Lift the Curtains: A Short Creative Essay on Being my Mother's Daughter
There’s an unspoken contract between parents and their children. We walk a fine line between seeing one another as individual people versus the statue roles we play in our own homes with one another. One phone call and I am humbly reminded that I am my mother’s dutiful daughter, the young girl with dark hair and timid eyes that she raised to be poised and respectful and perfect and simple. That’s the role I play. Sometimes. I try to mostly, but lately I’ve been cursing it, casting it aside and turning to my wretched insides, knowing that there’s a hint of bitterness inside of me.
By bitterness, I don’t mean that I’m not poised nor respectful. In my house, we are taught to be polite because a hierarchy exists internally and externally. Within my family, we’re polite to those in the ladder rungs above us. We have specific words in our mother tongue that teach us this at a young age. Whether we share similar blood or not, the women around me are all aunties titas, my father’s brother-in-laws and gambling and basketball friends were uncles titos, and the latter continues for my generation too. I haven’t called my older brother by his first name in years. Each text, I’m reminded of the role he plays in our family as well: kuya. To my small handful of younger cousins, I am their ate. For my mother, I am her anak.
Her child.
It comes as a breaking point: the realization one day that you are your own person and not just the roles you were given to play. I consider myself to be a good actor. My parents still think I like our church. They don’t necessarily acknowledge I’m in love. They think I haven’t dabbled in things dutiful, perfect, simple daughters don’t do. I’m an excellent actor. However, I’ve been realizing lately that I do not want to act anymore. To play a role on stage and ache to run behind the curtains to the person I have to hide away before we even reach every curtain call, perhaps I am not an actor. An imposter. That wish is an impossible feat, because there will come the times that I have to play that role for their sake and for mine – but I’m closing the curtains more and more. I am my mother’s daughter, but I am my own person as well. I’m polite to others around me; I have that kindness and I was taught that kindness because it was my place in the world to let others know that they have my respect always. However, that perfect and simple daughter they wanted? That is a lie I have fronted for years. Now I’ve come to terms that I am far from it. Several months ago, I’ve been taking my body and mind back. I realized that she’s delicate and sensitive, but strong-willed and opinionated. She has to be if she wants to survive and outrun the expectations she cannot meet and the beliefs she refuses to have. I want to be her anak, but not at the cost of myself entirely. I realized not too long ago that playing the role my mother wanted for so long meant that I couldn’t distinguish between the character in the spotlight and the actor backstage. The lines were written for me and I spent a childhood pretending being molded into a role I didn’t choose.
I lived without living.
I matured without really maturing.
I grew into a person who wasn’t whole.
I couldn’t read in between the lines and it took me until the end of act two to understand that my role is dynamic. There is more to the character I am meant to play. I didn’t and I don’t have to follow the script. Improv, I think, is what they call it. I once tried to explain to my mother what improv was, but she didn’t quite understand why anyone would take the time to pay attention to something unplanned when the jokes could have been written far in advance. She likes to watch stand-up comedy sometimes, but often she loses interest anyway because she does not understand the jokes within the stories the comedian tells. I, on the other hand, appreciate those well-written lines. I’ll spend nights with John Mulaney stand-up specials. The lights are out and the house is quiet - for once - and I won’t have to think twice about the kind of role I should be playing. I used to live for nights like that. Much like John Mulaney would control the narrative of his New York temp escapades or disastrous college nights, I, too, could control what would happen next. Perhaps because my mother didn’t think much of stand-up comedy or improv, I, on the other hand, paid close attention to the ways in which these individuals could make and unmake the narratives they tell and the people they are. Even with improv, unscripted and unplanned, they hold tight onto their own individual roles in the scene. Someone else might impose a role onto them, but they have the opportunity to take that character and write who they want to be on the spot. Beyond the likes of comedy, I forget that roles aren’t simple. Open the curtain again and again, the show goes on for weeks on end, but the actors aren’t stifled. The stages are set and the marks have been practiced, but the characters they play are entirely in their control. They cannot just recite a scene. The dialogue and cues are written for them, but it’s up to the actors in how they play a role. Pensive. Devastated. Afraid. Jubilant. Shocked but only for a split second because both the actor and the audience know the secrets that were spilled in act one.
Sometimes I am afraid of that bitterness. I worry often if it’s selfish to think of myself as anything but anak or ate or neng. The terms aren’t interchangeable – they mean slightly different things depending on who’s in the scene – but they’re well weaved within one another, with a deeply rooted culture of supposition and intent. No matter how hard I want to rewrite the script, a part of me will still be anak or ate or neng. Sometimes I desperately want more than that. My mother has determined who she wants me to be, but isn’t it ultimately up to me to decide how the role can be played out? I think perhaps that’s the complicated notion of being born into characters that are already written for you. Is it selfish to want to abandon it? Or is it more selfish to neglect what it’s supposed to be and instead change it to your own desire. At what point do I ask myself if I’m crossing a line? At what point is it no longer making the role your own and instead, something entirely new?
I think there is a lot more to improv than what we might think. At first glance, someone might see it as nonsense, a free for all entertainment with no real substantial matter – but look closely. I can see the gears turning, each cog and mechanism twisting one by one as soon as movement starts somewhere. It might seem like a domino effect of rubble, but I can see the push and pull and the authority that comes with it. It takes a lot to be able to roll with the punches, to be open and free and mold themselves into characters and stories that perfectly play off of one another.
I think that’s why improv works.
It isn’t nonsense.
It isn’t complete anarchy.
My mother might see it that way. She likes structure and roles. I understand, but I want to hold onto the freedom that comes with being able to decide for yourself and yet, appropriately playing along with the rest of the stage.
