Mother

By Mayra Ramos

“Mija!”

As the daughter of a proud Mexican woman, this spoken word has always served as an oasis to the vast desert, a lullaby to ease the noise and the tender touch of a mother. A word of endearment, a word I keep so close to my heart because it is spoken by my mother, a word spoken in our beloved native language, Spanish. She came from Mexico at the tender age of 17 looking to better her life. In her mission to become successful, she endured heartbreak, homelessness, and hunger, but she never forgot her roots and made sure we knew where we came from.

“Se llama Elva!”

My heart jumps at the sound of her name, like all the keys of a piano suddenly being struck down together in cacophony or the thunderous crash of cymbals. Elva! Her name demands attention.

As a young child, I didn’t understand all the many things my mother required of her children. Why did my mother make us speak Spanish at home? That wasn’t the language my friends wanted to hear or to speak. It wasn't the language I preferred, but nonetheless, we spoke Spanish which later became Spanglish. This would serve me in my future, just like everything else my mother told me. She taught me to honor my roots, be grateful for the present, and build toward the future. She always told us to be better than she was, but all I ever wanted was to be like her.

My mother's history is my history. It is my duty to retell her struggles and adventures to our future generations, so we learn from our past. I am who I am thanks to her history and the lessons I have learned along the way. March is Women's History Month, but one month is not long enough to celebrate women like my mother. One year is not long enough to celebrate my mother. Not even a lifetime is long enough to celebrate my mother.

Elva, she calls me mija.