this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on December 17, 1998.
I feel ashamed of myself. A few years back, I found myself writing pro-people (some call it anti-government) slogans in the most appropriate empty walls of whatever, wherever. Just a year ago, I found myself writing short stories in magazines about just about anything from prostitution to lesbian love. But since that day that my parents found out I was an activist, I’ve been trying to write a letter for my dad and up to now (that would be two years), I haven’t and couldn’t find the right words to say (and write). I’ve been trying for years to write a letter to my father. To tell him everything I wanted to do and everything I wanted to be. But everytime I do, everything stops after writing the words Dear Papa.
In the entire 23 years of my bold and foolhardy life, I found myself scared and partly disappointed. I’ve been writing letters, poems, short stories and even tried writing anti-government slogans on walls and yet I couldn’t even write a letter for my father. I grew up in a family where children were not allowed to argue with nor defend themselves in front of their parents. I couldn’t and don’t want to blame my parents for it. Call it generation gap or anything but I recognize the fact that this and everything else have long been products of a conservative and backward culture – like blood flowing in every Filipino vein since God-knows-when. Because of this, I don’t remember a single instance wherein I approached my mom or dad and asked them to listen to what I wanted to say – good or bad, that is.
In short, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve never been really close to my mom or my dad, nor established a relationship even close to closeness. But my heart goes out to my Popsie. I grew up watching him fix everything from cars to radios even though he’s not a mechanic but a doctor, I grew up watching him sit quietly while every wife in the house (from my grandma to my mom to my titas) start their sermons to their husbands, I grew up melting from that gentleness in his eyes and the mere silence as he watch us change through the years.
But changes come so fast that adults, mostly our parents, react in such a way that they see their growing sons and daughters not the kids they used to cuddle but as a rebel – a person not strong enough to withstand the temptation of their environment (read: society). A lot of us grew up called by many names, represented by such adjectives as rebelde, suwail, walang kuwenta. This is one reason why I wanted to write to my father. I want to tell him that I never regretted any single decision I’ve made. Yes, he was right in telling me that I’ve exposed myself out of the protective force field of our own house and home so much so that I ended up betrayed by my own friends, hurt by my own feelings and got into trouble trying to search for truths. These things taught me. These things changed me. These things made me stronger. But how can he tell I’ve changed? How can a father tell that his daughter has changed for the better? How can a father tell if it is really something “better”?
This is the second reason why I wanted to write to my father: to tell him of the things I’ve done and what it has done to me. To tell him that my barkada (read: friends) taught me that not all people are to be trusted and that there are only a handful who will die and kill for you and you for them. I want to tell my dad a lot of things about UP: that having a student number that starts with 92- doesn’t make me the oldest student in the campus, that shifting, dropping, having grades of INC and 5.0 are but normal and is experienced by many, that in UP, drinking is the best way to cure stress and that beer is the next best thing to a fishball or a grade of 1.0 or 1.25, and that UP has nothing to do with my being an activist – that it was my own decision and that I treasure my experiences in Central Luzon than that inside of UP.
Third, in my letter, I’m going to say sorry. Sorry that I can’t be the doctor he wanted me to be – FOR NOW, that is. Sorry that I disappointed him in this one. I’ve been thinking of handing down a promise to him. Personally, I want to be a doctor. How can one son or daughter dream of becoming something else when your lolo is the best doctor in town during the 60s up to the early 80s, when your father and your uncles hold the same title in the present and your titas excel in different fields related to medicine in different places in the world? But a daughter like me wanted to be something else maybe a writer or a lawyer or both. Call it impossible, but I also want to tell him that one day, I am going to be a doctor. Yes, I’d be lying to him and to myself if I’ll say that I’ve stopped considering pursuing my dream of becoming a doctor like him one day. Yeah, I think I can promise him that. For again, some sons and daughters do not believe that that age eats up and dries up one’s search and thirst for knowledge. For one, I know I already have a record (good or bad, I do not know) of pursuing what I want and getting to where and what I wanted to be.
Fourth, I want to thank him. Not for the 500- or 1,000-peso bills he used to hand me under the table to add to my allowance, but for everything. Just for that – for everything. But I don’t think I could enumerate all those things because everything that comes from the heart is very hard to say and do. I guess that’s the reason why I couldn’t write a single letter to my dad – something that comes from the heart is very hard to say, write and do. Lastly, I want to tell him that I love him. But I’m not just gonna write it in a letter. I’m going to tell this to him right in his face. Any daughter or son who couldn’t find just a second of their time to tell this to their father and their mother is not worthy to be called a son or a daughter- even if you are represented with words such as rebelde, suwail or walang kuwenta. For even if we, sons and daughters, spent the rest of our lives finding ways to get out of the house we used to call hell and spent the rest of our lives crying “Freedom!” from the parental dictatorship and fascism, we will forever be their sons and daughters and the scariest thing that can happen to us is to find out that they’ve already left without us even having the time to say how much they mean to us. So as to my letter for my dad, I think I’m gonna start my nth draft. And I won’t stop trying until I get to finish one.
