June 17, 2007
Today is our fifth Father’s Day without Papa. Officially, Papa died on May 30, 2003, but he still lives in my heart. Like snapshots from a treasured photo album or paintings hanging at a gallery, I see excerpts of my moments with my father. He was never the affectionate type, as most Chinese men are, so I have virtually no memories of him hugging or kissing me. Yet what I remember about him are the milestones of my journey in life, from childhood to being an adult.
I remember Papa…
…tapping me to sleep, his profile silhouetted against the streetlights, eyes half-closed while humming some ancient Chinese melody. My parents never practiced tucking us to sleep but Papa, at a soft request or just a whimper from me, would tap my thigh until I dozed off to sleep. Somehow, the touch and sound of Papa’s palm hitting my flesh gave me peace that all was right with the world as his hand kept tempo to my heartbeat.
…coming home to see my brother and me crying while kneeling in front of the ancestral altar. It was Mama’s punishment for our pillow fight and the ‘sentence’ will only be lifted when Papa gets home. At the sound of the front door creaking open, my brother and I jumped up and ran to hug him, relieved and happy beyond words at his arrival.
…teaching my siblings and me how to swim in the open sea. Papa put us on an inflated rubber tire and dragged us a distance from the beach. There he encouraged us to jump into the water, promising to catch us. My younger sister was bawling and fidgeting in fear but I jumped into the waves, floundered a little until Papa grabbed me into his arms.
…making fishballs for sale to augment his income. I can’t remember what job or business Papa had during the fishball-making season, but he needed a ‘sideline’ to feed his growing family (Mama was pregnant with my youngest sister). I can still see him scraping the flesh off a fish, each spoonful a few more centavos for us.
…giving out precious pesos to us everyday for our allowance. Papa had to do it day by day since he didn’t earn enough to give us the weekly amount. He couldn’t even afford to buy a jar of peanut butter, so we would buy per bowl from the bakery. Once Papa brought home a paper bagful of tuyo (dried salted fish) which would be our only meat for the next few weeks.
…cooking yummy restaurant-style food: Savory-style fried chicken, barbecued pork (char siew), siopao, kikiam, pata tim, hamburgers. Papa could spend hours poring over cookbooks and trying out new recipes. He would cajole people to give him their secrets. He would often question why we have to go out and pay to eat something we can cook right in the comfort of our own home. His Waterloo was baking, which he attempted valiantly but never quite got the knack for it. His ensaymadas were rock-hard and his putos either gritty or mushy, but seeing him try was a show.
…teaching me Chinese literature and history, sprinkling the lessons with gossip and trivia about the characters. I understood and enjoyed my one-to-one sessions with Papa more than my actual classes. I was his student and he was my mentor as he gave me practical rather than academic knowledge.
…promising to bring home a kaing (large basket) of lanzones. Few children ever waited for their Christmas gifts as much as we waited for Papa to get home that night. When we heard him climbing up (the apartment we were living in that time had creaky wooden stairs), we rushed to open the door to see him carrying… nothing. Seeing our shocked faces, Papa reached behind him and pulled up a gallon-sized kaing! He had a hearty laughed for tricking us, but that didn’t make the lanzones taste less sweet for us.
…waking up in the middle of the night while I was drawing my assignments for my Architecture course. I would look up to see Papa standing by my drafting table, a concerned yet proud look on his face. He would ask me if I was hungry and would scurry off to the kitchen to cook a snack for me.
…huffing and puffing up the stairs to our third floor apartment in Tondo. We could hear Papa’s exhaled breaths and occasional cuss words as he made his way up, mostly the latter when he had to go back because he forgot something. Soon after his knees started to hurt him and he began to walk lopsidedly, we moved to a two-storey apartment and bought a daybed for Papa to sleep in at the ground floor. He became our default night watchman who we would always find sleeping during his watch as he waited for all of his children to get home.
…requesting me to buy a Wendy’s cheeseburger and fries for him with my first paycheck. I felt so proud bringing home, literally, the bacon. Papa’s face beamed when I presented the food to him, like a warrior offering the spoils of victory to its emperor.
…dictating items and figures to write on delivery receipts, since his handwriting was often just indecipherable squiggles. Papa never finished grade school level and his knowledge of English terms was learned through the school of hard knocks. Still, I would find him trying to write, his forehead crinkled in concentration. While other men his age were preparing to retire or already enjoying their retirement, Papa was just starting his business, his umpteenth. For all his efforts, Papa didn’t have a good head or the savvy for business. Sometimes, when he needed money because a check he had written was due, he would sheepishly ask my siblings and me for a loan. We would have gladly given the amount to him, but Papa insisted that it was our money and he did pay us back.
…asking what a certain English word meant as he watched his favorite cooking show. Papa religiously watched Wok with Yan, but he couldn’t help making a snide remark or two about the host’s choice of ingredient or cooking method. We owe it to Stephen Yan for Papa learning about “tapioca”, the “wonder powder” that the cooking show host often used in his shows. I don’t think Papa understood the apron puns the show also used, or he would have also roared with laughter, or at least chuckle.
…dozing in front of the television as he waited for us to get home. Papa was the last one we saw when we leave home and the first one we greet when we leave. We’ll brief him on our day and spend a few minutes with him, watching and commenting on whatever show was on. By the time we get up or get home, he already had food cooked for us. Many times I’ll wake up or fall asleep to the sound of the stove roaring and hissing.
…swinging his arms and moving his body for the tai chi session at the Rizal Park grandstand, followed by a walk along the breakwater. After my grandmother’s death, Papa sold the business, paid off his debts, and settled to retirement life. On weekends and holidays, after my sister got her driving license and car, we would drive to Rizal Park. We brought along a wheelchair, which Papa would only use when his knees hurt too much.
… mumbling incoherently while I cradled him in my arms the day he died. While Mama and my sisters rushed to get help, I gently rocked Papa in my arms and spoke whatever came to mind: how much we loved him; we were grateful to him and for what he has done; we still needed him; he has taught us well and he can be confident to leave us; he has been a good father and provider; my brother was expecting his first baby, Papa’s first grandchild, and he should wait for them to come visit from Canada. At my words, Papa’s body relaxed and finally became still. I saw the foam of saliva at the corner of his half-opened mouth and I knew, painfully, finally, that the man who gave me my life had reached the end of his.
We love you, Papa. We still miss you.
