The Memories of Yesterdays

According to Mother Teresa, “If you judge someone, you have no time to love them.” I first saw this quote when it was posted on my sixth-grade classroom wall, and I ignored it. Relatively, I hated the idea, but perhaps I knew that the quote’s veracity was inarguable. I felt that it was better to judge people so as not to have to love them, because some people don’t deserve a chance. Judgments are shields, and mine was impenetrable.I have always put my attention to my family, my inspiration, love and time. My parents did not always have a harmonious relationship.

At the age of 9, my mother finally mentioned my father’s cheating and his children from other women. This has caused their relationship to wither and become icy cold. It was not an ideal environment anybody would want especially for a kid at my age. Hatred grew more inside of me than confusion; it exuded great pain to see my mother cry and seek for comfort from a young girl who knows more child-play than that of marital conflicts. To see the hurt, to hear the ear-piercing silence, to feel the loss of warmth within the four corners of the room when both of them are around, it is simply unbearable.

They worked things out, started anew and tried to forget the darkness of the past. He tried to patch up the bitter memories that left a mark to my other siblings. Since they were younger back then, it was easier much easier than it did to me. My mother was the most positive above everyone else; she was a figure of a sponge to me. She held in all the bitterness and released it all at once which was unfortunately not in my case. I have always been a father’s daughter, however, after I knew about his cheating everything has changed. The first five years of me and my father’s relationship were characterized solely by my hatred towards him, manifested in my hurting him, each moment hurting myself twice as much. In every moment I laid eyes on him, he was the object of my unabated hatred. He was a representation of everything I hate. I judged him to be a heartless, soulless, two-dimensional figure–he was a representation of my loneliness and pain. I left whenever he entered a room; I slammed doors in his face. Over those five years, I took pride in the fact that I had neither spoken a word nor made eye contact to and with him. I treated Jerry with such resentment and anger because my hate was my protection, my shield. I was accustomed to viewing him as the embodiment of not only my mother’s pain, but as well as my pain. I was afraid to let go of the anger and hate, afraid to love the person who allowed me to hold onto my anger; afraid that if I gave him a chance, I might love him and experience again the greatest agony I was ever into.

For those five years, Jerry didn't hate me; he understood me. He understood my anger and my confusion, and he put his faith in me, although he had every reason not to. To him, I was essentially a good daughter, just confused and scared; trying to do her best, but just not able to get a hold of herself of the resentment the wound had inflicted. He saw me as I wished I could see myself. None of this became clear to me overnight. Instead, over the next two years, the one-dimensional image of him in my mind began to take the shape of a person. As I let go of my detestation, I gave him a chance. He became a man who, like me, loves outdoor trips, movies and drinks a lot of coffee; who, unlike me, buys things advertised on infomercials and knows how to bike and fix electrical problems in our house.

Three weeks ago, I saw that same Mother Teresa quote again at a piece of paper in the office. But this time, I smiled. Papa never gave up on me, and the chance he gave me to regain my affection and respect to him was a chance that changed my life. Because of this, I know the value of chance, of having faith in a person, of seeing others as they wish they could see themselves and that I, as a daughter, should never condemn her parents no matter how big the mistake is–respect and gratitude should remain. One cannot be born on earth without their parents, it is enough to be thankful about. That abhorrence is like a two edged knife, it hurts both ways. I’m glad I have a lot of time left, because I definitely have a lot of chances left to give, a lot of people left to love.