*****************************
Once a year the world sets aside a day to celebrate a very special day—Fathers’ Day. On father’s day, I called up my father to greet him. He sounded happy.
My father is a retired soldier of the Philippine Army. Being in the army meant being away from family and a limited vacation time. Once a year he would have a chance to go home to us in Legazpi, and he chose a special occasion --like Christmas Day--- to go home. This is why when I was very young, I always looked forward to Christmas, not for the gifts or the Noche Buena, but because I knew then that it meant he would be home for at least a day to celebrate Christmas with us. He always brought the sweetest smelling apples from Manila. At a time when the apple was a seasonal fruit, (thus pricey) and was only available during Christmas season, waking up to the sweet and delicious smell of ripe apples meant that my father was home. I would always see him still wearing his army uniform which meant that he would be leaving again later that day.
Among my earlier memories of him serving the army was a time when he was assigned at Camp Capinpin, Tanay, Rizal. I was five years old when, during one summer, my mother took me with her to Rizal to spend a few weeks with my father. I remember Tanay, Rizal for its loamy soil -- the type that sticks to the soles of your shoes and requires a twig or a sliver of wood to remove. Tanay used to be called Little Baguio because of its chilly weather and foggy surroundings especially during early mornings. As a child, I would blow air though the fog and pretended that smoke was coming out of my mouth, like smoking a cigarette.
At campsite, I saw how army trainees and cadets would salute whenever my father passed by or shout “Sirrrr, yes sirrr!!” with all their might whenever my father asked them a question. At one point I even saw my father throw a strong punch at a young cadet who was involved in a squabble with another cadet. I didn't realize at that time that my young mind was exposed to a different world. It was in Tanay that I saw how people respected and feared my father, at the same time.
Most people I meet for the first time give me that “Wooooh” expression when they learn that I am a daughter of a military man. It goes like this ---“What does your father do?”… “He’s a retired Colonel” ….. “Woooh….” It’s fine. I don’t really mind. I have always been a daughter of a military man so I don’t really know how it feels to be a child of a doctor, or a politician, or a mason. To me and my siblings, this is what we know as our “normal”. But sometimes I can’t help but think that …..hmmm…maybe we’re different?
In my head, I try to answer the most common question asked of me -- how is it having a military man for a father? Sorry to disappoint most people but NO, we don’t refer to two o’clock pm as “fourteen hundred hours”. NO, we don’t salute and shout “sir, yes, sir!” when replying to my father. NO, we’ve never tried eating square meals. And NO, we are not forced to turn the lights out at ten pm (22:00H?) while chanting TAPS “Day is done… gone the sun… from the lakes… from the hills….from the sky… All is well… safely rest… God is nigh”. OK! Don’t even ask me why I know that song!
My father has always been stern, domineering, and strict. My siblings and I grew up “scared” of him. He doesn’t need to say a word. His powerful presence is enough to keep us on our toes. Children were expected to be home before five pm, it was an unwritten rule. As much as possible, we eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner together; you have to have a very good reason for missing dinner. Sleepovers and overnights with friends were never allowed. Truth is, I don’t know now if it was not allowed or we were just too scared to ask for permission. My parents preferred for our friends to hang out at our house instead of going somewhere else. Dance practice, group studies, science projects, were all done at our house. My mother would even prepare snacks and meals for the whole bunch. Older siblings were not exempted. When our eldest sister attended her Senior Prom, my parents went to the ball at 10:00 pm to bring her home. The prom just started but she did come home …crying. When my brother graduated from college and his barkada planned to go night swimming, there was a big argument before he was allowed to join.
Growing up, we felt like we could not commit a mistake. At nine years old, I would ask my mother to hide my test paper if I only scored 99 out of a 100 because I was afraid that my father would be disappointed. My father’s decisions were the only decisions that mattered. His rules rule. His ways are the only acceptable ways. My mother always took a backseat to support him and his decisions while at the same time giving balance between what is necessary and what is right. When my mother would challenge him and say he should trust his children, he would say, it is not us he didn't trust but the other people around us who may do us harm.
Looking back, I realized that the way we were raised by my parents, especially my father, molded me and my sibling into the persons that we are today. They taught us strong values that made us the fighters --- or survivors that we are today.
Because we were brought up with high expectations from our parents, I always push myself to give it my best in everything that I do. There is that drive to excel, to win, to be at the top. But in return, I expect others to do the same. If they fail to deliver, I get frustrated. I call it self-dicipline, diligence, and maybe being a perfectionist; some people call it paranoia or oc-oc as it is commonly called now.
Because we were brought up with strict rules, I follow rules. I respect authority. In times when my better judgment is put to the test, and going against rules becomes a tempting choice, in my head I imagine a whole crew of cameramen, newscasters, policemen, appearing out of nowhere and catching me red-handed. I always tell myself that I will never do something that will bring shame to my family. I call it obedience; some people may call being close-minded, being righteous, or simply beilng KJ.
Because we were raised to be strong-willed and confident, I am independent and self-reliant. I don’t give up easily. I fight for what I think is right. I call it confidence and belief in oneself; some people call it arrogance or stubbornness. But that’s the way I am. This is me.
After spending fruitful years in the service, my father decided to become a reserved officer and went home to be with us. After leaving the army, he became a teacher at the Bicol University and served as the university commandant for ROTC for several years. As a teacher, he still carried with him his military principles, and became known as the terror“Ayong” --- a pet name given by his students coined from our surname. To most students, terror Ayong was a domineering teacher but an inspiring mentor. As a teacher he gained loyal students and friends who look up to him and who stand by him no matter what. He is quite popular (or should I say notorious) that in my hometown when circumstances require me to mention my (maiden) surname, I always expect the next statement to be “Are you related to Ayong?”. That’s proof of the many lives he touched and continues to touch. He retired from teaching five years ago.
Even though my father has long become inactive from the military service, up until now, when he tells stories about his past, we always hear stories about the time that he was still in the army like the time he took a bullet on one hip. Even now when he is enjoying his retirement spent at home with my mother, my sisters, his four grandsons, and Bingo his Doberman, he always has an army anecdote to tell. I believe his service in the army was his most fulfilling journey, bullet on hip and all. He doesn’t realize it, but through him, the army was also one of the structures of my life and probably that of the rest of my family’s.
Today when I see apples, I feel sad that the fruit has lost its rarity. Now that apples are available whole year round ---- they’re in every grocery store, supermarket, fruit stand, and bangketa--- for some reason they don’t smell as fruity as I remember them to be. Then I see my father and realize that even at 75 he remains to be the stern and powerful person that I grew up to know. Whenever my siblings and I go home for the holidays, he still expects us to be home before it gets dark.
Sometimes it’s nice to know that some things never change.
My father is a retired soldier of the Philippine Army. Being in the army meant being away from family and a limited vacation time. Once a year he would have a chance to go home to us in Legazpi, and he chose a special occasion --like Christmas Day--- to go home. This is why when I was very young, I always looked forward to Christmas, not for the gifts or the Noche Buena, but because I knew then that it meant he would be home for at least a day to celebrate Christmas with us. He always brought the sweetest smelling apples from Manila. At a time when the apple was a seasonal fruit, (thus pricey) and was only available during Christmas season, waking up to the sweet and delicious smell of ripe apples meant that my father was home. I would always see him still wearing his army uniform which meant that he would be leaving again later that day.
Among my earlier memories of him serving the army was a time when he was assigned at Camp Capinpin, Tanay, Rizal. I was five years old when, during one summer, my mother took me with her to Rizal to spend a few weeks with my father. I remember Tanay, Rizal for its loamy soil -- the type that sticks to the soles of your shoes and requires a twig or a sliver of wood to remove. Tanay used to be called Little Baguio because of its chilly weather and foggy surroundings especially during early mornings. As a child, I would blow air though the fog and pretended that smoke was coming out of my mouth, like smoking a cigarette.
At campsite, I saw how army trainees and cadets would salute whenever my father passed by or shout “Sirrrr, yes sirrr!!” with all their might whenever my father asked them a question. At one point I even saw my father throw a strong punch at a young cadet who was involved in a squabble with another cadet. I didn't realize at that time that my young mind was exposed to a different world. It was in Tanay that I saw how people respected and feared my father, at the same time.
Most people I meet for the first time give me that “Wooooh” expression when they learn that I am a daughter of a military man. It goes like this ---“What does your father do?”… “He’s a retired Colonel” ….. “Woooh….” It’s fine. I don’t really mind. I have always been a daughter of a military man so I don’t really know how it feels to be a child of a doctor, or a politician, or a mason. To me and my siblings, this is what we know as our “normal”. But sometimes I can’t help but think that …..hmmm…maybe we’re different?
In my head, I try to answer the most common question asked of me -- how is it having a military man for a father? Sorry to disappoint most people but NO, we don’t refer to two o’clock pm as “fourteen hundred hours”. NO, we don’t salute and shout “sir, yes, sir!” when replying to my father. NO, we’ve never tried eating square meals. And NO, we are not forced to turn the lights out at ten pm (22:00H?) while chanting TAPS “Day is done… gone the sun… from the lakes… from the hills….from the sky… All is well… safely rest… God is nigh”. OK! Don’t even ask me why I know that song!
My father has always been stern, domineering, and strict. My siblings and I grew up “scared” of him. He doesn’t need to say a word. His powerful presence is enough to keep us on our toes. Children were expected to be home before five pm, it was an unwritten rule. As much as possible, we eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner together; you have to have a very good reason for missing dinner. Sleepovers and overnights with friends were never allowed. Truth is, I don’t know now if it was not allowed or we were just too scared to ask for permission. My parents preferred for our friends to hang out at our house instead of going somewhere else. Dance practice, group studies, science projects, were all done at our house. My mother would even prepare snacks and meals for the whole bunch. Older siblings were not exempted. When our eldest sister attended her Senior Prom, my parents went to the ball at 10:00 pm to bring her home. The prom just started but she did come home …crying. When my brother graduated from college and his barkada planned to go night swimming, there was a big argument before he was allowed to join.
Growing up, we felt like we could not commit a mistake. At nine years old, I would ask my mother to hide my test paper if I only scored 99 out of a 100 because I was afraid that my father would be disappointed. My father’s decisions were the only decisions that mattered. His rules rule. His ways are the only acceptable ways. My mother always took a backseat to support him and his decisions while at the same time giving balance between what is necessary and what is right. When my mother would challenge him and say he should trust his children, he would say, it is not us he didn't trust but the other people around us who may do us harm.
Looking back, I realized that the way we were raised by my parents, especially my father, molded me and my sibling into the persons that we are today. They taught us strong values that made us the fighters --- or survivors that we are today.
Because we were brought up with high expectations from our parents, I always push myself to give it my best in everything that I do. There is that drive to excel, to win, to be at the top. But in return, I expect others to do the same. If they fail to deliver, I get frustrated. I call it self-dicipline, diligence, and maybe being a perfectionist; some people call it paranoia or oc-oc as it is commonly called now.
Because we were brought up with strict rules, I follow rules. I respect authority. In times when my better judgment is put to the test, and going against rules becomes a tempting choice, in my head I imagine a whole crew of cameramen, newscasters, policemen, appearing out of nowhere and catching me red-handed. I always tell myself that I will never do something that will bring shame to my family. I call it obedience; some people may call being close-minded, being righteous, or simply beilng KJ.
Because we were raised to be strong-willed and confident, I am independent and self-reliant. I don’t give up easily. I fight for what I think is right. I call it confidence and belief in oneself; some people call it arrogance or stubbornness. But that’s the way I am. This is me.
After spending fruitful years in the service, my father decided to become a reserved officer and went home to be with us. After leaving the army, he became a teacher at the Bicol University and served as the university commandant for ROTC for several years. As a teacher, he still carried with him his military principles, and became known as the terror“Ayong” --- a pet name given by his students coined from our surname. To most students, terror Ayong was a domineering teacher but an inspiring mentor. As a teacher he gained loyal students and friends who look up to him and who stand by him no matter what. He is quite popular (or should I say notorious) that in my hometown when circumstances require me to mention my (maiden) surname, I always expect the next statement to be “Are you related to Ayong?”. That’s proof of the many lives he touched and continues to touch. He retired from teaching five years ago.
Even though my father has long become inactive from the military service, up until now, when he tells stories about his past, we always hear stories about the time that he was still in the army like the time he took a bullet on one hip. Even now when he is enjoying his retirement spent at home with my mother, my sisters, his four grandsons, and Bingo his Doberman, he always has an army anecdote to tell. I believe his service in the army was his most fulfilling journey, bullet on hip and all. He doesn’t realize it, but through him, the army was also one of the structures of my life and probably that of the rest of my family’s.
Today when I see apples, I feel sad that the fruit has lost its rarity. Now that apples are available whole year round ---- they’re in every grocery store, supermarket, fruit stand, and bangketa--- for some reason they don’t smell as fruity as I remember them to be. Then I see my father and realize that even at 75 he remains to be the stern and powerful person that I grew up to know. Whenever my siblings and I go home for the holidays, he still expects us to be home before it gets dark.
Sometimes it’s nice to know that some things never change.
