IngliseraKuno

And so through all of my half-a-century of a life, the light of my life has been Papa. All the other men who are part of that life, in whatever role, fall short of the man my father was. I guess almost all daughters think that, regardless of the imperfections fathers have. Papa was not perfect.  Papa was unabashedly proud of who he was, no apologies. He was a kindhearted soul, a fact that he hid behind that tough-guy bravado called for by the many different personas he took on: the eldest son, a brother, a father, a husband, an executive, a leader. Many things can be said of him, and not all are nice and good and cool. One needs to be discerning to see beyond all that and find the man he truly was. After all the stories I wrote of him, his wit and candor, his embarassments and frustrations, his love for his family; I now realize that all these put together points to constancy. Papa was constant, ever enduring, and steadfast. In whatever he did in his life. Not many can be that....

When Uncle Paul took on most of the responsibilities Papa could no longer handle on his own for his family after the EDSA Revolution, Papa was deeply grateful. All his other siblings, too, felt that it was their responsibility to fill that empty space Papa could not. They knew that all were not within his control, his hands were tied, what with everyone treating those who so much as shook the hand of President Ferdinand Marcos, like lepers. Papa was most aware that his brothers and sisters had families of their own, and that they, too, had their own problems. Yet all of them did what they could in those difficult times. I remember opening boxes of clothes and toys that were barely used from Chicago (I knew they were Pete's or Cheryl's, Uncle Paul's kids), and nice shirts and dresses (Auntie Olla's, Uncle Paul's wife). There were chocolates in there, too. Papa was like a kid checking on the stuff in those boxes, giddy with excitement.  Uncle Paul made it clear to all...

There he would stand until his curiosity over the peking ducks roasting was sated, enclosed in clear glass in front of Star Cafe, that icon of a restaurant in Baguio which recently closed after decades of service. Papa's version of Ma Mon Luk in Baguio was Star Cafe. Always, when Papa and Mama would come visit us in Baguio while we were in school there, Star Cafe was on the itinerary. I was always amused at Papa's obsession over those ducks, and stranger still, when we ordered food in the restaurant, no peking duck was ever ordered. It was always Ho-To-Tay, Lumpiang Shanghai, Pata-Tim and Camaron Rebusado.  We would meet there after school and find him looking up the ducks, held by metal poles poked through the poor things, twirling slowly until brown. He had his grey beret on, some sweatshirt, his jeans, and his loafers, rubbing his nose. He looked like a kid, really. We would eat, then walk along Session Road in our berets; we all had one, except Mama, of course. He liked wal...

I have always wondered if my life would have been different if Papa did not leave us so early. And if it did turn out differently, would I perhaps be the kind of person I am now? I guess not. For one, Papa was that kind of father who would protect his children to the nth power. He was as protective of his brothers and sisters. If he had his way, he would write 'I love my family' in his own blood. I would have landed the same job, I suppose. Our family's character is shaped by public service, of helping even when we do not have much to offer but ourselves. I am quite sure I would have finished college just the same then, even if I was aware of the privileges I had as a Congressman's eldest 'apo' and a Mayor's eldest 'anak'. I could have chosen to just fool around, not think of my future because after all, I had them to take care of that for me. But I took my studies seriously, I wanted my parents and the rest of my family to be proud of me. I wanted t...

There are people who saw Papa as a stern, authoritative and 'Rocky-Balboa-tough'. He needed to be when he took on the heavy responsibilities when he first ran for an elective post and lost; ran again and won.  But the Papa I knew was not that: he was a beautiful person altogether. He was not perfect, but it was in his imperfections that we all in the family learned to love him even more.  One testament to his kindness of heart is my Lola Coring's reaction when we told her about Papa's condition. Lola Coring is my Mama's mother, Papa's mother-in-law. She said, near tears, 'Apo, kasatnu akun nu matay ni Edgar?' (What would become  of me when Edgar passes away?)  This from his mother-in-law, whom he took under his wing, took care of, treated with utmost respect.

I was raised by Papa with this one rule, among only a few: any child does not have the right to answer her/his parents back when scolded. Specifically, he told me once, in my teenage years, after I let my position known to Mama about some issue she raised concerning me: 'Right or wrong she may be, you have no right to do that to your mother.' From then, it was clear to all of us siblings. That was the rule when you have Edgar as a father.  Of course, among us, it was Beks who was most stubborn about that rule. She has always been the outspoken one, even when we were kids. Allan and I endured in silence each time we were yelled at. In tears, most of the time. Well, Kring was pretty much spoiled so she rarely heard raised voices.  I say all these to surface this point: Papa's devotion to Mama I have not seen in any other man in my lifetime. When he passed, we imagined that maybe, like in the movies, Papa had another family who would pop out of nowhere and pay their last respe...

Like many fathers, Papa told bedtime stories to Kriska, our youngest. For some reason, he only did that with her. Pfffft. She was the baby in the family, having been born twelve years after Beks was. He was the one who named her, after Juan Ponce Enrile's daughter. He did not know JPE's  daughter personally, but he liked the sound of the name. 'KringKring', her nickname was after Kring Kring Gonzales, another 'ST Queen' at that time when bold movies were just dancing and showing a bit of flesh.  So anyway, since we were 'deprived' of these bedtime stories, Beks and I sat in when he told them to Kring. Papa did not read any fairy tales from books, he 'invented' his own characters and thought of the storyline while at it. Almost always, a monster was in the cast of characters, not really to teach Kriska the difference between fairies and monsters, (you know, good versus evil stuff) but he just actually wanted to scare her until she cries. Of course...

My Mama was not a jolly person. She was, in fact, likened to a famous female warrior in the north, Gabriela Silang, who fought armed with a  bolo, alongside her husband Diego during the Japanese occupation. Her smiles are not seen often, and her laughter was rare. That is why many times, people mistake her for someone way older than Papa. It is true: people who have happy dispositions tend to look younger than the one who entertain negative vibes. There was a time when Gretchen Baretto was the reigning 'ST Queen', while she did these low-budget movies where she did not really have sex scenes but showed just enough flesh for the imaginations of men work overtime. I recall that now because one time, my Mama was in terrible mood while cooking fried rice from the leftover the day before. We did not waste any food then, times were rough. I think that it was Beks who triggered Mama's mood: she told this story of some friends of hers who asked her who Papa was with when they saw h...

That smell of soup, home-made noodles mixed, that which is solely Ma Mon Luk's, brought back memories. They are hazy now, though: I remember eating from these white bowls chicken mami, and drinking from glasses so thick I knew then even if I threw it on the floor, it would not break. Papa brought us there when we were kids, it was our way of spending time. I remember the soup, and the siopao, the combination of which was aptly described by Uncle Paul today as 'heaven'.  We went to the place today, as Uncle Paul who flew in from Chicago only wanted to eat at Ma Mon Luk. It was a treat: walking in the restaurant looking exactly like all of its branches, on not-so-clean floors; the cushion of the chairs so degraded like rats gnawed on them, slowly, by the year; the tables wiped clean by one of the waiters with a wet cloth that I am sure was not washed probably since the day before. It was a busy time, many customers were in the place, as always.  A waiter took our orders, and ...

His smile was so genuine, I could die that moment, as if I had done my mission in life. I came home from work decades back, to find him having chitchat with the househelp by the dirty kitchen. He was seated on this makeshift stool made of scrap wood from somewhere. He was in his usual witty disposition, a lit stick of Marlboro Red on his right hand, wearing his one of only two white tennis shorts, topped with this v-necked white Hanes shirt, which was not as white anymore. Nope, there was no beer in sight. Not yet.  I just received my first-ever salary in my life, in a brown pay envelope. I was so giddy having it in my bag that I did not even count how much was in it. All I needed was to know that all the broken nails from typing eight hours a day paid off. And the constant glaring of this old woman who was my supervisor, whom hindsight I think looked like a bit of a witch. Really.  I approached Papa in his mid-laughter and handed him my pay envelope. I told him: 'Papa, nagsue...

I wonder sometimes if self-control is a good thing. I rarely exercise it, maybe 2 in 10? There are instances I have to, the effort for which is like pushing a boulder off a cliff. I get used to having it for some things. Like on social media. I do post as many photos of me, my family, my friends, places I go to, to share. And to make sure that I document every official function for the auditors to see. I love to write, so I write away each time I get an inspiration from a moment or a memory, well, because I want to share, yet again. And I want to be discovered and be like Mocha Uson, except that I do not and will never have a body like hers. Last couple of years, I toned down my political rantings upon the advice of the favorite uncle. He is right, really. One can never have a stand on anything when in the public service sector: just do your job, which is to serve, no more, no less. More importantly, though, my 17-year-old son called me 'unhealthy' on facebook. Now, when you ar...