‘All mothers sacrifice': Despite hardship, my mom made sure I had the things that really matter
The other day, my mom asked me to look over a letter from Social Security.
She will be 61 soon and has to decide when she'll retire. The document they sent contained her estimated benefits at various ages and a summary of her past wages.
I knew our financial circumstances were tough when I was growing up. We were a frijoles and rice family, never owned a home and couldn't afford vacations.
But the Social Security letter laid it out so clearly it hit me like a tariff.
From 1991 to 2000, my mom earned $43,083. Not per year, total. From 2001 to 2005, she made $37,292 total. We didn't have a lot of money and I often wanted more than what we had. But somehow, she made it work.
My mother, Alicia, was born in San Jose de Gracia, Michoacan, a small town near the center of Mexico. She was the fifth of nine children and one of only two who graduated from high school.
Her father was a bricklayer, farmer and laborer. Her mother raised the children. Mom's three older brothers left Mexico for work in the United States and she followed them to South Chicago, where the family settled. One brother worked as a butcher. The others went to factories. Over time, the brothers started a landscaping business but went their separate ways.
Mom and Dad met at a local corner store, married and divorced. Dad had substance abuse issues and moved away before I started school, leaving Mom to raise me.
My uncles helped support us. But she had to get a job to help herself. She waited tables at several Mexican restaurants. She also worked heavier jobs, including a stint packing disposable cups on an assembly line.
Sometimes she would collect cans to turn in to an aluminum recycler for change, which they would pay by the pound. She would put a little dirt inside the cans before she crushed them to eke out an extra penny or two.
My mom turned down evening and overnight jobs because she wanted to be home before it got dark, to make sure I wasn't getting into trouble with gangs.
She didn't complain much, but I knew work was a constant struggle. I recall one hard day after she had lost a job: She was crying. Bills don't stop coming because a factory skipped town. I offered to drop out from high school to get a job. A lot of Mexican American children leave school to get jobs and help their families.
She didn't entertain the idea and wouldn't even let me get a part-time job for fear I would lose focus on my education. That was always top of mind. To her, the best investment she could make was keeping me in school.
That is the most important gift anyone has given me, even if it's something other families may take for granted.
When we moved to the Chicago neighborhood of Little Village, she wanted me to attend Maria Saucedo Scholastic Academy, a magnet school with a lottery system. Years later, the principal told me how impressed she was by my mom, who came in to tell her how important it was for me to go there.
Mom later enrolled me at the Chicago High School for Agricultural Sciences in Mount Greenwood, a unique and excellent school where I worked with farm animals in my electives.
I loved the Far Southwest Side school, but it was tough. I would take a bus, train and then another bus to get there, making it difficult to spend too much time with friends and socialize.
I remember hanging with a group of kids at the local McDonald's but pretending not to be hungry because I didn't have cash.
Mom tried her best to provide entertainment. We had a Toys R Us store nearby and on the weekend we would walk over to check out the action figures. She would take the little remaining money she had and buy me Stone Cold Steve Austin or Mick Foley wrestling toys to stage pretend fights like a little promoter.
They weren't super expensive, but I know now it was a financial pressure that she didn't need.
Sitting at the kitchen table the other day, eating chicharrones in green salsa, I asked her about being poor.
'We come into this world without clothes, so everything after is a win,' she said.
Unlike me, she doesn't love attention, so she demurred when I told her how much I appreciate everything she's done for me.
'All mothers sacrifice,' she said.
Her simple approach to life is a good reminder of what matters. I do adequate financially. (Editors might read this column and think I'm overpaid.) I like to have a good night out.
But I've internalized some financial lessons too.
My favorite sweater is 20 years old. I'm happy to wear sneakers until small holes become big holes. I think it keeps me grounded.
My mom does a little better today than she did when I was a child. She's worked at the same factory for nearly 20 years, by far the longest stint in her life. The women at the factory love each other but they also fight like hell, sometimes over nonsense. (That happens in journalism too.)
All of that is good.
Her hands hurt and she's tired after all those years of hard labor. That part is bad.
Life gives and takes, always.
She's generous with the little money she makes, giving weekly to her church and donating to cancer hospitals or animal welfare organizations.
As an only child, I help support her. We go to church on Sundays, share meals and talk.
Last year, she told me she wanted to go to Rome for her first trip anywhere aside from Mexico. She's sad about Pope Francis' death but excited to visit the Vatican on this church trip.
I'm excited to be able to help her see more of the world and I view it as a chance to also celebrate her.
Our former pastor, Walter Yepes, gives a yearly sermon about Mother's Day in which he says, 'Every day should be the day of the mother.' I agree.
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