Tuesday, September 27, 2005

On fathers and fatherhood

My father turns 68 today. He was the fourth among a brood of seven. His parents were poor farmers from the hilly interiors of Batangas province in the Philippines. A smile always forms in my face with the thought that my father’s ancestors were despondent indios while my mother's clan included powerful ilustrados from Catanduanes. One hot March afternoon, some years ago, my father sent a draft speech with a short note. He had been invited to give an inspirational talk before the graduating class of a local high school. The note requested me to edit the draft. It was from this piece that I first learned of some interesting facts about my father.

I found out that as a child my father walked more than eight kilometers from their place to the nearest school in town. As my grandfather was unable to support him through college, my father decided to try his luck in Manila. He ended up doing some odd jobs in the city to augment the meager allowance from home. He took up an engineering course in a small university, joined the basketball team (he was only 5’4”) and passed the board exam after graduation. He married my mother during the late sixties. They’ve been together for more than thirty five years now.

From all those gender seminars that I’ve attended, I got this idea of the emotionally absent father — a good provider but quite incompetent in addressing the family’s other (non-material) needs. For years now, I’ve thought of my father as closely fitting this description. Recent events however have forced me to reconsider my estimation of tatay. Recalling his speech, I think I understand now how my father’s own experiences must have nurtured in him that get-rich-quick attitude, that stoic demeanor I have learned to abhor. Working abroad when we were growing up, I realized how hard it must have been for him to reconnect with us afterwards.

Apart from those few occasions when he diligently explained to us the mechanics of planetary rotations and revolutions, I haven’t had any other serious conversations with my father these past thirty six years. Yet I can sense that beneath the unfathomable silence, there’s always this feeling of respect and love for us. Despite all the limitations imposed by their upbringing, some fathers have cared deeply for their children in their own unique way. This is the first time that I'm buying a cake for my father’s birthday. I hope he likes chocolate.

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