Three small letters, one big word: DAD

My Dad, Jose Mari, watching over me as a newborn.

IT IS difficult for me to collect my thoughts on this one. Simply because there are way too many; and most seem to go beyond the realm of words. For how do you accurately capture in words emotions, memories which are so deeply engrained within your soul?

As Father’s Day draws near, I sit here, and try.

As a child, I remember early mornings, waking up with one goal in mind: to help my Dad pick a tie for work. Although quite capable of doing it without me around, it had become a ritual of sorts. First, color. Then, pattern.  And let’s not forget, width. Quite a lot for my 5-year-old aesthetic sense to consider!   It felt like the most important task in the world – no matter how mundane it actually may have been – and I HAD to choose correctly. Then my Dad would stop by the foyer mirror, look at himself and exclaim – only half-jokingly, I’m sure – “Hey there, good looking!”  And my face would beam with pride, in all certainty that the tie was more than partially responsible for his self-professed yet very obvious good looks. Looking back, these were early lessons in self-confidence. And not to forget, sartorial elegance, of course.

Then, the day seemed to stretch on forever, as I waited for him to return home from work.

I would stand behind a post in the living room, leap out and yell “bulaga!” (“surprise!”) at the first sign of the front door creaking open. No matter how often I did it, he never failed to jump, as though super startled. Sometimes, I really got him; but mostly, he knew I was there. He jumped anyway.  This was followed by the hunt for candies in his coat pocket, before he scooped me up for an air-toss/hug-landing.

Back in the 1970’s, Dad with my younger brother Joey and I.

At the dinner table, under the watchful eye of an almost militaristic Spanish grandfather, I knew I could quickly slide my portion of cow brain tortilla (omelet) – a Spanish delicacy for which I did not care much at all, but it was supposed to “make me smart” – onto my Dad’s plate as soon as Abuelito averted his intense gaze. Dad was, actually still IS, my food disposal system; wolfing down portions I cannot finish or cannot palate.

When I had nightmares, I would squeeze in between my parents, find a spot underneath my Dad’s arm, and be safe from monsters and all other forms of childhood evil. He could beat the boogey-man, easy peasy.  And when I grew too big to fit in his arm’s crook, I snuck into the bedroom, dragging my mattress behind me, happy to sleep on the floor by his side of the bed.

Dad has always been my protector, defender, and my safety-net; catching my fall more times than I can count. And more times than I sometimes care to admit.

My very own superhero, if you will.

My adolescent years are filled with memories of how well he provided for us (me, my brother, and my sister), and how effectively he balanced this with lessons on hard work and fending for ourselves.  We moved to our own house (after years of living with strict Spanish gramps), then to a house in a better neighborhood, enjoying just the right amount of luxury without being spoiled, whilst encouraging the growth of a work ethic. He taught us how to sell everything from re-packed kiamoy (dried, salted plums) to glass jolen (marbles), which he would buy in bulk on his various work trips out-of-town. We learned the value of earnest, honest work, as he modeled it.

The very origins of father’s Day are rooted in honoring the “provider” role, in fact. During a Mother’s Day church service on June 20, 1909, Sonora Smart Dodd – a woman from Spokane, Washington – was inspired by the idea of creating a special holiday to honor fathers, too. Her mother had passed away in childbirth when Sonora was in her teens, leaving her father the task of providing and caring for 6 children, one of whom was a newborn. Despite the many challenges of single parenthood, Sonora’s father did a wonderful job. This motivated Sonora to push legislators for a day to honor and esteem him and other fathers.

Indeed, much has been said about the mother-daughter connection. But so much remains to be explored when it comes to the father-daughter bond; which is among the most important connections in a girl’s life.

Brief history lesson over.

Daddy’s girls. My Dad, with my younger sister, Maricar and I.

Enter the slightly belligerent teenage years (mine. Not Sonora’s): mini-skirts and fishnets, before they were all the rage; the occasional ninja takas (sneaking out) on a school night; the suitors. Dad was Taong Bato. Forget the Man of Steel: he was the Man of Stone! The once star-athlete, ex-varsity-football-star-turned-moonlighting-coach; a force of nature to be reckoned with. And brave were the ones who dared. The brave, apparently, were not as few-and-far-between as he had hoped; so the fear-and-awe-inspiring, intimidating Taong Bato assumed a new role: chaperone.

Nights out became even more fun, as he eventually adapted to the teen-spirit, and adopted a semi “if-you-can’t-beat-‘em…” mind-set. We would dance ‘til the wee hours to ‘80’s rock music, the lyrics of which he would generally murder. But I didn’t mind; not one bit.

Perhaps what remains top-of-mind, to this day, is my Dad’s unconditional love; of which there are many, many examples. For instance, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t quite fathom some of the life choices I have made. Such as choosing to become a model-turned-events-host-turned-writer-and-rock-n-roll-hoochie-koo instead of banker or stock market analyst – given my summa cum laude university graduate background (sans the cow brain tortilla. Hm.)  Yet he has supported my every undertaking, strange as these may seem in his eyes. He helped me through post-part depression; purposely ignoring my very disagreeable (mainly and quite inexplicably towards him) attitude. When a recent turn of events had me moving out of a proper house and into a 26-square-meter apartment unit, he bought me a pull-out sofa bed; this, despite the angsty, confused look in his eyes.  And when I’m down on financial luck, he is quick to shell out some bucks; no questions asked.

The lectures and life-lessons do come, as do the semi-occasional angry words and raised voices between us; but not until after he has expressed his unwavering love.

His love extends to his grandchildren, as well. He has now taken on the role of loving Abuelito (a far cry from his own father)—my daughter simply calls him Toh—and he dotes on Andie, as he once did with me.

These days, my Dad hardly ever wears ties anymore. But when I spend weekends at his house, I look forward to early mornings of coffee and crosswords. I sit with him, before I go out for my run, waiting for him to ask “Angie, what’s another word for…”  First, definition. Then, number of letters. And let’s not forget, words it connects with.

I realize he hasn’t changed much through the years. Although I certainly have. I am now able to see my Dad as a man, and not just a father.

A man with dreams, frustrations, regrets, and shortcomings. Like us all.

Maybe not quite as “super” and “perfect”  as I once thought, in my  little girl’s mind. But definitely still every bit a hero to me.