05/11/2025
May is that time of the year where I haunt the local garden centers. I am always seduced by all the blooms and greenery; where I have dreams of making a cottage garden/sustainable environment/suburban oasis that ultimately becomes wild and untamed by the summer’s end. I always love the perennials; coreopsis, coneflowers, coral bells. They always come back every year, more full and greater than the previous.
Facebook reminds me of these memories where I am flooded with photos of my children planting these garden varietals during their preschool years. Now, about 10 years later, those purple salvias and English lavender plants are so tall and expansive, they’re hardly the reflection of the plants they were initially. In the same way, my children too have grown tall, and their preschool-selves are but a portion of the shadow they now cast. Their personalities, abilities, knowledge, and sense of self have blossomed to a vast array of colors that amaze me every waking moment. It is hard to conceptualize exactly how much they have grown but a few things are quite noticeable. Music being one of them.
Music is pervasive in the family. Karaoke was always prominent at many family events. One family vacation, my cousins actually rented a large karaoke machine to bring to the house. My mother loves music. She loved listening to it, dancing to it, and most especially singing to it. She would tell me stories of how she would learn songs and play them on the guitar and sing along. She was always a bit of a performer and would sing at get-togethers, office parties, and at church. She has perfect pitch when it comes to singing. This is why I never sing in front of her (she definitely knows when I go flat). She used to have big curly hair, wear bell bottoms, would be singing and playing guitar. And all of this was without any teaching or training. She just learned by having fun with her cousins, nieces, and nephews. She always wanted to learn though.
Growing up, she exposed us to music. We had so many records in the Philippines, and I have so many memories of her playing them. Dancing to Michael Jackson, Gloria Estefan, and Julio Iglesias. She would tell us stories of how her father loved marching bands. She would tell me that my grandmother would love crooners like Frank Sinatra. You can see the joy that music provided in her eyes, her smile, and her dance. She always mentioned that she was dismayed about not learning how to play music formally when she was younger. Something she wanted to change with the next generation. She signed me up for piano. I loved piano. It was not in the cards though. We had to stop lessons, give up the piano, and our journey to America had to begin. But fate took a hand. Fairfax County Public Schools have a band program that is free. You just have to rent the instrument. Initially, I wanted to learn to play the violin. My mother said, “you’re playing the flute”. I was fine with it because the Pink 5 Bioman from Japan played the flute, and she was awesome. My mom always went to every band concert that she can make it to. She would tell me how much her father would have wanted to see all this because he loved band so much. From then, my love for music deepened and the word ‘appreciation’ is not encompassing enough to express what music was for me growing up and how it helped shape my adult life. My mom would then buy a guitar and books for herself to finally learn. Alas, a working mom’s life does not really give time. She was exhausted every day. I would eventually steal the guitar and teach myself to play which she happily supported.
As I got older, I would beg my mom if I could get a flute of my own and not have a rental anymore, hoping that I could possibly get a nice flute to sound better. I had dreams of being like my classmates with open holes and gold mouthpieces. Unfortunately, dreams can be a bit too expensive for an immigrant family to support, but my mother told me she would somehow get me a flute of my own. My parents saved and during one of our trips home to the Philippines, they brought me to a music store and had me pick out a flute. If I could just capture my mother’s face that day. She was more excited than me. She was happy for me – happy that she could do it and give me something that she could not have for herself. I flew back home with my own Yamaha student flute. Every time I played it, she would be beaming. Proud of how I am growing up, proud that she could give me something I was dreaming of, proud that she brought us here to America, proud of how far we’ve come, proud that she could give us something that her own parents had dreamed for her -- Something, I didn’t fully grasp until I had children of my own.
My kids are now in their early teens. Both play piano and instruments for the band. They can play the piano with an ability that I could only dream of. They’ve accomplished far more than I ever did in their age. They have an understanding and appreciation for music that I didn’t reach until I was well into high school. This past year, my oldest asked for an oboe, one that he can call his own. My husband and I said, “Absolutely!”. Then we saw the price tag. That daunting lump in your throat where you want to fulfill a wish and feel like it’s a bit difficult to do. I’m lucky enough to be in a place where we had a difficult task of saving up for his oboe, rather than an impossible task to save up for a flute my parents had to face. My mother and father sacrificed so much so they can provide beyond what they can truly afford in time and finances. They’ve lifted my brother and I up so we could be in a place in our lives where we can fulfill dreams without that wall of impossibility.
The gift of music that my mom has given me is like a perennial in bloom. She gave as much as she could so I can bloom bigger and brighter than her roots could give her. I can now see the beauty in the seeds she planted when I marvel at my own children’s experiences. They are more talented and enriched beyond what I could imagine for myself. They are the cottage garden of my dreams that my mother started tending many years ago - vibrant, blooming, and thriving.
Happy Mother’s Day, Nanay
