This isn’t exactly timely, since Father’s Day was almost a week ago. But I rarely talk about my dad. It’s not that I don’t love him; it’s that he’s a constant, a phlegmatic and inoffensive part of my life. (Which just goes to show that I like to complain a lot, I guess.)
When I was small, I was called “Daddy’s Girl.” I was always sitting on his knee, showing him things I drew and making fun of his Darth Vader drawings that suspiciously looked like a guy wearing black paper bags on his head and feet. I thought my dad was hilarious. Apparently I told my mom that she could pick my future husband, “Because you picked a funny one!” I couldn’t get enough of my dad’s jokes as a tot, but when I got older, he was less funny and more the recipient of the Mr. Corny award.
My Dad is a sensitive guy. He lost his job when I was 10, and he took it very hard. It was years before he found something he enjoyed again. But I remember that he would always try to do special things for us, even when he didn’t have any money; it would usually be little snacks. Merienda is highly valued in the Filipino (and Spanish) cultures, and he tried to make sure we had something to eat after school.
When I started teaching myself to play the guitar, my mom was very pessimistic that I would ever learn the instrument. In contrast, my dad was very encouraging. He would often come home with little guitar-related trinkets: chord/lyric books of popular songs, guitar picks, capos. Soon enough, I was playing and singing, and doing it pretty well.
After shopping, even for necessities, my mom would usually half-jokingly exclaim at the register “Now you’d better give me good grades because I bought ________ for you!” But when my dad would give gifts, it was unconditionally. I suppose balance is necessary in everything. My mom taught us duty and consequence; my dad, giving without expecting anything in return.
It’s weird to think that my parents are only a few years from being bona fide senior citizens. Sometimes I worry about them; that they won’t be able to provide for themselves in their old age; that they’ll have to keep working despite failing health; that they won’t have the services they need to keep them healthy on Guam. Sometimes I wish I could go back; in fact, I’m planning on going back in the next few years if everything goes as planned. In the meantime, I’m thankful my brothers are still there to take care of them.
