Madres sacred on more than one day

By Timothy Pratt

Thursday, May 11, 2006 | 7:22 a.m.

Yolanda Pedraza had just finished a long lunch, part of an ongoing celebration that will stretch into Saturday, surrounded by bright smiles like hers - those of her five sisters.

But after talking about this year's Mother's Day - May 10 for Mexico and the rest of Latin America - she teared up, remembering the Mother's Days of the last decade.

For 10 years, until her brother, then she and her sisters and, most recently, her mother, gained legal immigration status, May 10 was a mournful date. Illegally in the United States, she couldn't leave the country because that would mean she would have to attempt the increasingly dangerous trip back across the border. And her mother couldn't come here.

On Wednesday at Lindo Michoacan, a Las Vegas restaurant that saw twice the business it would any other day of the year, the family was together again, full of tears of joy and remembered grief, but mostly relief.

Pedraza's story, as with many of the nation's estimated 11.5 million undocumented immigrants who find themselves at the center of congressional debate, is an illuminating window onto the immigrant experience, particularly for Hispanics, whose family values include an elevated status for mothers.

If you ask a few Mexicans what mothers mean to their culture, for example, sooner than later they're bound to use the word "sagrado," or sacred.

They'll point out that, unlike the United States, where parents send their children packing as soon as they reach 18, in Mexico, mothers won't let you leave until you're married.

"Mexico, in many ways, is more of a matriarchy than a patriarchy," said Mariano Lemus Gas, Mexican consul for Las Vegas and a student of his culture.

"They play the central role of passing on our values" from generation to generation.

That's why Mother's Day is a national holiday in Mexico. Offices close at 2 in the afternoon and the streets of cities and towns fill up with large families bustling their mothers out of kitchens and into restaurants. Flowers, mariachis or singing trios are part of the occasion.

And that's also why you can tell in any U.S. city such as Las Vegas who has their immigration status in order - and has worked through the system that is meant to keep families together but often takes years - and who is in the country illegally, or hasn't yet brought their parents north.

From the first group, united families filled restaurants such as Lindo Michoacan on Wednesday. Back yard barbecues will also be the norm this weekend for those whose work schedules made it impossible to get together Wednesday.

But those who are separated from their mothers packed money order businesses such as Bronco's, where men and women filed in all week to send a little something home to Mom.

From May 5 to 10 every year, business at the chain's six stores goes up as much as 50 percent, Manager Silvia Rodriguez said. About 3,500 loving sons and daughters sent $900,000 worth of Mother's Day gifts south this year, she said.

Rodriguez also had a run on phone cards, selling 140 before noon Wednesday, more than she usually sells in a day.

Jose Bolanos, who had just sent $200 to his mother in Mexico City on Wednesday afternoon on a quick break from his job at a mobile car washing business, said he felt a "contradiction" of sorts.

"It's beautiful that I still have her in my life," he said. "But it's sad because she's so far away."

Lemus Gas said most men won't ever confess to their mothers such feelings, and instead often wind up soaking their loneliness in a bottle. That's why some Las Vegas bars undoubtedly were full Wednesday night as well.

On Eastern Avenue near Pebble Road, Antonio Toribio, in a baseball cap and work clothes, waited for someone to offer him some extra work near Star Nursery, after getting a morning job that finished at noon.

Toribio of Morelo, Mexico, was spending his first Mother's Day in 30 years without his mother. He had sent $100 to her the day before - a day and a half's wages.

"It's very different being without your family," he said. "But since we're far away, we have to get used to it."

At Lindo Michoacan, owner Javier Barajas recalled his years in the shadows, more than a decade ago. Now his family has legal status, and his mother handles what he called "quality control" at the restaurant. But for four years as a teenager, he didn't even see his mother. He remembers calling her on Mother's Day and crying before and after the call.

"I felt so alone," he said. Then he noted how some friends had it worse - their mothers died in Mexico while they were here.

He also remembered the annual ritual he used to play out on those phone card calls.

"I used to say, 'I'm sure we'll see each other soon, maybe next year.' "

That's what millions are feeling right now, he said, after the recent marches nationwide.

"They have the hope that there's a light at the end of the tunnel - that maybe they'll see her soon, maybe next year."