My Tatay's Gift

I got no father to greet this Father's day.  He died a year ago, only more than a month after his 63rd birthday.

My tatay was an enigma, to us his family, and probably even to himself.  He was intelligent, talented, kind-hearted and God-fearing  yet he never amounted to much, that is if we go by conventional ways of measuring one's success, or lack of it -- money, property and the adulation of people.  

But Tatay was never a conventional person.

On earth, he loved a few more than most: Nanay, his six sons, his garden and booze -- specially Ginebra.  Later on, his most-loved list grew one grandchild at a time.  Still, he managed to divide his love, not equally of course, for it only took him about two hours to carouse with the booze and all night to express his undying love for Nanay whom she called Meow, and us, his sons, whom he will call in order of appearance to the world, complete with glowing individual description of each of our strengths and merits.

When he wakes up finally sober, he tends to his apos, checks up on his flowering plants and vegetables at the backyard, and cooks a merry mix of veggies and leaves that others would dismiss as weeds.  And when challenged for a conversation, he could talk about everything under the sun because he was a well-read man.

When we (meaning us six brothers) got older, Tatay's nocturnal inebriated utterances became some sort of cute amusement to my brothers.  But not to me.

Being the youngest child living in a small 2-bedroom house, I shared banig and kulambo with Nanay and Tatay at the sala while my Kuyas shared the bedrooms.  Early on, I sort of developed a sense of when my Tatay would come home drunk and bothersome.  And everytime I got that feeling, I knew that it would be another long night for me.  I would not allow myself to sleep until I hear Tatay unlock the door in the wee hours of the morning -- then I brace for a nightmare.  I would edge closer to my Nanay so that Tatay would be forced to lay by my side.

Then he would begin to mumble.  Aimlessly.  How he loved Meow and how wonderful a person she was, how good looking, intelligent and promising his boys were -- things that you would love to hear had the one speaking them was sober.  Eventually he would air his frustrations, his views on any particular issue, and how wonderful it was to spend the night with his barkada.  All this time I lay still, trying to block off everything I hear.  And everytime I would be unsuccessful because Nanay would soon explode and try to engage Tatay in a verbal tussle.  If it were a good night, Tatay would shut up and proceed to sleep.

But the bad nights outnumbered the good.  

Soon Nanay will stand up and will open the lights so that she can rant some more.  And Tatay too would stagger to get up so that he can argue as well.  And I would also stand up, because then I knew that my role had changed from a horizontal hump to a mobile pacifier.  Many times, their arguments almost led to physical jousts as my Nanay would challenge Tatay to one.  I, of course, would stand in between them even if I have never seen Tatay lift a hand on Nanay.  But I saw everything and I saw more.  I have seen Nanay grab a knife and I have seen Tatay light up a paper bill just to spite her for asking him to share in the responsibilities of rearing the six boys.  I experienced all these as my brothers stayed in bed.

If finally I have managed to coax Tatay to go back to the banig, he would proceed to talk himself to sleep, which would probably take another hour or so.  I would lay motionless as I hush even my breathing because the slightest movement or noise will spur my Tatay to talk even more.  Only when I hear him snore will I begin to move and salvage whatever sleep I could till the sun wakes me up in the morning.

As my brothers left for college one after the other, I began to enjoy the freedom of a separate room.  But nothing changed, I still did not sleep until Tatay came home, still got betwen them when the verbal was on the verge of being physical, and still made sure that I was the last to catch sleep for the night, or morning for that matter.

I grew up with a deep hatred for my father.  As soon as I grew taller than him, I began to ignore him as if he did not exist. When I went to college, I began telling my rich classmates that my "Daddy" was a Major in the military when in fact he was just a lowly Seargeant.  I transferred school and I decided to altogether stop trying to talk about my father, or about my family, or about how I grew up.

I found a job and I hated him even more because for years he had none.

In 1997, I attended the Inner Child retreat (it's a retreat that prods you to go back to your most painful childhood memories so you can deal with them once again).  And as I relived the harrowing experiences, the gloom of hatred began to dissipate.  And I began to see life in a different light.  I saw the Tatay who would gather his boys for a hike to the neighboring farmlands.  I saw the Tatay who never loved another woman other than Nanay.  I saw the Tatay who spoke softly and kissed me gently with his stubbly pucker.  I saw the Tatay who never spoke ill  nor harbored a grudge on anyone, not even to people who hurt him most. I saw the Tatay with the kindest eyes that stared with a reassuring understanding.   I saw the many beautiful facets of his personality that I knew existed but which I ignored because of my seething rage over his weaknesses.  I saw the Tatay that I longed to love all my life.

I always had this romantic idea that my healing would be completed the moment I see Tatay hold my child.  But God sometimes does not give in to romantic notions.  He is partial to giving something better.

The years of alcohol and tobacco abuse took its toll on Tatay's health and he spent the last two months of his life in the hospital.  But it was there that I discovered the healing that I so longed for.  Everytime we talked, everytime I fed him food and made him drink his medicine, everytime I masssaged his entire body, everytime I carried him or assisted him to the toilet, everytime I held his nebulizer to his mouth so that he could breathe easier, everytime I just sat by his bed and we just looked at each other, everytime I kissed him goodbye as I prepared to go home to my wife -- every moment, a gift of healing.

I was with him when he died.  I saw his stare drift from consciousness to nothingness.  I gasped his last breath as I held his head close to mine as I whispered to him that everything was going to be alright, that it's time to move on, that we will take care of Nanay, and that I loved him so much.

He who says that he has the best father that one can ever have is right, and he who can't say the same is missing on the chance to see how beautiful it is to truly embrace life.  If my father's sole contribution was just the fertilization of my mother's egg, then what could be greater than that?  I would not be without him.  I may be flawed and weak because of him, but I am also strong and capable also because of him.   I can't imagine not being with my wife, not being challenged by the course of charting a life, not being able to share what I can, not being able to make a difference in other people's lives, not being able to smile, cry, hope, strive and explore the depths of human emotions.  I will be nothing.

Loving someone who has hurt you the most is certainly not easy, and for some, even unimaginable.  But to do so is perhaps the most precious gift you can ever receive.  Being happy is a decision,  if you choose to see the negative and supplant it as your reality, then that would be so.  But if you can see the best even in the ugliest moments of your life, imagine how even the simplest joy can be such an uplifting experience.

I can't remember my Tatay ever buying anything specifically for me.  But I do remember him  from his hospital bed, looking and smiling at me, with no words to say, but with all the love I can live by for the rest of my life.  That I will remember.

I wrote this in 2004.  Still, the message remains fresh.