His Daughter

I shivered as I felt the cold wind brush my cheeks as we drove on the bare streets of our neighborhood, past still trees and sleeping houses just an hour before dawn. My father and I were headed to the bus terminal where he would, for the third time since I got into college, be seeing me off.

 

“You study hard now Tin.” he said as he slowed down the pace of his motorcycle.

 

He was making more time, more time for his words of advice. Weeks ago I would refer to it as a sermon, but this time it’s different.

 

I was often told how I looked a lot like my father. We have the same round-shaped face, the same color of the eyes, the same chin, and the same nose. I even resemble some of the way he acts, how he could be extremely sweet when he’s in the mood, how his mouth twitches when irritated and how he becomes unreasonable when angry. His friends say if only I had the mole in his forehead I would be his exact female replica.

When I was six, my father’s experiences were my bedtime stories. He would tell me stories about my grandfather whom I never met, stories about his life before we came, and stories about our life when I was still too young to comprehend. I was particularly fond of listening about the time I was just a year old and he was running, carrying me and shielding me with his arms because a swarm of bees were rushing after us. Then he would tell me of his experiences as a struggling college student and how he had persevered to finish his studies.

“That’s why you really have to study, Tin.” He would say.

 

I brought home medals and ribbons and he got to step up the stage and be proud of me for taking after him until grade two. For eight years, I was the little Vincent until my brother came.

 

 

“Bunggo nuo tayo pao,” (“Let’s bump foreheads Pao”) I would hear him say. He had forced my brother into performing this silly gesture whenever he feels like it. They would lightly bump their foreheads together and “connect” their moles, which would then be followed by a series of handshakes he had made exclusively for them. I didn’t get to perform this because I don’t have a mole on my forehead.

I didn’t know when it began, but slowly, my father and I were drifting apart. I was often left to watch television or do the chores at home while he and my brother went fishing. He offered me to go with them a couple of times, but I didn’t want to. Before, I would excitedly read the books he gave me even if it was a thick, boring book because when I was young, I was made to believe that we were the same, his interests were my interests. But as I was growing up, I got to see our differences.

When I was in high school, he pressured me into doing things I didn’t want to do and it was suffocating. We never really had a father-to-daughter conversation anymore. I was like in a base camp being instructed by her officer. I was often shouted at because my room was messy, because I didn’t get into the Top Ten, because I spent most of my time reading Harry Potter and other novels instead of text books and the books he gave me. He never seemed to be contented with the things I did, like the little achievements of winning the slogan-making contest or winning the “most-creative-way-of-presenting-a-portrait-of-Mother Mary” contest. When I finally got into the banner roll, he would say “If only you were not lazy enough to study that algebra book I gave you, you would have done better.” I would try to reason out with him but when he wouldn’t listen I would just stay silent. I began to hate my father and I wanted to leave home.

 

I was still in second year high school when he told me to visit every University website so I can already decide where I’d want to study. He wanted me to be in the University of the Philippines in Diliman and take a course closely related to Law so I could proceed after and be like him.

 

I have told my mother of my dreams. I told her how I want to write my own children’s book or if I can’t, at least help publish children’s books in companies like Scholastic Inc. or a publishing company here in the Philippines. I saw myself in the freedom of riding a bike to work, seeing different illustrations and designs for books, and reading unpublished version of stories. My mother has always been supportive. She took a Chemistry course followed by Political Science, both she didn’t finish because in fact what she wanted was to write. She told my father my dreams and he would just shrug.

When I got into college I took up a course on creative writing. It was his choice and mine’s, only we had different plans in the future.

Leaving home, I got to be away from my father. I learned to appreciate his efforts of bringing me up the best way he could and I missed him once in a while. Away from my father’s influence, I learned how to think independently and decide on my own.

Last summer we were again having the usual conversation about academics. He was suggesting universities that offered excellent Law courses and I could see he was excited about it. We were a lot closer now than we were when in high school. I guessed he realized I was too old for spanking and I was almost capable of living my life independently. I just kept silent when the subject came up and he said, “You needn’t be a lawyer, Tin. You know, I can not tell you what to do.”

 

He looked hurt but he smiled.

 

Two weeks before I went back to Davao, my father bumped my forehead with his. Then he taught me the series of handshakes he and my younger brother smoothly executed.

Tags: alpha, his daughter, memoir, Prose