My mom raised us like we were still in the Philippines. She tried

Hear the words of Jo Koy, who with laughter unveils the truth of his childhood: “My mom raised us like we were still in the Philippines. She tried to cure everything at home like a real Filipino woman. You had to die to go to the hospital. My mom cured everything with Vicks VapoRub. I should’ve died nine times when I was a kid!” Though spoken in jest, these words carry the fragrance of memory and the strength of tradition, showing how heritage, even when transplanted into foreign soil, remains a living flame that shapes the family.

The heart of his saying lies in the endurance of roots. For though his family lived far from the Philippines, his mother carried with her the practices of her homeland, believing in remedies passed down by generations, trusting not first in hospitals, but in the wisdom of the household. This, to Jo Koy, seemed comical in hindsight, but beneath the humor is a truth of love: his mother’s care, though simple and unorthodox, was born of devotion and sacrifice. She wielded what she had, for her children’s survival was her highest calling.

The ancients, too, honored such maternal resilience. In every culture, mothers became the first healers, using herbs, oils, and prayer to mend their families. Before the rise of physicians, the home was the hospital, and the mother was the doctor. Jo Koy’s memory of Vicks VapoRub is but a modern emblem of that ancient role—a symbol of a mother’s determination to heal, even when resources were scarce. It may not always have been enough, but it was what love demanded.

Consider the story of Imhotep in ancient Egypt, who rose from healer to sage, remembered as the father of medicine. His wisdom began with remedies in humble households before reaching palaces and temples. In much the same way, immigrant mothers like Jo Koy’s brought with them ancestral remedies, improvising and protecting their children with the knowledge available to them. Their methods, though sometimes met with laughter, are part of the heroic tradition of survival passed through generations.

The humor in Jo Koy’s words also hides the shadow of hardship. “You had to die to go to the hospital,” he recalls. This was not only exaggeration but the truth of poverty and cultural pride. Hospitals were distant, expensive, or intimidating; to many families, they were places of last resort. The mother’s courage filled the gap, becoming shield and caretaker. From this arises both laughter and admiration, for such endurance made survival possible.

The lesson for us is clear: honor the heritage of your family, even when it comes wrapped in humor. The remedies, traditions, and sayings of our parents may seem outdated, but they hold within them the spirit of resilience. They remind us that survival is not always elegant, but it is always sacred. Laughter does not diminish their sacrifice—it elevates it, making memory bearable, turning hardship into story, and story into wisdom.

Practical wisdom calls to us: treasure the traditions of your elders, whether they are healing remedies, sayings, or customs. Do not mock them only as superstition, but see in them the love and necessity from which they arose. Share these stories with future generations, not merely as humor, but as reminders of strength. And when you build your own home, remember that care, even if imperfect, is the greatest inheritance a parent can give.

Thus the words of Jo Koy endure beyond comedy: a memory of a mother who healed with all she had, who carried the Philippines in her heart across an ocean, and who raised her children with resilience wrapped in laughter. May we honor such love, see the wisdom beneath the humor, and carry forward the truth that even the smallest jar of Vicks VapoRub can become a symbol of a mother’s undying devotion.