Prayers From My Immigrant Mom

A Mother's Day meditation on the woman who raised me. She died eight years ago but I can still feel her love.

My mother used to pray for me each morning. Ever since I was a kid—and later, after I had kids of my own—she would pour all her love into those whispered words meant to shield me from harm. She wasn’t a regular churchgoer, but she believed in the power of prayer. And I believed in the power of mothers (still do). So, I’d go into my day feeling protected. Like God or some other universal force was looking out for me simply because my mom had willed it.

And, boy, she was strong-willed, my mom. She needed to be. As an immigrant, she was often made to feel less than or invisible. As a Latina, she was told her opinions didn’t matter. And as a mother, a single one after my parents divorced, she was expected to carry it all, no complaints. But my mom never yielded, never bent.

On their own, each of her identities may have been seen as a weakness but together they provided the armor necessary to move through a world that can be harsh to anyone deemed different. Her petite frame carrying this heavy carapace wherever she went. Distracting the eye with her manicured fingernails, perfectly coordinated outfit, and dangly earrings.

Always her own independent woman. Even when she became a stay-at-home mom to care for my sister and I, she found a way to make her own cash. Money meant independence to her. And so, she turned our Queens living room into a daycare center and welcomed neighborhood children whose parents appreciated having somewhere safe and reliable to leave them. There wasn’t a diaper pail big enough for all those kids but that didn’t bother her. She was proud to serve her community and provide for her family all at once.

She never took money for granted. The bills in her wallet always right side up facing the same direction in order of denomination. She knew exactly how much was in there at all times. Down to the penny, back when those counted for something. None of it came easy. And all of it required resilience and perseverance.

That’s why I never doubted her prayers worked. No one was more determined than my mom.

When she died eight years ago and I had no choice but to go back out into the world, I wondered who would pray for me. Who would think of me first thing in the morning and last thing at night and send all that goodness my way? I like to think she’s still out there, somewhere, watching over me and my family. That’s how much I believe in the power of moms. They never stop loving, caring, no matter where life—or death—takes them.

Happy Mother’s Day to those who celebrate, and a big hug to those who find this day hard. I see you.