In 2017, for Jezebel’s annual Favorite Women of the Year post, Stassa Edwards acknowledged “all of the women who help me raise my child,” writing:
My son is raised by a web of women, including preschool teachers and my mother, who is the babysitter, after-school pickup, and grandmother all-in-one. The work of childcare is more often than not invisible, and for preschool teachers grossly underpaid, but without it, my house would not function nor, practically speaking, exist. So thank you to all of the women who have helped me raise my son for the last four years, you’re my true sheroes.
With this in mind, this Mother’s Day we wanted to recognize those women in our own lives who helped our moms out with the herculean task of raising us.
My aunt Melody moved to the United States from Taiwan in part to help my mom raise my two older sisters. My ayi was young at the time, much younger than I am now. It’s astonishing to me that she so willingly uprooted her life for her family. It’s not that simple, of course—she came for her own sake too.
We’ve always been close. Everyone always assumes I’m her daughter (sorry mom!), and it’s true that we share some superficial physical similarities—our noses, our eyes, our smiles. But in truth they run deeper—we’re both criers, liable to start sobbing at the drop of a hat. We both have a cackle for a laugh, which we let loose at random moments. Often, when I say something she thinks is impertinent, she’ll give me a stern look before shaking her head with a smile. Does she see some of herself in me? I hope so. Whenever I leave her home in San Diego after a visit, she sends me off with what she thinks I’ll need in the world. Three bottles of water, hand sanitizer, lip balm, more oranges that I can carry.
It was only when I became an aunt myself that I began to understand the love you can feel for a child that is technically not your own, but that belongs to you in so many other ways that matter.—Esther Wang
Aside from my own mother, there is no other woman who has shaped me more than my dad’s sister, my Buaji. Growing up, I only saw her at family gatherings every few years. One of my earliest memories of her helping her plant flowers when I was about 5. I remember that it was a responsibility I took very, very seriously, and I insisted that she call next time she needed help gardening. I was devastated when she called a year later, telling me she needed my help, but I couldn’t fly across the country to garden with her.
She has always been a woman I wanted to emulate; compassionate, whip smart, and always—always—on top her shit. As I grew older, Buaji increasingly became a source of wisdom, strength, and compassion when I felt like I had no one else to turn to or talk to. At a time when my independence, my outspokenness, and my feminism were seen as troublesome, she encouraged me and embraced my identity. Slowly, her gentle advice and ability to listen without judgment helped me find my path forward, and her unwavering support instilled a deeper confidence in who I am and who I would become.
In Hindi, the word for father’s sister is different than mother’s sister, Mausi, which means “mother-like.” While she is my Buaji, I think that the title of Mausi is a more fitting description of our relationship.—Prachi Gupta
I never knew my grandparents. My mom’s mom died just a couple months before I was born, and if either of my dad’s parents were alive when I was born, they weren’t here long enough for me to form memories of them.
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