MANILA, Philippines - We talk about her life and mine. At 18, she was making her own money, traveling the world representing the Philippines. At 18, I was in second year college struggling to train for my football team, starting to earn my own money. She reminds me to study hard so that my life will be better than hers. “Education is the key to success” she says.
We see lipstick. She puts it on, so do I. We like it. She buys it for me. She asks to borrow my concealer, I trade her for her blush. We swap. She reminds me to clean my makeup and take care of my brushes. “Makeup is supposed to enhance your beauty, not change your face,” she says.
We sit down to have merienda. I order sushi, she has a cappuccino. She taught me how to eat sushi and not to take coffee.
She bumps into a friend and asks how the chemo is doing. She shares her sister’s experience with cancer. “It was so hard but we made the most of it. Cherish the time you have together, don’t take anything for granted,” she advises her friend. “God gives and He takes. Value the time together and accept mortality. Focus on your good times together,” she says.
We walk, I desire more things. A dress, shoes maybe a jacket. “Buy only what you need,” she nags me. “I need this,” I argue. “Save your money. People don’t become rich because they buy everything they want,” she emphasizes. “It’s not how much you make these days, it’s how much you are able to save,” she says.
We walk some more. I see an expensive bag, I drool over it. “When your own initials are enough,” she says. She tells me that bags will not make you more beautiful. I still want it.
We pass some people, they ask for a picture with her. I seem bothered. “These are the people who paid to see my movie. They are the reason we have a home, and clothes on our back. Love these people. Respect them. And never look down on someone unless you are going to help them up,” she says.
“I have been in show business for 35 years. Everything I own comes from showbiz! But you have to compartmentalize. You have to divide your time between your family and friends; give yourself time to appreciate what you’ve worked hard for,” she says. “My life consists of working, but work is not my life.”
We enter the grocery. She is greeted by the staff. “Hello, kamusta na, pwede bang mag-utang muna?” she jokes. They laugh. “What do your friends want to eat?” she asks me. As she chooses each item it takes a while. “Why are you stressing over lemons?” I question. “Each lemon is P25! During my time one kilo cost P5!” she recalls.
“Is it true a way to every man’s heart is through his stomach?” I clarify. “Yes, but who can compete if his mother is Nora Daza!” she exclaims. I ask if she can prepare chicken, pasta and her famous salad. “Anything you want,” she says.
We see a couple arguing by the exit. As we wait for the car, we talk about relationships. I share my heartaches and she shares hers. The pain of people you love moving away makes me shed a tear. She holds my hand. I am comforted.
“You have to sacrifice a lot to gain a lot,” she explains. “You have to experience loneliness so that you will be able to define what makes you happy,” she says.
We see a family friend, we exchange greetings. She shares that she just came back from Portugal.
“See, this is what I’ve been telling you. It is better to travel the world than buy worldly possessions. Material things expire! But exposing yourself to culture, and learning to survive develops you as a person,” she says. Why are you shouting in my ear? I’m thinking.
“It’s hard to travel when you get old because you have so much responsibilities,” she whispers.
We pass by a pharmacy, we get down. I pick up a few things. She shuffles through my basket.
“I have this at home. Just get mine,” she says.
A Korean man is coughing at the counter. The pharmacist cannot understand him. She translates for him.
“Do you have a cold?” she asks. He nods. “Bigyan mo siya nang Bioflu and lagundi,” she instructs the lady. “Take this every four hours, drink lots of water but no sake. And rest well,” she orders him.
As he leaves. We pay.
“Always be kind to foreigners, they bring the dollars into our country,” she says.
We get in the car and head home. “What is your purpose in life?” I ask. “To have my children grow up to be responsible, socially aware and God-fearing people who will make a difference. And lastly for you to be happy, anak ko.” She says.
She is my mother.