It came to me one day in Mexico City while we were walking out of the metro. Dad was in front of me and I could see that he walks a little crooked and wears out one half of his shoe soles more than he does the other. I do the same.
Realizing that brought me back to the many discussions dad and I had in the past about how much I resemble my mom. Back then I would argue how I resemble him too and I would make lists to prove it. They were futile and I eventually gave up telling him about them. We no longer engage in those discussions, I think mostly because we have learned how to accept each other and love each other as we are, and because I do think he sees a lot of him in me, even though he will never tell me.
I do keep the lists of things in my head though. I think it helps me patch over the years in which I lived away from him. When I was little we were attached at the hip. We would go to soccer games together, eat corn on the cob on the side of the highway and have contests as to who could lick the yogurt cup faster. Over the years, I always wondered how I would have turned out had he been a part of my teenage years. How my life would’ve been had he had a say on where I should go to college or what I should major in. Most of the time, I just sigh those thoughts away. I can’t go back in time and for better or for worse, I am where I am and I am who I am.
Sometimes, though, I do wonder. Times like that in the metro, when I saw him walking. I thought, “there it is: physical proof of how I resemble him.” And I wondered how else, had things been different, I would be like him. He never got to advise me on what to major in or where to do it. We never sat and talked about boys and how mean they were to me. He never got the chance to grumble at how low a pant was or how high a skirt went. We never had that. But we have today and we have those ten first years.
They say that your most formative time is from zero to seven years of age. If that’s true, then I got whatever I needed to get from him. If it’s genetic, then he was always there. However, most of things that make me truly me, I think both parents can claim as their own. Love of cooking? Both. Love to read? Both. Love for culture and the arts? Both. Being an independent, opinionated and strong woman? Both. Love to travel and meet other cultures? Both. Being curious about stuff and having a do-it-yourself attitude? Both.
I think no matter how much dad hates mom, he knows deep inside she did a good job raising me. There are, of course, things in which I am more like one than the other. It can’t be helped. But today, sitting in his living room, listening to classical music and listening to him breathe deeply as he reads a history book, I’m coming to realize that it no longer matters.
I am me. Whole me. Eco-friendly, sunscreen wearing, tofu eating, ranchera-loving, cake baking, occasional pearl wearing, dog loving me, potty mouthed, steak loving, walking crooked, scared shitless of countless things me.
Finally, after so many years of struggling, I think I’m beginning to accept me.
