Wonder Woman Has a Name
Growing up, 65% of children see their mothers in a content, stable relationship with a father figure present,otherwise known as the “ideal” way of having a family. I, on the other hand, was fortunate to have fallen in the 22% category that grew up with only a mother. I did have a father; however, he wasn’t present for a majority of my life growing up. This led me to depend on my mom for a lot of things, such as, feeding, clothing, and keeping up with me to make sure all my needs and wants were being met. My father did not meet a simple expectation–for example, paying $12 a month for child support. One thing was for certain: he was great at making sure there was a beer in one hand and a woman in the other.
I did not ask my mom to do anything for me, but she did it out of the kindness of her heart, regardless of whether she had a partner to help her or not. My mother was a part of the 40% that were single mothers in the US. She immigrated from Mexico to Vista, California, at a young age, along with the rest of my family. Elicene was her name. My mom did not like her name because of the way people would mispronounce it, as well as being the only person she knew with that name. However, I love her name. In my eyes, her name stands for intelligent, hard working, creative, and lovable.
I did not ask for my mom to be seventeen, a junior in high school, when she had me; and yet, she still handled her “mistake” and took care of me in the way she knew how to. Based on my descriptions of my mom, you would assume we are best friends and do everything together. Your assumption would be wrong. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate everything she has done and sacrificed; however, she was young herself when she had me and was not an expert when it came to being a mother. My mom would get mad at me for the littlest things. I couldn’t read a word wrong when she would test me on my reading and writing homework. I couldn’t drink soda as a kid when all my other cousins could. I couldn’t go out walking in the neighborhood with the other kids or my cousins. Those weren’t the worst things that would happen.
My mother often discusses her regrets to me. Something as small as getting face piercings as a teenager, to something as significant like choosing the father of her child. So, when I look back at the times she would get upset with me for accidents that would happen, I now understand why. My mother was preparing me for something much bigger, life. She’s aware of a lot more than me, especially with eighteen more years of experience than me.
She had to sacrifice the rest of her high school experience to spend time with me and make time for herself as well. She has sacrificed the enjoyment of taking and picking up her child from school, due to her working two jobs in order to support the both of us. She’s had to sacrifice her image as a person because she was a young Hispanic teen parent. For me, things she would tell me growing up were the following:
“Don’t do drugs.” “Don’t drink.”
“Choose your friends wisely.”
“Don’t waste your time on a boy who does not value you.”
I failed at following her instructions. Growing up in a middle school where everyone thought they had to follow each other’s footsteps, I sadly accompanied them and did what everyone else did, so I was exposed to alot of things at the ripe age of fourteen. I would say my mom didn’t know what she was talking about because I “knew” everything. Everything led me down the wrong path. I did the wrong things, and came across the wrong people for me. I did everything she told me not to do. I would get off the school bus with a plug waiting to sell me a vape or edible. I would sneak off with people thinking drinking in the apartment’s playground was “cool.” I let a boy take advantage of me because we were young, “in love,” and I believed him when he said we were going to get married one day. Now looking back, a part of me has a voice with the consistent phrase of asking:
“Leslie, why would you allow this to happen!?”
A part of me wanted to believe that everything would go well,that there would be no consequences to my actions. Now looking back,I had no self respect, so thenI had time to reflect on myself. A psychological explanation would be because I had no male figure really there for me growing up, and the fear of being left alone absolutely terrified me. Suddenly, all the regrettable feelings started to pour in. I was irritated with the world and started to feel pity for myself. These feelings got me nowhere, except the deep void of feeling lost.I felt as if I were a white rose that had been crushed and stripped of my innocence. My mother could see these changes in me, and instead of trying to acknowledge the mental alterations I was going through, she would get frustrated with me and take the anger out on me:
“You’re being dramatic.” “You’re a bad daughter.” “You’re a lot like your dad.”
All these things would hurt me, especially coming from my mother because all I wanted was for her to understand me and be there for me. I grew resentment towards her.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about”
I would say it all the time when she and I would bump heads. I would tune her out whenever she was trying to give me advice because a part of me didn’t feel like she was saying it to be helpful. Rather, it felt like she was trying to make up for the times she would wound me with her words instead of owning up to her own mistakes. The bitterness of feeling unwelcome by my mother, for simply being the daughter of my father, is what made me believe she didn’t love me. I believed she had hatred towards me because she regretted having me. All these situations caused us to drift apart. I struggled to not let our problems get the best of me because I know she was just trying to look out for me but didn’t know how to because of how she grew up herself.
I wish I could go back in time to see the young version of my mother. I want to go sit beside her through the times she cried, laughed, and felt anger. I want a better understanding of her and why she would say or do certain things that I don’t agree with. I want to ask her about her dreams and tell her what she should avoid for her dreams to come true. I want to tell her to ignore all the people who would tell her to go for the bare minimum.
“Don’t work too hard.”
She worked hard in order to support the both of us, regardless of what they told her. My mom deserves everything good to happen to her, even if she insists that she ruined my life.
Approximately, 39% of young mothers become depressed due to these difficult developments they encounter. My mother was one of these women. I had read somewhere that depression could also possibly be passed down through generations. It’s a known fact that about 50% of depression was passed down generationally. This fact could explain a lot, considering that the women in my family were mistreated and it was bound to happen to those next in line. I want to break this cycle.
As time passed by, I started to get to know my mom. Our fights decreased as we grew as human beings. It was time for us to accept our flaws; but, there’s a difference between forgiving and forgetting. As we sit down and talk about our personal mistakes, we reminisce about the good times as well. I don’t want to be in my twenties, living on my own, and to continue having a grudge against my mom. I shouldn’t, after all the sacrifices she made for me, the hard battles she fought in order for me to live a better life than she did. She started to teach me about self-love, to be smart about my decisions, and to stop the need to please people.
My mother taught me many lessons she learned herself growing up. I find it refreshing knowing my mom and I have come a long way to become the people we are today. My mom is also courageous for trying her best with the little knowledge she has about parenting. I try to remember: We’re both still learning and growing. Elicene is my superhero.