Ageing

dated 2010-02-23 | posted in columns | topic People | permanent link

Remembering my Parents

Some spiritual teachers say we pick our parents. If that’s true, then I chose well. Both my mother and father were generous, intelligent and supportive. They loved my sister and me almost unconditionally and raised us with an emphasis on excellence in education above material or social status. I think of my parents especially hard at this time: my birthday week. Every February 20, I have a ritual that goes like this: on my birthday morning I look to the top selves above my books where I have placed “pictures of the ancestors.” I select photos of my now deceased mom and dad, one of her in a lacy wedding dress; another as they are about to board a flight to San Francisco in the early days of TWA Airlines ; and one of my good-natured father holding a martini, the only drink he ever allowed himself to indulge in. I place the photos on a table near my desk and talk to them, updating them on events in the year that has passed (my married life with Don, teaching in China, learning to play golf, a game my father adored). I finish with a special “thank you” for the privilege of growing up with them. To conclude the ritual, I write them an intimate letter with sentiments too deep to verbalize, seal and place it under their photos and only reread it on my following birthday.

Of course I can’t confirm that they ever hear or read my words, but somehow I believe they do. On the evening after I’ve celebrated one more year, I feel their presence more deeply than throughout the year. Last weekend my birthday fell on a Saturday. The next day I visited my God children and grandchildren, as I do every Sunday, at the SOS Village in Bicesse. This visit was especially poignant. I brought the children Portuguese palm leaf cookies and chocolate cake from my birthday celebration. My original God children, now almost young adults brought me special gifts and a card signed by them all. Susanna, the oldest girl, (all names changed) said, “We think this pink scarf will look good on you.” Paulo gave me a silver framed photo of himself, handsome enough to be a model. Plus there was a green scented candle that smells too delicious to burn. As I opened the gifts, with four of the six sitting next to me, I could tell by their silence that they had selected the gifts with care, and they wanted me to like them. The much younger children, also in the room, seemed uninterested. Nevertheless, I always try to impart the same values I have transmitted to the older ones, stressing the importance of caring for each other and getting a good education, including learning English. Life for the average Portuguese can be a challenge, and children with no biological parents are tested even more severely. Ricardo, age 8, is a rowdy boy, restless and probably brighter than the others. The first day I met him he said to me, in Portuguese, “Patricia, when you speak in English, I can understand you.” He told me he learned from watching TV and from the songs he hears with an MP3 shoved into his left ear. That’s why I felt so sad last Sunday when he confessed that he received a “negative” grade in English last term. “But why?” I asked. “Because I can’t read in English.” (I’m not even sure if he reads well in Portuguese.) On the way home from the Village last Sunday I vowed to get him some extra help, to turn his negative into a positive grade, the way my parents would have helped me.

patwestheimer@gmail.com