IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER: THE TWO TERESAS

IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER: THE TWO TERESAS:

My mother was born on October 15, 1914, the feast of the great mystic and Doctor of the Church, Teresa de Jesús. She was named María Teresa. She and my father were married 63 years.

My mother passed on the Lord on February 2,  2005, 10 years ago. I have pondered, here and there, on the liturgical coincidence (?) of her dates of birth and death. The Feast of the Presentation echoes with her mission of presenting, to life and to baptism, her 4 children, and, in a manner of speaking, her husband, my father, Sixto.

My dad was never, as far as I knew, an agnostic, a lapsed Catholic, or anything of the sort. In a country, however, whose culture had been partially shaped, since the political upheavals of the nineteenth, by positivism and secularism, where committed Catholics were often ridiculed, and had a difficult time finding welcoming environments in academia and the professions, Catholic males formed a sort of an marginal community (Admittedly, thanks to Catholic professional and academic societies, such as the Agrupación Católica and Acción Católica, things began to change from the late 40´s onwards).

My father went to Mass and had us all baptized and confirmed, and worked very hard to put us through Catholic school, but he became a passionate and fully engaged Catholic in the years leading to, and after, their departure from Cuba. I have always believed my mother played a key role in this sort of conversion.

More quickly present in my mind, however, are the connections between my mother and St. Teresa. In her “The Interior Castle,” she harshly admonishes those sisters who love to engage in “boobishness” (silly, over-devotional prayer raptures) while ignoring the primary call to love and service in her community. Mom oozed kindness from every pore, all those who met her felt very much at ease in her presence from the word “go,” but, like St. Teresa, she did have a temper, which often caught us, her 4 children, by surprise.

St. Teresa teaches her sisters that the actual practice of contemplation in chapel is not the only way to relish God’s presence: “God can be found among the pots and pans,” she wrote, and in a sense, that defined my mother’s anonymous discreet, and silent holiness: mom entered into holiness by doing pots and pans – BUT, I can readily hear the objection: “Your mother, like most women in that age and culture, was subjugated by the macho culture she lived in.” I don’t believe those who knew my mother’s lively and quick capacity for joy and anger would have labeled her a “subjugated” or “oppressed” woman. St. Teresa had the fortitude to tell Apostolic Nuncios (Diego Sega, Nicolas Ormaneto) to their faces her unflattering opinion of them. More than once I was caught unawares by mother’s capacity to call off anyone who crossed her, my father and uncles included.

Her sister, Beba, and her brothers (she was the oldest of 5), called her “Cuca,” an affectionate mode of address not entirely acceptable in good society in some Latin American countries. Oddly enough, neither my brothers nor I ever called her “Cuca” during he life. Ten years after her passing, however, we have resorted to this nickname to speak of her. It does not come easy to. I always called her, and still, naturally, refer to her as “Mami.” If you really want to know what she called me, read below:

I am sharing this from my own lived experience. As a newborn, my mom used to tell me, I had blond hair. It did not last long, but it was long enough to kindle in my mom the habit of addressing me, for the rest of her life, as “Rubio” (the blond one). This sobriquet became very useful, however, in my young and adult age, as a barometer to discern my mother’s mood towards me. When she addressed me with a cheerful “Hola, Rubio,” I knew things were good with us. However, whenever I heard her call me, in her typical, ominous, somber, paused tone, “Sixto,” her tongue sliding slowly through the syllables, I knew I was in the doghouse. It never failed.

My mother’s nostalgia and cultural dependence on Cuba may have been factors explaining why she never learned good conversational English, although she did give it a try, and managed to improve. Early on, though, her difficulties plodding through the jungle of Shakespeare’s sweet language gave rise to embarrassing moments. My brothers and I remember how she told us that she had gone to Burdine’s, a long since defunct store, to buy bed sheets. A dignified and very gentlemanly sales person came to assist her: “May I help you, Ma’am?” – My mother answered: “Yes, thank you, I am looking for sheets.” BUT, OF COURSE, it did not come out like that. Mom, like many non-native English speakers, had unsurmountable difficulties pronouncing the long “ee,” which came out, most of the time, like a short “i.” So, what the horrified and convulsed sales person heard was not “sheet,” but “sh –“short i” –t. I guess that until the day the Lord came for her, she could not understand the deep perturbation she had caused to the dignified salesman’s faith in good manners.

My brother Alberto, S.J., was at hand to administer the sacrament of anointing to my mother. I will remember her as a woman of contrasts: sweet and harsh, tender and strong, inquiring and meditative, practical and deep in prayer , ,  . well, a lot like the great mystic she was named after. May she continue to intercede for us.

Oremus pro invicem.