Dreams from my father
Somewhere in the interstices of the search for self-identity and an abiding faith in unconditional love, I always found the kindly visage of my father: pale-skinned, brown eyes, dark short hair, mustached and ever smiling, with that unforgettable gaze always filled with boundless longing and unremitting tenderness.
For the past few days, I have been watching my father bravely struggling for his life, his frail body surrounded by the bundle of equipment ubiquitous in any modern hospital’s intensive care unit.
The other day, after almost a week of confinement, he gained some consciousness, opening his tired eyes, slightly stretching his hands, and feebly nodding to our words of love and encouragement. It bleeds my heart, for in many ways, my father has been the love of my life. But I know I need to be strong for him now.
They say nothing is like a mother’s love for her child, that the keys to heaven lay beneath her foot, and that her whispers of devotion carry the mystery of life. Yet, this is also true of a father’s love. Or at least, that has been my experience; for I have been blessed to have the best parents I could have ever asked for.
I had, at least by some conventional standard, the unusual experience of being primarily raised by my father.
My very first memory is my father holding my sister and I in his arms as we escaped the carnage of the apocalyptic earthquake that viciously devastated our hometown, Baguio City, in the last decade of the 20th century.
He was our knight in shining armor. Over the next decade, however, my father began to also provide me home care. This wasn’t necessarily of his choosing.
At the dawn of his middle age, he had to undergo a difficult surgery for brain tumor, an event that changed his life and ours forever. Despite getting one of the best doctors available, the surgery saved his life but deprived him of his full potential and productivity.
This was a particularly painful experience for one as ambitious, hardworking and well-educated as my father, who could have pursued a highly successful career in the medical field, and even business.
The event, however, also solidified our family bond, as we turned into a fortress of emotional resilience and interdependent love. What my father couldn’t achieve for himself in terms of his career, he more than made up for by being the best possible parent.
In his soulful memoir, “Dreams from my Father,” Barack Obama lamented how many boys run into ruin, because “[t]here’s nobody to guide through the process of becoming a man… to explain to them the meaning of manhood. And that’s a recipe for disaster.”
Fortunately, my father never fell short of helping me to be a better person. I was a difficult child: bratty, entitled and hyperactive (I’m still a difficult person, many would say). Yet, my father patiently combed through my idiosyncrasies and tantrums, inculcating in me an iron bowl of values that have never left me.
He taught me to be respectful of all cultures and religions, often reminding me of his ecumenical dialogues with my Hispanic great-grandmother, Epitancia Mario, a devout Catholic teacher who was very fond of my father.
He interchangeably spoke Ilocano and Tagalog, encouraging me to fully embrace the richness of my diverse background. He taught me about the indispensability of humility to living a good life, recognizing our fragilities as mortals before the grace of the Almighty.
Living an austere life, he taught me about practicality and the dangers of unrestrained vanity, lessons that have saved my restless soul from self-ruin. And it was my father who patiently helped me to hone my basics in English, while always encouraging me to listen to international news at a very young age. I am who I am today, largely thanks to him.
My greatest wish at this point is to see him recover, by the grace of God, and to have him witness one day his son turning into a father, hopefully even if half as good as him.
