Dad

music : landslide by fleetwod mac

My dad celebrated his 53rd birthday three days ago. A pity that I can’t call him because I don’t even know where he is. The last time I spoke to him wasn’t a happy occasion, but then again I’ve never been cheerbear.


I don’t even have a picture of him to post in this blog. Pathetic, no? I have nothing. I have nothing tangible that he gave me. The heart necklace was snatched from me. The gold bracelet, I’ ve long ago pawned. The notebook he gave me, I broke. The collection of E.A. Poe stories he gave me is somewhere in the UPRHS library, part of my collection that I donated when I moved here. I even lost that one silver Parker ballpoint pen engraved with my name and christian name, I lost it then and it didn’t matter much, I hated my christian name. It sounded so wimpy to my already weird name.


But the intangible lot that my father gave me, it’s all here.

I have his eyes - the same medium brown color. I have his brows - the same angular pair that arch at any given stimulus - pleasant or otherwise.

I have his hair - the same fine dark brown mop of hair that has a mind of its own. It’s straight one day and curly the next.

I have his teeth- straight and strong. So strong they broke my dentist’s tool the last time I had one of my wisdom teeth pulled out. Thanks dad, Ninang said I still have one tooth in there somewhere. And so my visits to the Philippines always include a visit to her clinic, not just for cleaning, but also for some procedure.

I have his walk- the same bowlegged swagger that earned me a reputation in school as a tomboy.It wasn’t on purpose, it’s natural ,like my two feet are angry at each other. This is why it is very uncomfortable for me to wear heels. I am sakang. That’s that.

I have his temper - the same short fuse that just about explodes when I am trapped in the company of ignorant people. The same temper that gets to me when I drive with a bunch of idiots.


And like him, I mostly wear my heart on my sleeve, and this is what bites me back in the ass.


People always say that I am very much my mother’s daughter. Yes, I look very much like her, I sound very much like her, but the things above, she would even tell you, I got from my dad.


Father-daugher relationships are indeed very fragile. Mine is no different. Because I am so much like my mom, my dad and I always butt heads. Thinking about it now, I think it is also because I am in part like him that makes it even explosive when he and I spend time together.


When I was younger, my dad was most preoccupied in making a girl of me. He gave me a pair of Barbie dolls so I can have “normal” girl toys. I was more interested in playing with my brother’s remote control cars and Lego sets. He often lamented that his firstborn is a boy. He tried desperately to make me more feminine. I remember one trip we had to the mall, he outfitted me in pink. I looked like a freaking cotton candy stick. I like pink now. I dyed my hair pink once. I wear pink too, but mostly I wear it with black. ( I have pink shoes, dad. You’re gonna hate it. And I like it like that.)

He wanted me to take up sports in high school, something graceful like swimming, or tennis, or volleyball. Well I took up sports alright. I took Tae Kwon Do, Soccer and Basketball.

He wanted me to have in interest in music. Something soulful like jazz. He’s such a jazz enthusiast. I like music, something soulful too. It’s called rock. He wanted me to learn how to play an instrument so I can be “cultured.” Something divine like piano or the violin even. I played an instrument – my voice, and with it I became part of an alt/ rock band in college, and boy there’s a lot of culture involved in that too. I play the guitar now. It’s not jazz that I play, but I sure can make him cry. ( Maybe one day I’ll play him a Fleetwood Mac song.)

He wanted me to become a doctor. I wanted to become a lawyer so I can sue his ass. He shut me down and told me I can’t be a lawyer because I have too big a heart. Well, I didn’t become a doctor. I didn’t become a lawyer. I am teacher, and that must’ve hurt him too, because my mom’s one kick ass teacher.


Funny how I only spent seven years with him, yet I picked up a couple of things that I still believe in these days.

That a shower before bedtime is imperative. He always told me and made me shower before I got to bed, no matter how tired I am. He told me I have to smell clean and be clean before I sleep so in my dreams I smell clean and fresh too. He said if I go to bed stinky, my dreams would probably stink too. So yes, I take a shower before I go to bed. Even in the winter. Even when my teeth are chattering from the cold, I take a shower before bedtime. I take another shower when I wake up. Don’t ask me why. I just do. In the warm months, I take more then two showers. And always, I make sure I smell good. I do. Ask any of my friends. I do smell good. My dad ingrained that in my being.

I do not walk when I smoke. My dad said that girls who walk while they smoke look like streetwalkers. These days I wish I just learned not to smoke. I walk more, so that’s a good thing. But in college, I never walked and smoked at the same time. Ask me where the logic is. There is none.



My dad can figure me out like an open book. And I hate it when he’s right. He is the only person who can tell when I am upset. He knows because my lips are upturned unnaturally.


Despite our differences, my dad cares a lot about me. This is sore topic for my mom because my dad does not treat my brothers equally. If anything happens to me, my dad will find a way to get to me. A terrible thing happened 7 years ago when I came face to face with a gun. It was a nightmare. The night after the incident, my dad showed up at my grandparent’s house all panicked at what happened to me. I was more or less composed at that time. He wasn’t. He was so upset, he told me he’s going to get a gun for me so I can protect myself. He said he will hunt down the bastard who pointed a gun at me. As usual, I sighed a deep sigh and told him how stupid he sounded. Why the fuck would I want to carry a gun when a gun was just pointed at me? Logic please. I told him I know he’s trying to be sweet, but he’s more retarded than sweet. I walked out on him and let him deal with my mom.


When X messed up and I was left to deal with his shit, I wanted to talk to my dad and just cry. It’s really ironic considering he should be the last person I should talk to, but that little girl in me just wanted to tell her dad that she’s been hurt. My dad called me up so I can call him back. I don’t know who was sadder, him or me. He told me that even though I “hated” him most of my life, when I get hurt, he will always get more hurt. If I get hurt, he will always cry for me. And you know what, it felt good telling him what happened. At that moment, I wasn’t 31 years old, I felt like I was 5 with a big ass scrape on my knee crying my eyes out, and there was his 27 year old self, blowing the pain away.


That was several months ago. I am still here, still standing. Standing strong and hopeful that everything will work out just fine. I hope and pray that as my dad starts another year, he can find his way back to peace and yes, maybe finally happiness. I told him happiness is overrated.
But, we all deserve a little bit of happiness.


Happy Birthday, Dad.


From your feisty firstborn,

Joffin-Mari (Therese)