Silence Of Her Cry
“How was your day, mijaa?” My mother asked me. Every day was composed of the same routine, the same questions and the same answers. This day was no different. My mind, so full of excitement, immediately began racing. My mouth stumbled over words. We stopped at Albertsons to pick up groceries before going home. I talked about my day the whole time. My mother nodded and skimmed the aisles of soups, pastas, and rice. When we pulled into our driveway, I got out and popped open the trunk. From the corner of my eye, I saw my father walking toward us. I felt an uncomfortable confusion enter me. My father never helped. My father did not reach out. My father did not go out of his way for us. He walked past me. He hugged my mother. They do not hug. I wanted to drop the groceries, race over to my mother, and pull my father away from her. Instead, I grasped the groceries tightly and went inside. My mother did not need assistance. To me, that hug was almost an insult. They entered the kitchen as I was putting the ice cream in the freezer. The room became tense. I knew it was not my place to speak. I had no voice because I was a child.
“What’s going on?” Don’t ask me why I spoke. I don’t know why. The question raised from my stomach. I felt it. It escaped from my mouth like a bird escaping from its cage. The room was silent. At that moment, I wanted to catch that bird and stuff it back in its cage. I don’t remember who told me, but someone surely told me. They mumbled it under their breath, as if they were frightened to speak the words. My grandfather had died. I nodded. Now I knew the reason behind my father’s kindness. I told my mother I would put everything away, why don’t you go rest mama. She ignored me and began straightening everything out. She cried. I never catch my mother crying. I felt a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach like I should turn around, leave, get out now. When I finished putting everything away, I went to the restroom. I waited for myself to cry, but the tears never came. I walked down the hall. Mama was lying in her bed. The lights were off. I crawled into bed with her and listened to my mother’s soft cry. The bed was cold; not because of the air, but because of my mother’s hidden face. The walls spoke to me. They told me this was not my place, but I remained beside my mother. This was one of the first and only times I would see my mother weaken, crumble, and fall.
My mother often talked about working in the fields, her abusive, drunken father, and the room she shared with multiple children. She talked about the times her parents swam across the Rio Grande and even how her baby sister had drowned. She spoke with pride, not shame. In between the cracks of her stories, I discovered the message. I knew what she was truly telling me, “Suck it up, Sierra. All the pain, all the anger, and all the bitter neglect will only sculpt and shape you into a stronger woman.” I understood her hidden message clearly. My mother is so strong and so wise. The few times in life I’ve seen my mother cry were for reasons almost unspeakable. She cried alone in the privacy of her own sorrow. Once she was done, she cleaned herself up, and managed to put all those broken pieces back together. She did not ask for assistance simply because she did not need any. She was too proud. My mother took the brutal, strict parenting of her childhood and enforced almost the opposite on mine. She gave me freedom and she gave me a voice. My job was to use it. At a young age, my thoughts and curiosities grew immensely. I began to wonder how could a woman, like my beautiful mother, carry a job, maintain a household, raise a family, and care for a husband. I hardly ever saw a tear slip down from my mother’s face. Lying in bed with my grieving mother, I realized there was much more pain behind those tears than I would have ever guessed. The last seam had finally torn.
Slowly, I struggled to help my mother recover. Her pain taught me irrevocable lessons. The respect she had for her father inspired me to perfect my manners, to smile and charm, to say “please” and “thank you”, and to have the utmost respect for anybody. Her father had given her a home when she would have settled for a house. My mother raised me to raise myself. At a young age, I became independent. I deeply wanted to take that pain off of my mother’s shoulders. I wanted her to have the freedom she deserved but never received. I have given up a lot for my mother. I longed to help her ease the pain, to love her unconditionally, to have her laughing and smiling, and most importantly, to see her truly happy. I still would give up anything for my mama. My mother showed me the essence of a woman when she cried so silently. She was so silent throughout the pain. That is what women do. We are silent voices and soft cries. We carry pain with no complaint. We give away all the love we never received. We endure every hardship, every heartache, every moment of pain, and we arch our back, stand tall, and prepare ourselves for battle every day of our lives.
