Call Me Mowm: ‘Motherhood’ is not “Politics-free”

Art by Patrick Raphael Ulibas

There’s no one more universal than mothers. We grapple with having them and not having them, seeing them in others, and seeing ourselves in them. We learn to be, unlearn, become, unbecome, yearn, and even mock. Mothers are inescapable; in homes, in Vilma Santos’ films, on the streets, in the everyday confrontation of “mother” as a human, perplexing construct. Do we, however, think about “mother” beyond the domestic, private sphere and the biological, maternal sense? Socio-political discussions have kept motherhood behind closed doors, and even when it’s translated into state policies, it is a bureaucratic excuse for failing to remedy the ills of the system from which a version of motherhood, devoid of real political costs, continues to thrive. By declaring motherhood as political, feminism moves beyond the personal and recognizes the intersection of gender politics, race, and class, the institutional designs that intentionally shape how we live together as a society.

Maternity and the State

In Helen Charman’s book “Mother State,” she asserts that “not all maternal stories begin in the womb.” The state of being a mother begins with giving care. Not all mothers are cisgender women; some are queer. There are privileged and middle-class mothers,  while others are young, struggling, and ceaselessly restricted by tradition. 

With this definition, motherhood is, in itself, queer. Atypical families have pushed beyond the boundaries of traditional gender roles to show that mothering lies not in biology, but in presence. Though presence can still be challenged by the very system that makes simple acts of caring seem “impossible.”

In the Philippines, motherhood is heavily tied to biology and maternity. In “Unpacking Ina: The Concept of Mother and Motherhood in Filipino,” Bacolod argues that, lexically, ina (mother) is defined by a woman who has given birth. This biological definition produces an aversion to nurturing beyond blood connections. Nontraditional means like adoption and surrogacy, especially with LGBTQIA+ individuals, are treated as being further from normal. 

Single, young mothers are ridiculed, as well. Mother specifically, with nine out of ten single parents in the Philippines being women. Even then, the stigma surrounding solo parenthood allows the blame to fall on women. Irrespective of their circumstances, people's judgments lead young mothers to unfortunate means of escape, such as dropping out of school. A baby bump, while celebrated in married, working-class women, becomes the grounds for disrespect for young, struggling mothers in the margins.

While state laws are not purposeless, they fail to address the systemic ills when aid is less about rigid bureaucracy and more about being humanitarian and unconditional. With laws like the Expanded Solo Parents Welfare Act, the state has provided paid parental leave. However, strict requirements must be met: single parents and their children need to live under one roof and must show proof that they can support their child on their own. However, there are no proper institutional mechanisms for a Comprehensive Sexuality Education, and barely any legal provisions for fathers neglecting their responsibilities.  While the Expanded Maternity Leave Law was ratified to grant 105 days of leave for all working mothers, and an additional 15 days for solo mothers, it has become more apparent how the state’s authority permeates even the body, which is ultimately singular and unpredictable. It is, once more, bureaucratic and conditional. 

A Culture that Celebrates Fatherhood

It is not false to declare that Filipino society was built upon a masculine tradition and history. Misogyny existed long before Bong Suntay aired his perversions within the Senate’s walls. The earliest accounts of our pre-colonial society were written not just by a man, but by a Spanish priest, who detailed a sexist description of women’s bodies, as if their exoticness mattered more than their lived experiences.

We celebrate the “founding fathers” of this nation, Andres Bonifacio, Jose Rizal, and Emilio Aguinaldo. Our history moves through the stories of maleness, Filipino national heroes, and presidents. When women do manage to break the ceiling of power, it’s either that they’re attached to a male political figure, perpetually reluctant, or accused of being controlled by a male-dominated cabinet.

Our nation views good leadership as the achievement of fatherhood. The very manifestation of this is apparent through “Tatay Digong,” and the specific characterization of Former President Rodrigo Duterte as the father of the nation. The “haligi ng tahanan” possesses an “iron fist” and “strongman” politics that prioritizes tactical cruelty and violence over empathy. While masculinity bears the burden of an imposition of “pagkalalaki” that asserts traditional gender roles of providence and strength, it is through this celebration that it victimizes femininity, and becomes the source of institutional “othering.”

Kimberlé Crenshaw thus introduced intersectional feminism to describe the source of institutional “othering” that exists for those within the community fighting for liberation. In the Philippines, we must be critical of systems and institutional designs that far outweigh individual inspection. Society remains patriarchal, macho-feudal, and capitalist, and so, Duterte’s are easily replaced by Marcoses. Even with more women in seats of power, they do still operate within a system where clinging to the status quo, the machismo politics, and their “political father figures” becomes the only chance of survival and success. While these women in politics might be victimized by sexism, their elitism can still perpetuate oppression and exploitation, in the same way their political accomplices do.

 The Politics of “Motherhood”

In Filipino culture, mothers hold a symbolic and religious significance. They are translations of love, mercy, and human connection—as protectors, givers, and sacrifice. In short, mothers, just as women, are put on pedestals, transformed into the most ideal version of femininity, to become solely that and nothing else. This exact celebration of women is a burden when they are no longer given the room for change, when the margin of error becomes too little for growth. It sidelines the complexity of motherhood when it becomes difficult, uncompromising, painful, and neglectful. These issues should only make us critical of the social ills that make mothering and motherhood less of a choice and more of a coercion.

The patriarchal capitalist reality looms over motherhood: the priority is always to transform citizens into machines, more so with mothers, who are believed to be secondary to men and are deprived of personal choice and agency, then and now. As childbirth results in the absence of “productive labor," domestic work is treated as a liability. 

The home as an arena of reproduction is conflated with the factory as a site of production. But we continue to ask, what makes being “productive” so critical to human value? While more prevalent during industrialization, this reality persists to plague the present. For instance, the Filipino government treats Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) as remittance machines. The stereotype of Filipino women being “domestic helpers” translates to a structural barrier that underestimates the labor of long-distance parenting, marital responsibilities, and financial obligations. Feelings of slight emotional neglect in children are no longer confined to heroic notions of household duties, but to the illusion of choice that OFWs are given. 

Filipino heteronormative gender roles still exist. Unpaid domestic work turns us towards sexual exploitation and the inequities in the division of household labor. The commodification of women’s bodies reproduces a gender hierarchy that puts men’s needs above others, while failing to recognize the strain of motherhood and domesticity. I argue that there’s not much difference between the family and community, and brothels, in their exploitation of the domestic and sexual labor of girls and women, structurally dependent on money for survival. There is, though, a difference between working-class women and women who are capable of being the “traditional housewife.”

In reality, younger mothers are burdened with more immediate emotional struggles. The lens of intersectionality views gender hierarchy as a problem faced in varying degrees. Should teen mothers, therefore, who may face societal stigma, guilt, loss of personal aspirations, and financial burdens, be subjected to the same ideal? Resilience here is ignorance of the harsher realities of motherhood. Even the heavy expectation of unplanned pregnancies as wanted is laid upon these women. This reproduces the unchanging, social, and structural aversion to abortion. When mothers, contrary to expectations, no longer see their children as a source of blessing and inspiration, the blame is on them for thinking so. All the while, lacking institutionalization and implementation of policies and programs to support and care for mothers who need it most. 

Queer Language On Mothering

Language is never neutral. It is political in every sense and permeates the way we perceive culture and identity. The language of literature and media has historically and traditionally defined “motherhood.” In the past, specifically the anglocentric lens, motherhood was heavily tied to the trifecta of mother, wife, and housewife. 

In “Wika at Katauhang Babae,” Mabanglo suggests the reclamation of the Filipino language. A person’s identity and nature can be reshaped and reimagined through language. A name is ultimately a possession. The right to name, therefore, gives meaning to the named. This compels us to ask, “Who has the right to name?” Clearly, when it comes to mothers, it's never mothers alone. For queer people, language reclamation is significant to the transformation of culture and identity. “Gay Lingo” is its own lexicon, consisting of various conceptions of identity. Words like Mary, Mother, Madonna, Matriarch, and Mama no longer strictly refer to a female parent. It is now used to describe respected celebrities or “gay icons.” 

“You have mothers, gay mothers, gay fathers, gay siblings, gay uncles, etc. There are actual lineages that you can track, and these are instead of biological families who have often disowned kids,” says Ricky Tucker, author of the book And The Category Is…: Inside New York's Vogue, House, and Ballroom Community.

For Filipino Gen Z, the use of Maem, Mowm, Mumshie, and Mudra for “mother figures,” while Nakshie, Nhak, and Junakis to say “my child,” is an expression of love untangled from the confines of traditional gender roles. Fluidity here is central to language as the construct of changing identities that are never linear. Whether woman, man, or queer, no one is exempt from the act of mothering, which is newly describing even the smallest acts of compassion and care. When a queer child is turned away by homophobia, the mother who cares for them through this isn’t always female; this does not make them less of one. Again, presence, not biology. “motherhood,” then, in lowercase, and the right to name “mothers,” belong to no one.

Change, and the process of it, can be overwhelming. A radical restructuring of current systems, all clouded by uncertainties and unproven theories, is never completely unchallenged. To begin, perhaps, consists of the formation of an oppositional worldview that strengthens the struggle, which is ultimately a feminist one.

On “Mothering” Ourselves

Black, lesbian poet Audre Lorde once said, “We can learn to mother ourselves.” Though powerful, it remains almost mythological in that it’s poetic, but puzzling. What does it mean to “mother” ourselves? Motherhood is a series of inexplicable unknowns of knowledge, logic, and science. When, actually, it’s mostly love made manifest. A revolutionary kind of love that brings caregiving closest to where it's needed. The mothering of not solely children, ourselves, and others as well, becomes a living, breathing essence that conflates motherhood with ending wars, capitalism, homophobia, and patriarchy.

The post-war concept of “Republican Motherhood” in America was widespread. The role of mothers was of great value, because they would raise young and patriotic men. Here, the mother is defined similarly to the modern film trope, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl, the woman as a catalyst for the man’s personal transformation. Women exist because of and for their male counterparts–childbirth, to fulfill male fantasies, and to make men “better,” to teach and nurture them, as they do proceed to be reckless, unforgiving, and unaccountable as nature befits. In the biological and marital sense, especially in the Philippine context, this role—to nurture and care, is as much a privilege as a limitation. 

Motherhood is not limited to raising children, but the act of caring, through and in the end of hate, warfare, and violence. To care for others, not to be young, patriotic men, but to be good, and to share goodness. Society, however, makes motherhood impossible. Caregiving is expected to thrive alongside a brutal system. Resiliency is celebrated with mothers who can conform to the ideal Filipino family life. Motherhood is expected to exist throughout the repercussions it has on being a “mother,” which is continuously defined by anyone other than mothers themselves, by the “fathers” of the nation, by the nation itself as a masculine existence. If motherhood is “politics-free,” then what of today’s politics deciding on who gets to be mothers and not?