My Papa Don’t Preach
Let me overshare: I never really felt my father’s presence up until I was in high school. All those years before, during the stretch of what my parents lousily call “separation,” I had my mom to look up to as the “pillar” of the household. My father would only visit me at times bringing me chocolates and SPAM. Over time, however, we bonded like how CNN’s Larry King had deemed to happen as he signed off last year for sons Chance and Cannon.
My father has a dangerous tendency to spoil me–more often than not giving more of whatever I’m begging. I only ask for gifts, though, when needed though so it’s not like I’m nursing an ice cold only child syndrome.
An old man that he is (he’s 70 something), my father impresses with such sharp memory. He would often recount his teenage days back when he studied in Far Eastern University then University of San Carlos. In the middle of his accounts, I would turn jumpy with a flash of epiphany that he’s so prehistoric (or I was just acting so modern).
“I had often jogged near UST during college,” he would say, “Along Dapitan or España.”
“Huh?! But it’s polluted in that area! And it has incalculable drainage problems.”
“Not during my time.”
It’s also upsetting, on the other hand, when he tells of his experiences in the States. Particularly, when he recalls of him and a Vietnamese scholar–who rents in my aunt’s home in Seattle–aboard a BART train in San Francisco the first time.
“Wow!” I would remark in bitterness and envy.
Apart from the genes (I’m his Asian version btw), the trait I have seriously taken as mana from my father is his ability to keep his cool. That’s different from being cool cos for everyone’s information, he’s as technologically-challenged like most white-haired men.
One time, he’d ask me what Facebook and Twitter were. He also doesn’t know how the Internet works explaining furtively his undying subscription of a local major broadsheet.
Meanwhile, I know my father wouldn’t even attempt to read this but if only I could break my egg shell of acting like a grown-up and say that he’s very important to me. I’m sure, in his usually lazy hours there in the province, he must be tragically thinking that I don’t even give a damn about Fathers’ Day. (He should really check his cellphone once in a while. I texted him six hours ago–and counting. No reply yet!)
One day, I’d just have to print this blog entry out and let him read it on ink.
To my father who has taught me how to drive at 15 but has never really considered my driving proficient enough (HAHAHAHA), Happy Happy Father’s Day! Please live longer! I love you!