My father passed away a little before 10 am on Wednesday, January 29. I'll post more about that next; for now, I'd like to share the eulogy I gave at his state funeral on Sunday. I had written a draft the evening prior -- but decided to throw it out and just start writing what came from my heart to my head. I couldn't stop typing, and it was all done in just a little more than an hour. I can write about dad for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn't be enough.
There's a man I've recently just met, but whom I've known my entire life. For the past three days I've heard stories about this man, about all the friends he made and all the lives he changed. He was so many things to so many people: a teacher, a mentor, a colleague, an architect, an artist, a friend. These people say how much he did for them. And yet, despite all he accomplished he managed to be home at 6 in the afternoon on workdays and all day on Sundays.
I know quite well the man who came home. that man was the one my sisters and I knew as our father -- the man I'm here to tell you a little about this morning.
I'm here to tell you about the father who was so highly protective of his daughters that he feared the thought of us moving out and about outside the home he built. How worried he was that we would be harmed or hurt by those with bad intentions or careless actions. And yet, despite those fears, how he encouraged each of us to move across the other side of the world so that we would learn how to find ourselves, explore our passions, and learn to be best at whatever we chose to be so that we could each make a living, but more importantly, a life.
Our father was a man who once chased after a bus through the city and stopped it mid-traffic, only so he could come onboard and present his lady love with a bouquet of flowers that he didn't get to give her before she left town for the weekend. My mother passed away eight months ago, and my father chased after her as an old man as he once did in his youth, and finally caught up with her just this Wednesday morning.
I've always been convinced my father could communicate with all the creatures of the earth. Dad found nothing unusual about playing with the fire ants that reside in the tree outside his bedroom. He would let the potentially lethal insects crawl up and down his arm, and then back to the tree where they lived when they were done playing with him. My father not only was unable to harm a mouse, he even fed the few that visited his room with the snacks he always kept at his bedside.
Just outside the kitchen, dad created a safe haven for all cats that sought refuge. He once berated a veterinarian who thought it wasn't worth saving the life of a stray whom my dad found half-dead on our street. "What kind of an animal doctor are you, to choose which animals to save?" he demanded. And despite being warned that doing all of the above would backfire on him somehow, I can attest that the ants never hurt him, the mice never bit him, and all the cats treated our home as theirs.
Once, not long ago, I asked dad why we had so many fake flowers and plants in our house when he was a landscape architect. Shouldn't we have real ones, instead? He just smiled and then tried to convince me that they brightened up the place. When I complained about the plastic foliage again, our family driver, who assisted my dad every Saturday when he visited the local tiangge, explained to me privately that dad bought the "plants" and other seemingly useless things to help out his sukis there. These small things made him happy because they reminded him that he had made other people happy, too.
It really is no wonder then why, the first time dad met his eldest granddaughter, who was about two years old at the time and just starting to speak, she climbed on the couch beside him, looked at him in the face -- and then and there decided to call him only "Magic."
These past few weeks, my sisters and I have seen and heard all kinds of people from all walks of life express their love for our father. There was a tiangge vendor who said that dad taught her the scientific names of the plants she sold so that she would appear as an authority to her customers, which would help her sales. There was a young sculptor who almost gave up his art, but who was instead encouraged by dad to keep going and has never stopped since. We've heard so many people say they wouldn't be what they were if dad had never been around. I'd like to think that wherever dad was he sprinkled a bit of magic in the air.
I have no doubt that at this very moment, I.P. is whispering into God's ear how heaven can use a little more green space.
On behalf of my sisters, we thank all of you who have comforted us these past few days with your kind words of sympathy. We thank all who have shared your personal stories about life with I.P. Our dad lives on inside of us not only as we remember him, but as we continue to get to know him as only you did. On behalf of my father, thank you for all the love and honor you bestow upon him today.
DRESS YOU DOWN
I knew this gal who used to come to work looking like she had dressed herself with nothing more than Ace bandages wrapped around her torso; on certain days you thought that if she had arrived draped in a bath towel instead she would have been more fully clothed. She worked in Accounting -- not exactly the bastion of fearless self-expression in the workplace -- so it's not surprising she attracted disapproving looks and talk among her co-workers.
Perhaps because I went to fashion school and worked in the apparel industry for years, there's not much that raises my eyebrows, sartorially speaking. It didn't annoy me then that she chose to wear what she did; she didn't deal with clients and vendors and she did her job capably. And yet even if I had her gym-honed body I wouldn't have made the same fashion choices. I know that although we're all told from childhood that we're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, the real world has taught me that people inevitably do.
How we look -- all our outward characteristics whether or not we were born that way -- including how we dress, how we smell, how we carry ourselves -- influence how people perceive us, even if it may not seem fair. Maybe that's why only the youth use their looks to rebel against the establishment; once they become part of it they quickly learn that image can negatively impact their earning power and status.
Perception matters; perhaps that's why companies institute dress codes, although more attention is paid to the way women look. From the time we're in school, we are subjected to these rules more often and much more thoroughly than our male counterparts are. Our body parts are scrutinized: shoulders, cleavage, midriffs, thighs, and legs. Even at my workplace now, a store that joyfully celebrates women's sexuality, we're not allowed to reveal bare shoulders or wear skirts shorter than 4 inches above the knee. We can't wear leggings unless they're worn under a tunic top or dress. We're instructed that we can't wear "excessively tight, short or revealing clothing." Even the length of our fingernails is prescribed.
I've never violated a work dress code because I tend to be more covered up in general (although I don't understand how exposed upper arms interfere with productivity unless it's a safety issue). Even in my personal space I don't show a lot of skin, not because I'm afraid of what people may say or think but because I don't like to fidget with my clothing to make sure I'm not accidentally exposing my lady bits. I believe in dressing and adorning myself to look -- and thus, feel -- attractive, and I'm afraid that showing off my thighs and knees would only achieve the opposite goal. Once in a while, though, I will rock a low neckline and expose deep cleavage at night simply because I still can, and especially because it detracts the beholder's eye from other parts I'm not as proud of, such as my slackened jaw line and gentle muffin top.
And when I do, I'm offended if anyone would declare me as immoral and thus undeserving of basic decency and respect, and worse, claim that I'm "asking for it." There's no excuse for anyone to believe that a woman deserves to be disrespected or should expect to be violated or assaulted simply because of what she's wearing. There's no reason for that kind of behavior -- period. If a man sees a woman at a bar displaying all her goods, he's not a cad for getting turned on. He becomes one, however, if he treats her like a whore.
I read something recently on Inquirer.net, the online portal of a major daily Philippine newspaper. What drew my eye to it was the headline announcing the country as a potential fashion capital in the world, and that it was written by an esteemed economist and business leader. I realized quickly, to my horror, that his article had little to do with the state of the fashion industry in the Philippines; instead, it was a call for women to dress more modestly so as not to commit or encourage sin. He states:
Therefore, he says, strict dress codes should be implemented in universities and in Church, and also for specific events and ceremonies, including one's own wedding day:
Men like this writer often profess to hold these views in order to protect women, when reality is that they are intimidated of our power and seek to control us. His phrase, "of what [the bridegroom] alone has the right to see in the intimacy of the bedroom" renders us as property of our husbands, instead of independent human beings with our own mind, body, and soul. It subjugates women by asking us to be the weaker sex and capitulate to the whims and weaknesses of men. By saying that we are not "attracted to the sexual characteristics of the opposite sex," he declares us to be asexual creatures, not requiring physical intimacy, of being damaged when we have sexual urges.
His message is also a potentially dangerous one because it insinuates that we are responsible for what sins might occur because of what we choose to wear. For him, men are inherently weak creatures and if we arouse them and they act accordingly -- whether we wish it or not -- then it's our fault completely. Not the men who couldn't take control of their own decisions and actions. Ours. This is the worst kind of misogyny, one that disguises itself under the benevolent cloak of concern and protection.
There's a difference between questioning a woman's common sense in wearing a skimpy outfit to work and declaring that she is immoral and sinful because she does. We know that whenever we squeeze into a snug miniskirt we are attracting attention, favorable or otherwise, from both men and women. What we should never be expected to assume, however, is that when we do it's okay for others to announce open season against us. Even when we may appear practically naked, our bodies are sacred and belong to us alone unless we choose to share it. Anyone who disagrees is the real danger to society -- not the one who decided how she wanted to dress before going out. Even when the size of our clothing is small, we are infinitely better than the one with the small mind.