Blog #34: Diary of a Teenage Girl
Let me start out by saying that this post in no way shape or form is meant to “air my mother’s dirty laundry” and she would definitely kill me for even saying that. The things I uncover only reinforce her humanness, and the reality that we were unmistakably cut from the same cloth.
Are y’all ready for this tea?
Sunday, June 4th. Morning. My uncles inform me that they’ll be in town for LA Pride and they want to schedule a dinner/catch up-sesh. They’ve been waiting for the past year to bring some of my storage items back to me, and insist on finally delivering them during this trip because “It looks like the kind of stuff you would want in your possession.” They loosely remind me of what those boxes hold: “Highschool memorabilia, some journals, some clothes, oh yeah, and some of your mom’s stuff.” I don’t overthink it too much, I’m more focused on the lack of storage in my own place, and how the hell I’m going to make room for all these old boxes.
Saturday, June 10th. Evening. Our pho dinner catch up was excellent, albeit a little dysfunctional, but that’s expected when family is in town. We finish up and head back to my place. I start to bubble up with a little nervousness about the cargo they’re carrying. 1... 2… 3... 4 boxes land on my doorstep. I ask: “Is that all?” My uncle says: “2-3 more.” Through the transparent plastic box, I already see an insane relic from my past. Nervousness turns to excitement as I hastily carry the boxes down the hallway to my apartment. I plop the boxes down, and dive straight in for the makeshift girl scout sash.
“Matthew -- did I ever tell you about the time my elementary school friends made me do a bunch of weird things to earn badges, so I could become part of their clique? They were girl scouts and I was clearly not.”
Immediate red flag, I always knew it was. It’s no surprise that I’m no longer close friends with those girls, but I also bear no ill-will on them. We were only kids and I’m sure they’ve changed a lot since then, just as I have. I keep digging.
“No fucking way!!! I just found my first pet, Rocky!! This is actually insane holy shit. Literally one of my first friends -- I am totally geeked right now.”
Rocky -- the smooth surface, striation wearing, palm-sized rock with a blue sharpie-drawn smiley face that could kill, and “Maya” written in cursive on the back. That’s my BOY. My uncles watch me revert to my 6 or 7 year old self at that moment. It’s kind of precious. :)
From there, it’s a whirlwind. I’m tearing through old notebooks and journals like there’s no tomorrow. I skip over the strongly worded death notes to ward off trespassers, in order to get to the “good stuff.” I laugh at myself, feeling like my own trespasser after all these years. My uncles recognize that I am fully invested in these boxes, and take the opportunity to leave me and Matthew to explore. I give them my thanks, a hug goodbye, then continue on my nostalgia grind. One reminder is very clear from these pages -- I was once hella boy crazy, in a very self-aware way. Can you be that surprised though?? Middle school to high school hormones are a trip.
A few old journals and yearbooks later, Matthew and I take a deep breath. We’re ready to tackle my mom’s belongings. I start to sift through and realize what an idiot I am for not acknowledging this stuff sooner. My mother’s adolescent life is in these boxes!!! Journals, pictures, letters, yearbooks, love notes, planners, birthday cards, EVERYTHING. Pieces of my mother that she never shared with me, and whole parts that I’ve only heard a fraction about. I guess I salvaged this box when I moved out of the last place I shared a roof with her, realizing it was important, but not ready to uncover it all.
Matthew and I find ourselves knee deep in the scrapbook of my mom’s teenage prime. It was 1993, and she was a senior in high school. Her life consisted of talking on the phone, writing letters to her long distance family and friends, giving her parents a hard time, going to school, dancing, and being boy crazy 99% of the time. My mother’s first love, a boy named Mason [changing his name and all other names for privacy sake] was taking up a lot of real estate in this box. I remember my mom always told me with a touch of melancholy: “He’s the one that got away.” I may not fully understand why they didn’t work out, but these clippings give me a clear picture of who they were during their peak.
Saturday, June 10th. Super late evening. My eyes grow tired as I try to decipher the 50th(?) handwritten love note from Mason to my mom. There’s no doubt, they were in love. But my mother’s detailed planner from 1993 recounting intimate highlights of each day tells me that they were on-again-off-again many times throughout their relationship. Maybe that’s why Mason felt the need to keep proving his love through words of affirmation. Just before we’re ready to call it a night, Matthew picks out a handful of letters from mysterious lovers… there’s apparently a Grayson, Jason, Payson, Aason, Trayson, etc… My mom didn’t reciprocate the love for several of them, but a few were passionate, steamy, and temporary loves. My mind is dizzy from all the information I just took in. Time to go to bed.
Sunday, June 11th. Morning. Bestie’s birthday party is today, but I don’t know how I can muster up the energy to talk about anything other than the bomb that was dropped on me. I’m processing a lot of information and emotions. One thing is for sure, I’m not ready to tear myself away from these boxes. I take a moment to dip back in. I pick up one of my mother’s journals and my jaw drops as I read the words etched onto the front cover: “STOP THERE. Please DO NOT read this journal or bad things will happen to you. If you REALLY must, please at least avoid the Memoir section. Only in the event that I’m eternally gone, I give permission to the person I’m closest with to read this.” My gut reaction was to stuff the journal back into the box and walk away -- afraid I wasn’t worthy to read the inner workings of my mom’s teenage mind. Of course, I already surpassed “trespassing” when I read the piles of planners, yearbooks, and letters from her ex-lovers. My internal conflict builds, piling yet another complex emotion on top of the mixed and messy feelings that these boxes have already brought me.
After taking a beat to process, I realize that there is literally no one closer to a mother than her own daughter. I release myself of the guilt and remind myself that I only have access to these thoughts because my mom is no longer here to tell her own story. The grief creeps back in, but at least I feel validated that I’m not a total intruder. An internal tsunami builds, my eyes well up with tears. A cathartic cry is exactly what I need. I wash away the heaviness for just a moment.
I pack up the boxes and shove them into my closet. I’m gonna have to revisit this another day.
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Reflecting on the gems of me and my mom’s past gives me the strangest feeling. We were practically the same boy-crazed, attention seeking, highly expressive teenagers, yet we got into so many fights over the very normal things that I did. Mama Rosa was successful at making me fear, respect, and love her all at the same time. I wish I got to experience more of her soft side throughout my adolescence, a bit more compassion during those key “growing up” moments. After learning about her past, I can’t help but to feel a little slighted. I’m not sure if it’s hypocrisy or humanness (maybe a touch of both), but it’s clear that she was not the “perfect girl” that she was molding me to be. If she wasn’t perfect, why was I expected to be?
I understood why my mom was so strict, but I always wondered if there could be another way. She once had dreams of becoming a dancer, author and public speaker, traveling the world like the free spirit she was. But when she had my older sister at the age of 21, everything changed. She was sentenced to motherhood. She always affirmed my sister and I that we were “the best things to ever happen to her”, but that didn’t change her longing for an alternate reality. Her origin story didn’t have to be mine, and my mom was set on making sure that wouldn’t be the case.
Some of the most distinct lessons from my mother, burned into my brain over a decade were:
#1 DO NOT DATE UNTIL COLLEGE
#2 DO NOT HAVE SEX
#3 DO NOT GET PREGNANT
I have to put it in all caps because that’s how loud these reminders rang in my head on a regular basis. It’s deeply confusing when a parent emphasizes: “Do as I say, not as I do.” We expect our parents to model the behavior we eventually adopt. When we realize they aren’t perfect, it causes us to reevaluate everything. Why did my mom hide so much and punish me because of her own path-not-taken? Her relatability is what made her human.
Because of my mom’s somewhat unrealistic expectations and my constant desire for her approval, I often broke myself trying to be the near-perfect daughter. I aimed for the best grades in school, took as many APs as I could handle, surrounded myself with high-achieving friends, and plotted my trajectory to a top university. Of course that was applaudable in my mom’s eyes, but when I made two big mistakes, it felt like that overshadowed my accomplishments. I broke rules #1 and #2 when I started dating my highschool sweetheart, Matthew.
I never wanted to shatter my mom’s expectations when I started dating him, but I couldn’t help it. I loved him, and that force was stronger than my desire to be the “perfect girl.” So many girls my age were dating and their moms were supportive -- why did I have to be different? Unlike those girls, the pull my mom had on me was strong. It took a lot of energy for me to be fully present with Matthew. I kept my guard up high, anticipating the panic when my mom texted or called at any moment. I felt like a bad daughter for giving my love to a boy. I suppose that’s the caution she wanted me to feel. She thought she was protecting me from making her same mistakes. Instead, she created a daughter who was programmed to feel anxious and guilty around acts of intimacy.
I was rewatching the movie “Lady Bird” the other night and was reminded of how much I resonated with the very real mother-daughter relationship that drives the whole story. Struggling, overworked mother. Ambitious, strong-willed child. Love expressed through quality time, honest conversations, and passionate screaming matches. Both in need of compassion and validation, but unable to communicate their true feelings. The mom was extremely hard on her daughter at times. And the daughter was painfully oblivious to the privileges that her mom’s hard work afforded her. But the genuine love and friendship between them was palpable. I’ve never related more to an on-screen relationship.
There’s no doubt that my mom was hard on me. And I was not a perfect child despite my attempts. But learning from the clippings of her past made me realize a few things. Mothers have been telling their daughters to behave against their own nature for generations, and it has never worked. Teenage Rosa and Maya did nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t judge us for the choices we made. Daughters can express their love and sexuality in a harmless way, but it requires trust from the person they seek the most validation from. I’m not sure I ever fully earned that trust while my mom was alive, and it’s probably fair to say that she never earned it from her mother too.
If we chose not to discourage or punish our daughters for expressing their love and sexuality, then maybe girls would grow up to be more naturally confident, free from the pressures of purity and perfectionism. All kids eventually grow up, and there comes a time when you can’t control their very human impulses. Most lessons are best learned by making our own mistakes, and while moms prefer that we learn from their mistakes, it’s not a realistic expectation. It’s human nature. Instead of motivating my daughter with fear and perfectionism, I’d rather be a mom who leans towards compassion, expression, and imperfection. I choose to be the perfectly imperfect role model to my future daughter, just like my mom was for me.
