The Birth Certificate
by BEATRICE EYALES
I slid the tattered brown envelope out of the crisp white one. I opened it and found only three pieces of paper: a short note from my mother and two certificates of live birth. Whereas letters from my mother are never good, her notes always are, and this particular one read: “Hi Bea, hope you are doing fine—your health and your studies. We miss you here. I love you. Mommy”
I set the note aside and examined the other two sheets of paper enclosed. One was patterned with what was probably then the colors of the National Statistics Office of the Philippines, while the other one was shaded with a pale yellow, of whose work—whether time passed or dye—I could not quite make out. If it had been painted by the years, I wouldn’t be surprised. It was clear to me, upon tracing my fingers across my name, the names of my parents, then married, and a certain Dra. Amelia Dacanay—perhaps the very first person to have held me—that these pages have been thinned by time—creases and flaws preserved.
How can I explain it? How can I possibly relay the sensation of seeing yourself for the first time? Of realizing what you are by holding in your hands the very first artifacts of your existence? I saw my parents’ name before the tears welled up. I wondered how they had been on that day, if any sign, any trace of the present bitterness and disdain they hold for each other had been born then. Were they happy? Did they love each other when they held me for the very first time?
It says my mother’s age: 24. My father was 30. So young, I think. My mother was so young. For someone nearing twenty, realizing that her mother was twenty-four when she was born means so much, perhaps too much. If she had known then how the man she married, the father of her first child, would betray her and leave her and detest her by now, what would have been?
Some tears fall.
My chest tightens as I run my fingers across the page, as I wonder whether my mother’s petite body was loved, was worried for, as half of herself faced the grave in childbirth. Having spent much of my childhood hearing my parents’ endless debate on who was at fault and which parent loved us more, it becomes difficult to conjure thoughts of a time when there was only love between them.
I sat at my desk for a while, reviewing each and every detail of the papers, caressing the edges, feeling every crease, touching the printed names as if mere contact would transport me to the time when the ink was fresh, when the truth was different. And then I realized that though much has changed since my conception, some things—the most important ones—remain the same: that we are forever the sons and daughters of our mothers and fathers. That no matter how cruel the fate of our parents may be, we will always be theirs, made of them, made by them, atom by atom, cell by cell. That before we are doctors, lovers, liars, and men, we are children and babies of them. We are daughters first and everything else second. We are not born to be husbands or wives or writers or philosophers. Our first task upon birth in this world is to simply be theirs and be loved and be cared for. Nothing was ever asked of us.
I cry tears of joy and sorrow, of bliss, of guilt, of regret and longing, of hope and of anger. I rejoice upon the discovery of myself and my origin and I grieve, perhaps prematurely, for death. It is true that with life always comes expiration even if it is only in realization. I glance at the age of my parents then and think of how far they have come now, the age of the documents before me. With the discovery of my birth, I have faced the ugly reality of death and of what is to come not only for me.
I set aside my tears for future weeping and pick up the pieces. I am fortunate, I think. Most people are only given the opportunity to finally understand themselves and to really see life only in the face of the most hideous circumstances. I, on the other hand, faced life and death and the beginnings of myself while sitting on a desk in the middle of the night.
I am daughter first, and everything else second.
Beatrice Eyales is a contributor to This Recording. She last wrote in these pages about her father. She is a writer living in Berkeley. She tumbls here.
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