7 Things My Mom Wants Before She Calls Me James Dean

Last week, my mother just celebrated her birthday. At the same time, I made a relentless effort to buy her a half-gallon of ice-cream. Thus, it paved a way for me to write about her. I’m a good son, eh? First and foremost, I can say that my mom is the best mother in world. By the fact that she played with death just to bring me out of this world, my previous statement is undeniable. Also, my mother is undoubtedly a great preacher–of my life, at least. In every single day of my existence, she always stuffs gamut of tenets in my ears: from the way I should wear clothes to the type of music I should be listening to. Sometimes, it leads me to wonder; where did she get all of those? From watching Korean TV series, I think. Anyway, I vaguely realized that, however, she wants me to be a (real) James Dean. I’m not quite sure with the latter, though.  

7. Son, What’s With That Hairdo?

Yes mother!

When my brother and I were still kids, we need to have that neat look. And, when I say neat, our hairdos must match with the terminology. Because of that, we looked like we’re an out-of-place soldier. Get ready, boys! Brace those bald heads of yours! In the long run, I got used to it–maybe. I mean, there’s nothing I can do; everything she says just seems to be from Webster’s Dictionary. However, as the calendar days went by, I felt a change. After all, I can barely count the years when I was still like a monk. So, I gradually grew my hair just quite to be like hers. Yes, just like hers or, most likely, longer than hers. Unfortunately, as what I expected, mother have gone wild. It seems that I just made a very big mistake and I have to pay for it. Hence, her mouth was like a printer. Eeeennnkk... Eeeennnkk... Eeeennnkk... Oh, can you imagine? I don’t know why she has to be that hysterical, though. Is it because my sleek shoulder-length hair is silkier than hers? Or, she just can’t accept the fact that I know what shampoo to use and how many times one need to comb his/her hair? Well, I sure did put a feat on her.  

6. Son, Can You Wear This, Please?

Do I  really have to wear a yellow tie, mom?

Truthfully speaking, I have a band–a rock metal band, to be exact. And, to be consistent, as what pros say, with this genre, you have to look dark, tough and tight. So, I decided to wear tight jeans, semi-fit dark-colored shirts and a studded belt to spice up the flavor. Forgive me. I had to be in line with those definitions. Anyway, this was years before I came to see the light of Gandalf. Going back, mom suddenly noticed the fabrication of my new being. She was like, “How on Earth did you manage to wear those types of clothing?” Seriously, she did utter this line to me. Of course, I don’t suppose her to be euphoric or understanding. It won’t be that easy. As a result, she brings up the entire thing from time to time. This is not to mention the discussions she had with her friends about my distinction. Worst, she even looks delighted while doing that. Not to me, though. Furthermore, there were scenarios where I had to use her jeans occasionally. Believe me or not, this would make her rage exponentially. Hey, don’t get me wrong. Remember the definitions: dark, tough and tight. Hers is dark and tight, thus, it makes me look tough. See the connection? C’mon, don’t be like my mom.  

5. Son, Is That Music of Noise?

What...The...Dingbat...Is...Going..On?

As what I've said, I’m into metal music. It gives me superb eargasms every time I listen to this kind of songs. But, it’s not the same story with my mom. She rather calls it pollution to her soul; a sickness that is ghastly devouring her essence as a woman. For her, it’s a noise, literally, and I don’t blame her. Our neighborhood totally agrees with her. When my line of music starts, her mind piques a labyrinth. My mom can’t completely withstand such noise (if her definition was to be utilized). I can even remember the last time I played a “The Devil Wears Prada” song, she totally freaked out. Yes, I’m not kidding. She told me that she can’t breathe and it seems the world is in an abyss. I was like, “Is it really that unacceptable?” Although my mom is a singer–frustrated, that is–she has her own peculiar ways of recognizing music. Well, The Carpenters and The Eagles are unique for her. Nonetheless, I’m not saying she doesn't have taste when it comes to quality music. I guess, I just have to accept the unfathomable gap we have for this niche. 

4. Son, What Kind of Earrings Is That? 

Is this the tunnel you mean, mom?

Last year, I decided to be more METAL and, as what I conceive, tough. I regrettably had my ears widely pierced–tunnels, specifically. I achieved a newer level of METALity. Personally, I don’t know if ear Tunnels can be categorized as earrings and I don’t give a damn. Although it’s not an issue for me whether it’s an earring or not, mom can’t find her place between the categorization. At first, when my Tunnels were small, she doesn't seem to mind. As it steadily expands, however, her blood was starting to boil as well. Also, I began to believe that plates and books can fly. Actually, most, if not all, of our utensils have grown wings. I was relieved, at least, that our knives were out of her sight. Basically, there was turmoil inside our house. My mother can’t grasp the brutality I did on my ears. For her, it appears to be the end of the world, though, it happens to be mine. “Is this what that noise (metal-music) christened you to be?” she cried while throwing a spoon. “Or, your punk-friends and ROAR band influenced you to do such?” mom added. Honestly, I can’t tell it myself. But, one thing is for sure, she can’t see James Dean in me. 

3. Son, Are Those Body Paintings?

This is too tough!

Before the War of Tunnels happened, I had my right arm covered with tattoos already. Ironically, when I asked her about it, she allowed me. But, my father has to give me permission beforehand. Fortunately, things went well and pops bestowed his blessings. So, there was I–happy and stoked. Nevertheless, as I embraced this art, there was a hunger that urged me to want more. I was little by little filling a void inside me. As a result, it wrapped my entire right arm–from a typo design to full right arm swing. I didn’t have any trace of regrets, though. However, with my mother, it was a sequel to the War of Tunnels. Again, our plates and other kitchen utensils were liberally flying. Thanks to my Neo-like moves, I had the perfect anticipation that time. Despite my evasion and reflexes, I had to leave the house for a week. Historically, my parents never had me leaving the house until that day. I guess passion truly builds fire and it’s evidently showcased in me. 

2. Son, Is That A Family Computer? 

My mother's favorite past time. Sweet!

I definitely know that each one of you knows what a Family Computer is. Every child in the world acknowledges the power it has during the archaic times. Certainly, it painted my childhood with blacks and blues. Want to know why? Back when I was in elementary, my parents want us to be a top student in class. They want to make sure that our names are in the limelight after each quarterly period. It was an arduous task for me. Imagine the expectations you have to fulfill when all I care about was recess and physical education (P.E). Undeniably, math and science were nothing for me during that time, but I had my share of misfortunes too. I’m an obnoxious fat boy during class. I usually play smart jokes with my classmates or throw hard-bound notebooks to them. Hence, I always get reprimanded. To address this behavior of mine, my mother, as always, thought of a vicious idea –to isolate my buddy, the Family Computer. This was her condition to me: if I’ll be a good saint at school and my grades will be consistently high, I can reunite with my Family Computer. It bursts my ego, but it was not that easy. Not to mention the rigorous time I had to spend studying about Living and Non-Living Things, I also had to be still while at class. Man, it was like Justin Beiber’s songs. Nah, it was more likely to be singing his songs.  

1.  Son, When You Grow Up, Will You Be A Doctor?

You really want to be a doctor ,eh? 

Of everything that has happened between me and mom, this is the most hardcore. In every kindergarten graduation, a kid has to tell the world what he/she wants to be when he/she grows up. “When I grow up, I want to be the famous bitch in town” or “When I grow up, I want to be like "Justin Beiber” In my end, it was a diversity. Again, for the nth time, mother has to enter in my life and perform the things which are supposedly my obligations. She had planned my life even the phrase I have to say during the when-I-grow-up scene. At first, I tried to argue and battle her desires. “Mom, I don’t want to be a doctor. I want to be a wrestler” Trust me, I said this to her. When I was still a little boy, I had an unusual crave to become a professional wrestler someday. Gee, let’s just get back to the topic. Anyway, to my dismay, she won the debate. I got to be a doctor that time. Up until now, my mother is still bothering me about it. I can sense it from her, although, she may not be saying it directly to me. Sorry, my dear mom. Looks like the James Dean you want to ferret out from me will remain an oasis. In reality, with a little benefit of a doubt, I’m more than the former–all over. 

P.S I LOVE YOU, MOM!