correction time, the teacher recited answers out loud, and students figured out that the letter c can conveniently be changed to the other letter options with a simple straight or curved line. Pretty slick cheating move, mom. I guess you get creative when you risk getting slapped with a stick until it marks your palms crimson.
Mom also said that her school required speaking English. Any other language spoken, especially the local dialect, Ilocano, was not allowed. Getting caught meant paying a fine.
These were the prices mom had to pay to get an education. Mom knew at a young age, it was her ticket out of poverty. I’m grateful for the generational differences. The opportunities I’ve been given. My grandmother didn’t finish school, then my mom pushed to go and did the seemingly impossible thing of finishing college. And here I am with a college degree, taking my kids to a school that allows them to be kids, and learn in a really beautiful way.
They came home from school this week filled with curiosity and shoes that are filthy, proof their minds are doing what they need to at school, and they still get to be kids. Thanks, mom, for paving the way for the rest of us. I can’t imagine walking a mile in those bare feet.
