A Graduation Letter

My dear Fiona,

How should I start a graduation letter to you? Considering that, when I was twelve years old, I was told that I would probably be sterile, perhaps I should begin by saying: “My dear miracle… .” Considering that I am Spanish and your father is German, perhaps I should begin by saying: “A letter to my Irish miracle, with the Spanish temperament and the German stubbornness … .” Or maybe I could begin like this: “To my Irish-teen miracle, whom we named Fiona, after struggling to find an Irish name easy for both Spaniards and Germans to write and spell … .” 

Here is a letter to you from the bottom of my heart.

One wonders how to find inspiration in the midst of this COVID-19 pandemic. With the world on hold, and from the comfort of our homes, we watch people dying as the healthcare system struggles. Some people even take advantage of other desperate people. But I have found my inspiration: YOU! your whole generation, whose graduations have been cancelled, whose final days of high school have ended with Zoom meetings and virtual goodbyes. Seeing your face every morning fills my heart with joy, knowing that in a very short period of time, you will be stepping out of this house and taking the reins of your life. That step will probably be one of the biggest steps you will ever take, and probably the most rewarding and fun. You are my inspiration. In fact, I think you have been my inspiration for the last 18 years.

I know life has been challenging, being an only child, born in a country to which you have had no connection apart from our talks about its incredible, enchanting qualities. Oh, beautiful Ireland! Having lived in Belgium, Florida, Dubai, Spain and finally Canada, you once said, “If there is something I have learned from all of this travelling, it’s that I want to stay put!”

As a child, teenager, adult and now parent, my heart has suffered a lot of fear, loneliness, sadness, and brokenness. But one of the hardest moments was your first day of school here in Toronto, when you were only 13. At dinner time you told me, in a broken voice, how a group of girls turned their backs on you when you tried to make eye contact at lunch.  You held back your tears as you shared, but I could see how hurt you were. My heart crumbled, and dizziness, confusion and doubt overwhelmed me. I thought, This time we have made the wrong decision. I told you that if you were not happy by Christmas, we would either find you a different school or go back to Spain. To my happiness, the next day you sent me a text: “Mom, I have met a wonderful group of girls. Don’t worry, Mom. I am OK”. Happiness, hope and gratefulness filled my body, soul and mind at the speed of light!

Your teen years have been an incredible ride, with ups and downs sometimes impossible to handle, even after reading best-selling books, including one with the title that asks “How to Talk to Teenagers.” “With a megaphone!” suggested somebody in a movie I saw the other day.  Now I can laugh; but it has been nerve-wracking. With tears in your eyes, you came to me disappointed, angry and frustrated. And there I was, your punching bag. Let it all out my darling—my cariño. I know you are hurt. But sometimes the punching bag was also hurt and frustrated and did not perform. I did the opposite. Instead of lending you boxing gloves, I took them away, and there you were, left alone with no support. I am so truly sorry for those moments—moments where instead of just listening and acknowledging your feelings, I tried to lecture you. I told you what to do. I tried to build a bubble around you—to make you stronger without you having to make the mistakes I made, without you hurting, without you stumbling. 

And then it happened—you said, “No!” At 12 years old, you became a walking argument, and just like nature, when it takes your most precious belongings and shatters them into pieces, you turned our parenting upside down. You were the one who taught us to listen, to be mature, to be humble and understanding. You taught me how to be a better parent to you. It was a long process, and we are still working on it. I learned to listen to your needs and not mine.

Now you are about to turn 18 and I am learning to let you be, even if I’m not sure I will ever be able to completely let you go. I am new to this! I never thought I would see you driving at the age of 16. Time will pass, and you will grow up to be a kind, hard-working woman. No matter what you wanted to achieve, you have always worked hard for it; whether it was ballet classes with that rigorous Russian teacher, swimming competitions, having to overcome your strong allergies, your perseverance in piano lessons to get the melody not merely right but perfect, or your extended essay on the Vietnam War which you mastered. There are so many accomplishments I have not listed, and so many more to come.

In this next stage of your life, you will meet new people, you will have new teachers, you will live in a new city, and you will be surrounded by different buildings and neighbourhoods. It’s nothing you have not done before, moving around throughout your childhood, but experiences are always different and so is the way you feel. This time we will not physically be there in the midst of these changes, but as my parents said to me when I left Spain, “Remember that having a baby is forever!” When they said that to me, I am sure they meant it more as a contraceptive precaution, but the way I am saying it to you now is that we will always be there for you, and you will always be our “baby.” No matter where you decide to live or study, hopping into a plane, train, or car has never been a big deal for us. (Your first plane ride was from Dublin to Madrid when you were four weeks old, and then also from Madrid to Dusseldorf when you were only three months old!) We won’t ever be out of reach.

As I told you when you were little, “Reach for the stars and you will land on the moon.” I also told you, when you were not so little, that struggle is a part of life and failing is a part of learning. Now that I have mastered Zoom, Google Meet (and something called Jitsi Meet), you know you can reach me at any time, anywhere. Let’s play some music and dance around like crazy loose chickens!

I love you and I will always treasure you as my miracle.

Mamá

Text: Esther Campuzano