He has always been my inspiration.
There were no mountains high enough, no obstacles hard enough, one has to be the best that one can be. Tall order for a girl barely nine (9) years old; but he said one has to try, lest be entangled in a tragedy of not knowing might have been. His words would echo in my thoughts as they gained meaning through the years. Often, when stuck in my own mediocrity (if not, misplaced sense of entitlement), I see myself going back to dad’s humble beginnings…and I cringe…out of embarrassment. I have no excuse…to fail…to do nothing.
Raised in Capiz, dad was the youngest of eight children, born to parents who ekked their living from tending the farm. There were no expensive toys or trips to Disneyland, but when he speaks of his childhood, it was as if he was the richest kid in the land. I remember him regaling us with stories of how at an early age he already had his own carabao which he would enter into a race during fiestas and other festive occasions in the barrio. He would always come out the winner. There were no trips to Jollibee or ice cream floats at Starbucks or Seattle’s Best, but he would always say that they had the most chickens and pigs in the barrio that food had never been a problem. Afternoons were spent on the field, a boy lying atop his carabao, chewing on a blade of grass, dreaming a cloud of dreams.
Dad always has a twinkle in his eye when he speaks, as if in anticipation of something grand to happen. Even when he recounts how after graduation from highschool lolo gave him a sack of rice and hied him off to Manila to seek his fortune. He was not sad nor afraid, he was excited! To him, there was always the promise of a bright future! Fortune must have been in a playful mood as it took my dad four years of backbreaking laundry work before he finally earned his Bachelor of Laws Degree at MLQU. He was on scholarship in one of the top universities in the land and he would always say he would have been in the honors list if only he were a full-time student and his books were not in mimeo format.
Fast-forward to 1998, he was teary-eyed when he and mom brought me to school for graduation from law school, the driver assisting me as I emerged in a designer fuschia full-length party dress and Oleg Cassini pumps. He said it was such a far-cry from the borrowed white tuxedo and the wing-tipped shoes he wore in his own graduation, both several times not his size.
The event was soon followed by a Thanksgiving Party held in honor of his children: 2 lawyers, 2 doctors, and a physical therapist. Though to us, his children, it was a Thanksgiving Party to honor our parents who, by sheer hardwork, scrimp and saving, were able to raise and educate five children.
In 2000, dad finally retired from the judiciary, after more than 30 years of government service. Two retirement parties were held in his honor, one sponsored by our family, attended by his friends and loved ones, and another by the Manila League of Judges, attended by no less than the justices of the Supreme Court. They say no other judge was ever given such recognition. I tend to believe them. My dad was famous not only for his wit and humour and legal intellect, but his ability to make and keep friends as well. He had the respect of the community and his brethren in the legal field and the love of his family and friends. Fortune finally got tired and decided to dwell on him.
These days, I would always wake up in anticipation of hearing dad’s voice - “How are you, darling?” I would call for an invite to lunch or coffee, often crashing in on his and mom’s date. A joke or two, a buzz on the cheek, would always be enough to perk up my gloomy mood. Some afternoons are spent at Quezon City Circle, allowing all the grandchildren to roam and race in the bike lane while we sit and enjoy a burger at Tropical Hut (his favorite hang-out). Sundays are reserved for mass, which we children, with our respective families in tow, all attend, followed by lunch at a restaurant. We talked about anything under the sun - currents events, the grandchildrens’ recent antics, our heists and secret plans.
Today is not that different.
Except that dad knows its his day and we love him.
He is my kuya…my lifeline to sanity, my pillar of strength.
In a family of four girls, hormones often flying out of proportion, he is the only one that has kept me in my lucid intervals. In his quiet tender way, he has always made me feel I belong. Apart from my parents, the word acceptance and understanding resonates from him most.
He was my roommate when we were younger, my sparring partner in boxing and karate matches (of course, he would beat me till my face turned red!), designated driver cum companion to parties and discos, the only soul that cared to listen about my boy-toy escapades and just let me be. He listened to my every angst and emotional outburst, but not once did I hear him rebuke me nor tire of my tirade.
He is now a father of four and it is but natural that my love for him will overflow to his family.
He is married to a wonderful woman whose quiet strength seem to match his own. Sometime in 2001, Teresa was diagnosed with juvenile lupus - a debilitating ailment known to affect one’s organs. Teresa has since lost her right eyesight, she can only see through a blur. Kuya is a successful opthalmologist and how devastating it must be for him to not be able to offer a cure. But not once did I see him cry or wallow in pity, choosing to face life with a smile and total surrender to God’s loving grace.
And God has truly been good. He was favored with angels - Gab, Anton, Bianca and Alfonso. Their sweetness is my weakness. Like most boys, Gab, Anton and Alfonso often fight and wreak a havoc over the things at home; but unlike most boys, they are razor-sharp to offer an excuse (often like a legal argument). But not once did I hear kuya shout nor scold them, only quietly and firmly laying down the rules without dampening the childrens’ moods. Bianca is a different story. She’s the only girl and wont to have her tantrums. Kuya is unfazed, he understands that its rooted in being the only one without a playmate, without a voice, in a family of rambunctious boys.
I often look at him and marvel.
Just as he was a good brother, he is turning out to be a good father.
He is my greatest love.
While others will be disarmed by looks and charms, my husband, then my boyfriend, struck me with the care he exhibited towards his own child. Bathtime resembled a visit to NASA with the amount of soap, shampoo, after-bath lotion and powder used enough to sanitized a nation of babies. A mere attack of colds or cough treated as Code Level 5, hoping that it would not trigger an attack of asthma.
His sister perceives his ministrations to border obsessive compulsiveness, I perceive it as the love of a father who never felt the love of his own.
At age 2, Ricky was diagnosed with an Undefined Personality Disorder, his case bordering autism and genius. In simple terms, his motorskills were that of a two-year old, but his speech and mental skills were that of a baby. Emilio was devastated but never did he waver in his care.
Today, Ricky will soon turn 9, his motorskills that of a 10-11 year old, his mental skills that of an 8 1/2 - 9 year old boy. He’s in the honors list in his school and plays basketball and badminton with his dad on weekends.
We will soon have a baby girl. Emilio is excited!
And so am I…
I am sure he will make into a good father.
Three important men in my life, all good fathers, touching our lives in their own special way.
Happy Father’s Day!
months pregnant and occasionally get contractions. As ever, I readied myself. “K” for kaladkarin afterall has been my middle initial way back in college. 
