My sister’s unlikely, bumpy road to Mama Bear

I learned from Instagram that my niece and nephew are straight-A students. I also learned my sister likes to take credit for their accomplishments.

That’s not a new look on our family. After all, my mom would take credit for all of our academic accomplishments. I already told her she has to stop that. She knows how annoying it was when our mom took credit for our hard work.

Sure. We studied and sacrificed our social lives, woke up early in the morning, and studied late into the night. But that one emotionally twisting talk once a semester was what put the fire in us and not the work we did.

To give my mom credit, she did inspired us in a way generals would their troops if generals used crying and emotional ‘chantajes” (or blackmailing.)

I still remember that time when I was in eighth grade. I got my report card for the second quarter of the year. Of twelve classes, I had four C’s; the rest were A’s.

My mom sat me for a talk on my bed and proceeded to cry hysterically and asked me in a shrieky voice, “What did I ever do wrong to be such a bad mother and deserve this?” There might’ve been talks about shipping me off to my dad’s or the military.

I was already fifteen and should’ve been able to see that that wasn’t normal. But I didn’t. Instead, I study to avoid ever dealing with my mom’s flair for melodrama.

When my sister and I started standing out for our academic performance, my mom would say, “Look at what I have accomplished.” What she had accomplished was traumatize her kids into being straight-A students. This is in line with the Latina moms’ motto, “Cueste lo que cueste,” (or by whatever means necessary.”

Seeing my sister with her kids and how much they’ve grown is mind-blowing. It seems like yesterday her head was hanging from the window of my champagne 2004 Mitsubishi Lancer.

We were driving back from Pacific Beach in San Diego after partying in Typhoon.

We both took full loads at school and worked full-time jobs. Getting ready for downtown was out of the question. So, if we went out, we would always end up in Pacific Beach or PB, as local college kids know it.

‘Typhoon’ was our go-to bar. I don’t know if this bar is still there. But back then, it was an STD-ridden bar. If anyone would’ve ever shone a black light on it, they would’ve lost their eyesight when all the nasty things reflected back.

That one night, Rosy drank a little too much. Our solution to her not getting sick in my car while being in my car was to stick her body in but her head out.

Those shenanigans are done, and she is on social media taking credit for her kids’ accomplishments; partying looks a lot different with the years. Of course, she is not only doing that; she is also a proud mama bear with a killer protective instinct.

When we talk about our childhood, she mentions how much nicer I was to others, and she wasn’t. I always tell her, “Being nice is a prison. I was being nice to people in our community who weren’t nice to us. You were staring them down because you knew they were full of shit. I wish I would’ve done that.”

It reminds me of the time my dad took us to visit his family. We spent New Year in 1993 with them. Some of my cousins were there, too. They bullied and tormented us incessantly, and we never found out why. Maybe bullying can be soul-soothing for some people.

Even my grandma, our own flesh and bones, may she rest in peace, was, to put it nicely, an effing witch.

Our time there was a nightmare.

I was homesick, and Rosy was sick of everyone on my dad’s side of the family.

The morning we left, she woke up early, stole a bunch of stuff, and stowed it away in our luggage.

Rosy was six and had no idea what she was stealing, so she took a hair straightener, a hand mirror, a couple of hair brushes, and some jewelry.

The one thing she knew she was taking was the blankie of her nemesis (my cousin, who was her age). This was also her pitfall, as my cousin did not spend much time away from her blankie without missing it. It was the smelliest thing anyone could’ve ever smelled.

The entire house woke up alarmed and in hysterics, asking where their stuff was. When they opened our bags, all of the missing items were in Rosy’s side of the bag.

At that moment, I had no value judgment about it, but now I do, “Good! Whatever, dude! They were horrible humans to us. I wish my sister had succeeded in her young criminal enterprise.”

It’s not that I condone stealing. I just wish that for a day, they would’ve thought someone did steal their stuff.

Once back in our house, my mom would’ve found all these things in our bag and returned them. Then she would’ve cried to Rosy, “Why did I ever do to deserve this? Debí haber sido una mamá terrible!!! (or I must have been a terrible mom.)”

Then, take credit later in life when Rosy turns out to be a decent citizen.

The same way my little sister is taking credit for her kids’ accomplishments now.

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