Veronica Polanco

She Let Herself Be Loved

A week after Mamá Hilda died, I was walking with my cousins in Mostoles, Spain. I felt glad that a couple days prior, my cousin, Madeline, had done a family roll call.

“Para reconfirmar cuantos miembros somos en total: 9 children, 19 grand-children and 11 greatgreat children,” Madeline wrote in our family Whatsapp group.

This bunch of 39 spans across the United States, Dominican Republic and Spain. There’s my cousin Iliana, who lives in Spain and was distraught over not being able to visit one of her favorite people, Mamá Hilda, due to visa delays. There’s Tía Crimilda who lives in Washington Heights and when visiting Santo Domingo, would barely leave Mamá’s house to soak in every minute with her. There’s my four-year old second-cousin Delilah, Mamá’s great-grand child, who lives in Santo Domingo and learned Happy Birthday just to sing to Mamá.

But the 39 family members don't even include the partners of these children and grandchildren, who adored Mamá too. After Mamá’s passed away, my mom wrote about her mother-in-law:

“Estoy agradecida por cada momento que compartimos y cada día me hizo sentir privilegiada por haberla tenido en mi vida. Gracias por ser tan especial. Disfrutamos mucho de sus historias, podía pasar horas escuchándolas. Era fácil hablar con usted, era fácil quererla.”

I am grateful for every moment we shared and every day made me feel privileged to have had her in my life. Thank you for being so special. We really enjoyed your stories, I could spend hours listening to them. It was easy to talk to you, it was easy to love you.

As my cousins and I continued our walk, I began thinking about Mamá and her impact.

I asked my cousin Iliana, “How is it that each one of us felt so close to her? There were so many of us.”

Iliana didn’t reason that Mamá’s was the most loving or the most kind or the most generous or anything that represented the other virtues we deem honorable in our society.

She said simply, “Si. Ella se dejaba querer.” She let herself be loved.

“Hm.” I didn’t say anything else.

I was taken aback. Maybe we did feel close to Mamá because she let us love her. I recalled her visits to Sleepy Hollow when I was a kid, especially how my mom would buy Mamá's favorite bread, potato bread, which I happily munched on throughout her stay. In Santo Domingo, my dad would play Mamá’s favorite songs on a pink stereo and give her foot massages to alleviate her pain. And Tía Marilu would bring her vitamins from Spain while Tío Roberto bought Mamá a home.

And boy did Mamá quietly love her birthday. Her birthday meant all of her children would fly to her from all over. Four generations would gather to eat, sing and give speeches. And she embraced it all. She never said, “Oh please, stop,” when we sang her happy birthday. She would sit there, majestic and calm, soaking in the attention. Mamá Hilda passed away two months after we celebrated her 98th birthday. I just know that move was strategic. Homegirl waited until after her birthday to die so she could see all her homies and they could celebrate her, how gangsta is that?

In these small moments, we were trying to love her. Mamá would sit quietly in that love, not making a big deal out of it per se but calmly resting in it.

Since Iliana's observation, I've become aware of not only the times I resist being loved, but also when those around me do the same.

When I’m sick and my mom tells me she wants to drive to Brooklyn to take care of me, I reject her, “What? No, it’s ok, you don’t need to drive all the way over here. I’m 30 years-old.” “What does being 30 have to do with anything! I’m coming to bring you remedies,” my mom yells through the phone.

When I take my partner out to dinner for his birthday he asks, “How much was it?” “Are you having trouble receiving?” I ask him jokingly. He tells me it’s hard to not feel in debt to someone when they treat him to dinner. I get that.

When my graduate school graduation and birthday fall on the same weekend, I flinch at the thought of forcing my friends to come down to Philadelphia on a Friday only to have to celebrate me again on a Sunday. I search their eyes for a sign that they’re excited and not feeling inconvenienced.

As my brother tells me stories about his dreams, he follows them by saying, “I feel like I’m talking too much.” He’s not. I’m content listening.

Our society glorifies giving and deems it honorable. There are many poems about giving:

Sandwhich

At noon, I noticed
the new kid
sitting alone
with only the words of a book to feed her.
“Do you know,”
I was about to ask,
“if you tell the teacher
you forgot your lunch,
the cafeteria will give you one free?”
But instead, I handed her
half of my sandwich,
and though I had
only half for myself,
after I ate it
I somehow felt full.
- Author Unknown

I’d like to see the other side of that poem. I felt hunger in my body, so I said yes to the boy’s sandwich. The boy handed me a sandwich, trying to connect with me, and so I took it because why not? And not the reality of the other side, the “oh no, it’s ok!”

The Gift of Giving

A gift is more than just a thing,
It's a symbol of love that we bring,
A gesture of kindness and care,
That shows how much we truly share.
The gift of giving is a precious thing,
It fills our hearts with joy and sings…
- Poetizer

“It’s a symbol of love.” What happens when we’re on the other side of that love? Can we stand it?

I wonder what we’d have to confront within ourselves to fully embrace being loved? Is it admitting we have needs in the first place? Is it listening to our bodies to know what our needs are? Or is it surrendering to community, the idea that we’re interconnected and we need each other? For those of us who are hyper-independent, thinking that not needing anybody will protect us, is it harder to openly receive love?

The best way I can explain my grandma is when you did things for her, she wouldn’t say, “Wow, I can’t believe you did all this!” The thing is, she could believe it.

For my last moment with Mamá, she laid on the couch on her porch, too frail to get up. I leaned over, hugged her tightly and placed my hands over hers.

“Me voy, Mamá. I’m leaving back to New York. I love you so much. I loved seeing you.”

Mamá looked at me, finding the energy to speak.

“Gracias por venir,” She whispered. Thank you for coming.

As if I had given her the greatest gift.