Oakland Voices correspondent Patricia Contreras-Flores shares a Mother’s Day reflection.
Sabina was her name. I need to utter her name. My maternal great grandmother believed firmly in plants and their medicinal powers. She was magic, this I know in my bones. She walked around the hills and fields of rural Michoacan identifying and harvesting plants with my grandfather in tow. Years later, he then taught my mom the names and properties of plants years later, passing that knowledge and love of land onto the next generation. When my grandfather’s life was threatened, Sabina risked her own life to ensure his safe passage. I firmly believe her medicine protected them both on that fateful walk.
My paternal grandfather would get sympathetic sick when my grandmother was pregnant, earning him the nickname of “la guarisa,” which means a man who sympathizes with the pregnant mate. A very macho man who worked hard, yet danced gracefully on the dance floor. I am told that during meal times, he was served last after the women and children, ensuring everyone got enough to eat first. My grandmother, a mostly quiet being, worked very hard alongside him running a dairy farm that provided for the family and community. Apparently, though, she was a sight to behold when a mariachi song was playing. My dad’s parents poured so much love into him; of course he would pass that along to us.
With all our sharp edges and perfect imperfections, we have to love. That is why we are here.
I love deeply because of both my parents who learned it from their folks – either their parents or others – and that is what mothering is. With all our sharp edges and perfect imperfections, we have to love. That is why we are here. Loving and nurturing one another; that is not something we stop needing as we get older. Yet, how do we keep cultivating it in a society that is so very limited in its view of mothering? The men I observed mothering their kids in Viet Nam years ago, my grandfather having sympathy pains, my current partner who has instilled a love of cosmos and animals in his 13 year-old child, and my dad’s countless acts of mothering, including making us laugh on rainy days. My dad and his dad along with mom and her dad mothered me beautifully.
So on Mother’s Day, let’s honor mothering in all its forms, thanking ourselves and others who nurture and love one another regardless of our circumstances. What matters is love.
Patricia Contreras-Flores
Purepecha. Michoacan Mexico born. Bay Area raised.
Yebera. Healer in training. Storyteller. Writer.
Granddaughter of Antonia, Maria, Salvador and Juan.
Daughter of Gloria and Antonio.
Loyal to the soil. We belong to the land.
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