Vanah Siega

My mother held her voice like a shotgun. There is no telling her to be quiet. Her voice traces back to the ancestors of her past, who have been through too much to be told to be “quiet” or to “settle down”. My mother does not know how to settle down. Every parent meeting she attended and every stranger asking my mother a question, she answered with her thick accent that most people could not understand, but she didn’t care. 

My mother's voice is generations of history in The Philippines. With a mix of Japanese and Spanish. If you listen closely enough you can hear the oppression of the Filipino people. My mothers thick accent, held with pride and justice that she desperately wanted to see. Although, as a young child I did not know about that, all I knew was the embarrassment I felt when I had to translate every word for her.

Her voice represents the sorrow the Filipino people felt, to be pushed back in every single textbook, to be forgotten to the world. Where our dark history never really has an ending. My mother's voice represents the thousands of immigrants who want a better home for their children, just like us. But as a young child, all I knew was how annoying it was to watch people shake their head when they hear my mother speak because they just could not understand her right. 

My mother's voice is slowly fading. Living in a place that tells her that there's no room for people like her. A place that tells her to be more proper, where I helped them. I was tired of translating for her, so I began to speak for her. As the years went by my mother's voice became quiet, something I had never seen before. Her voice that was once two shotguns became unnoticeable. As I grew older, my mother began to talk less. Maybe it was the constant working hours or maybe it was because I am older. I don’t want the attributes within my mother to go away. After every immigrant generation I see a shift between the mothers and daughters

As I grow older, the rhythmic beat of her voice is now slowly coming back. A voice that shifts between Tagalog and English. I see her Filipino pride coming back with every word she says. While I’m in the background mimicking the actions she makes so I can pass it on to my children one day. Instead of pointing with my fingers I point with my lips, and instead of settling down, I get louder.

My mothers thick accent is like a shotgun with the safety off. The barrel are her lips ready to shoot when you decide to tinker with her. My mothers thick accent shaped me to never stand down for what I believe in, even if my voice shakes and hands tremble. With our heart as a compass always pointing towards home.