MY FATHER'S DAUGHTER

One morning, when I was about 17, dad wanted to talk to me right after breakfast. At the time my boyfriend was a wonderful, absolutely loving and decent guy -- who also happened to be the oldest grandson of one of the richest and most prominent taipan clans in the Philippines.

Dad told me to be careful; he said many tsinoy families preferred their sons to marry women of Chinese ancestry and heritage. Of Chinese blood. My first reaction was of indignation and anger: dad knew my boyfriend pretty well, after all. My mom and sisters loved him (still do). And he never wore his wealth and name like a badge; in fact, until his father bought him a car, we took public transportation to get anywhere (although I suspect his parents were blissfully unaware of this, since the family was a frequent kidnapping target). My dad was always protective of me, so it was B who taught me how to ride a jeep and even a tricycle, and we went to places I never knew existed. There was no way -- no way -- B was going to hurt me. Everyone around me knew he was sincere and honest about his intentions and that he truly loved me. So why was dad saying this?

My father then said something I've never forgotten. He told me, "Gigi, among all my children you're the one who's most like me." I was suddenly quiet and started to calm down, so he continued, "You're very sensitive and you easily get hurt, and I just don't want anything bad to happen to you." He explained that he really liked B and he wasn't trying to judge his family, but he just wanted me to know there were certain realities in the world that were cruel and unfair. In hindsight I wonder just how heartbreaking it is for fathers to realize they can't protect their daughters from all the evils lurking unseen behind every corner.

I really am my father's daughter. For instance, one evening, we were both alone at home. The household help had been given the day off and my mother and sisters were off on their own. Dad was watching TV in his room downstairs and I was upstairs reading in mine. And then I heard him yelling out for me. As my normal and usual reaction, I froze -- wondering what I had just gotten busted for this time. And when he shouted for me again, I heard the not-so-normal tone of worried urgency in his voice, and so I quickly ran down the stairs.

Dad was staring at a tiny, white mouse rendered helpless, caught on a sheet of sticky paper under the stairs. We had placed a square of cheese on each sheet and spread them throughout different corners of the house, a simple trap dad devised to help end our pesky rodent problem. So now I stood beside my father, both of us looking at the poor mouse and thinking the same thing.

"Dad," I whispered, "do we kill it (Oh God, please say no)?"
"Do you want to?" He asked me softly. We continued to stare at the mouse struggling to break free. I could swear I heard it crying.
"No," I said, "Can we just let it go?"
"OK," dad replied. We went outside and dad pried the mouse from the paper and set it free. We looked at each other, and I knew we both wished it wouldn't return to wreak havoc in our home. We both silently hoped our decision for mercy was for the best.

There was no way dad was going to kill the mouse; after all, for years he's adopted every village stray cat that found its way to our home. He even once lambasted a veterinarian for questioning why he bothered to bring in a miserable, scrawny, half-blind, half-dead stray for surgery -- and pay for it. It's the same reason I took in a stray cat that just wouldn't leave my house, even if I'm highly allergic to felines and now have to take medication daily just so I can continue to hug her to sleep every night.

*****

My earliest memories of my father involve spending Sunday mornings with him at his plant nursery, where he took cuttings he brought back from all his travels around the world and transplanted them, to see if they would thrive in hot and humid Philippine weather. Dad would point out different plants to me and refer to them in Latin. The funny thing is, even now, after a series of strokes rendered his memory somewhat stilted and murky, I'll be describing a new hybrid or specimen to him and he'll sometimes only realize what I'm talking about when I refer to its proper Latin name. I can't tell you how those early lovely days of looking at plants with my father still cause me to run to the nearest plant nursery when I need a bit of comfort; I always feel like he's there standing next to me, pointing out the uniqueness of even the most common garden plant.

A few years ago I was both humbled and somewhat distressed to realize I didn't know much about my father when I read a draft of Jeanne Javelosa's coffee table book on his career and works. My father is a landscape architect, and the son of a makata, a Tagalog poet. To be perfectly honest, I realized I didn't know much about the quiet man with an explosive temper that I only knew as my father.

The only time we ever got to talk was during supper time -- and even then he hardly ever spoke, no doubt because he couldn't compete with a bunch of fast-talking, chatty women. So I grew up not knowing much about his projects, accomplishments, or awards; someone else usually had to tell me about them. But there were other things my father taught me, lessons that molded me into the person I am today. Lessons that can't be found in any magazine or newspaper article about him.

For instance, when I was barely knee-high tall dad told me how much he hated "Keep Off the Grass" signs. "What's grass for if you can't walk all over it?" he used to exclaim in frustration. I learned early on that beauty was not to be appreciated only from afar; it had to be relished by all the senses and enjoyed for the primary purpose it was created for.

But one of the most important lessons I learned from my father was the importance of standing by one's professional principles and integrity, even if doing so went against the current tide or resulted in having to make certain sacrifices. I remember one night dad was clearly frustrated; he was disgusted and exasperated by all the bribes and kickbacks customary in government-related projects (especially this particular one he was working on), and how many greedy people were enriching themselves as a result. And although we were always comfortable and I grew up not wanting for anything, my father looked at me and said, "You know, we could have been really rich if I accepted all that was offered to me all these years. But I never did."

I didn't say anything after that, although I think I might have smiled at him to let him know I understood being wealthier was not going to mean being any happier. So let me tell you, all you fathers out there: To be able to tell that particular story about dad is one of the best -- and most precious -- gifts he ever gave me. Because when I say I am my father's daughter, I say so with incomparable pride. And always -- forever -- with the fervent hope and clear intention of measuring up to even half the person he is, warts and all.

Happy Father's Day to all you wonderful (and not-so-wonderful) dads out there!

Comments

[KnOizKi]

That's a sweet story but makes me sad at the same time. Even if my dad passed away few years ago, we still celebrate Father's day. He teached us that the most powerful force in life is LOVE.

Happy Daddy's!

[rei]

Your father sounds like a wonderful, wonderful man ... a lot like mine :) I love how he can't stand to kill mice, and makes sure that even stray cats have good medical care.

Happy Father's Day to him, too! :)

[Gigi]

Hi KnOizKi -- That you always remember your dad and what he taught you means it's Father's Day everyday. :)

Hi Rei -- Thanks! And I love how your father loves the rain -- and is so connected to life that he can hear the difference between the way it sounds there and everywhere else in the world he's (and you've) lived in. Happy Father's Day to him too!

[bugsybee]

Hi Gigi - It says a lot about your dad that even if he is a quiet man, he was still able to teach you a lot of things. And he must be very proud that you are your father's daughter. (My own dad died in 2000 after a valiant fight with cancer. Some said he chose to go when I was the only one with him - siblings flew back to our city - because he knew that I would be brave, like him.) ... Happy Father's Day to your dad. I wish he'd be able to read your post.

[evi]

Happy father's day to your dad and husband.

[Gigi]

Hi Bugsybee and Evi :)
Thank you so much for your warm wishes! I just phoned my dad (long-distance) and it was great to hear him in such good spirits. Both my parents don't know about my blog, and my sisters won't tell. They're quite conservative kasi, and might be horrified to find out I was naughtier than they suspected. :)

[bing]

wow, Gigi! this is long and i never got bored reading. you are a proud daughter and i am sure he is a proud father. i hope and pray that my kids will remember their father in a similar way despite the bellows.

my father is someone who i really adore. i can discuss anything with him under the sun. do you believe that one time while we were riding in a jeepney, i asked (i was already a college student) him if it is true that women get aroused with their nipples caressed. and i was just testing him if he'll get mad. he didn't. he told me that it is not only where a woman could get aroused but i will get to know that when i cross the bridge.

thanks for the post. it reminds me of Papa who died last 1992 of emphyzema.

[Dean]

Gigi, I was so moved by your post. I grew up without a father, and so when I read things like this, the vaccuum of that part of my life becomes even more evident. You're so blessed to have such a fine man. I can only hope to try to be a good father to my daughter - warts and all ;)

[Gigi]

Hi Bing - Don't worry, my dad had (has) a temper, and I've been on the receiving end of his bellows many times. But I was the type who answered back when I'd get scolded, so I suppose that was frustrating and quite aggravating for any parent. :) I have so many friends who have lost their fathers recently; I've got to admit it scares the heck out of me, and at the same time makes me appreciate mine even more.

Hello Dean - From what I've read, you're a wonderful father. And better yet, you always try to be. My dad certainly wasn't a model father, believe me (old school distant/father-not-friend type).But I know he did the best he could and he truly loves me. At the end of that day, it's all that matters, really. :)

[Gary]

I love your muses! I can get lost in the words and nostalga of it all....and always leave smiling. love you always.

[Gigi]

Hey Gar!
It's always nice to know that, despite your crazy schedule, you still find time to drop by here. Did you check out my "Boys and the B's" post -- you got special mention there. Y'know, every time I see one of those a/c doohickeys (esp Honeywell ones), I think of you. And yes, I know you think of me, too, every time you can tell a woman's bra size just from one quick look. You were always my prized pupil after all :)

Love you too -- always. :) G

[jayred]

I like the white mouse part. Tells a lot about your and your Dad's soft-heartedness.

[Gigi]

Thanks Jayred. My dad's soft heart for animals is so well-known that when his beloved toy terrier, Sheba, died, we had a line of his friends and employees drop by the house to pay their respects before she was buried. If I'm not mistaken, a well-known sculptor, my dad's close friend, even made her tombstone.