To: The Old Fart From: Your Little Mistake

I remember when I was in college we were asked to write a paper - actually it was 5 essays on 5 different topics, one of which is to write about someone whom inspires you the most. The last topic was not really a dilemma as compared to others - where you were asked to talk about the current events, the war in Iraq (which at that time was all over the news), weapons of mass destruction, etc.

The printer at home was busted and so I asked my Dad to have it printed in his office. I told him specifically not to read my rubbish but did he listen? Of course he didn’t. When he got back, he handed to me the bunch wearing a silly grin on the face, saying ” Your essays are pretty good” and I responded ” I can’t believe it! What part of don’t read it unless it’s a matter of life and death, did you not understand??”.

He simply ignored my outburst and said, “I got teary-eyed on the last part”.

 ”Well, here’s a tissue. Go to your room, you’re grounded”, I talked back.

I knew exactly what he meant because the last essay was about who inspires me, someone I idolize although I vehemently refuse to admit it. Well, not verbally sometimes. The essay was about him.

Growing up, I saw my dad in different ways. Like the moon, he went through different phases. Sometimes I’d like to think of it as multiple personalities. Here are some:

1. HEIL UND FUHRER HITLER - Dad was never a tyrant but he has this weird fascination to the Nazis, swastikas and perhaps the Jews. At this point you’d say that he’s racist. Perhaps,yes or maybe he was born in a different time and place. He loves Germany and there’s really nothing I can do about it. Someday I would like to take him there. Euro-trip!

2. DIRTY HARRY - He likes those old western movies. One time I sat through an entire movie marathon involving dialogues like “What’s your name pilgrin?” or “The last time I saw you, you were wearing a cross, now you’re wearing a gun!” My grand daddy owns a gun but my dad owns a butterfly knife (balisong) and he’s still waiting for that one day when he can use the line “Do I feel lucky?” Well, do ya, punk?

3. SLASH HUDSON - There’s this certain era in his life when he dreamed to reach rockstardom. To me that’s just licking an ice cream cone before dinner inside a gymnasium waiting for his gig to be over. I never knew that he can do those riffs until I actually saw him play it. He was dubbed as the THE SLASH from the band Guns N’ Roses. Those fancy riffs / guitar solos that I never learned because he wanted me to live a drug-free and upright life. Instead, I was stuck with the classical pieces. The dad I know when I was in my elementary years performs intrumentals like the Mission Impossible (theme) and other James Bond shitnik. Also, he’s not really a fan of rock music. So I dunno why he got that nickname.

4. MUFASA - You know how Simba led him to his death and he urge him to “REMEMBER”. Frankly for me, it’s just James Fucking Earl Jones. Dad also had some voice talent gigs, some theater work here and there, he even had a short stint as a DJ. A DJ? I know right?

5.Sir Sidney Poitier - Have you ever seen the movie “To Sir with Love?” Dad in his post-LET exam days was a straight forward, passionate teacher. He started out really young and I’d like to think that in those years he has shaped minds in as much as he curbed bad-ass attitudes, confiscated pornographic magazines, basketball cards, walkman players with Guns N’ Roses cassettes inside. Teaching in an all-boys school is no walk in the park. It’s like walking the plank, rather. But he never grew tired, well probably he does sometimes. But it is in the same level of tenacity—the passion he shows in what he does that I’ve learned to appreciate art, books, movies, music and all those other shit I love.

Dad may not really be the best teacher, true that his teaching styles may be traditionalistic (subtle way of saying that it’s actually obsolete) and that he still uses the typewriter at home to make his exams because the computer for him is just is tool to compose all those jingles and whatnot but he never failed in showing the world that whatever he does, he does it because he loves doing it. His students and the morsels of crazy shit they’ve learned, things that may seem irrelevant could probably be useful somehow, somewhere in real life.

He may have failed miserably in beating me into a bloody pulp - to show that evil doers get the punishment that they deserve but it appears that I’ve learned that retribution will find it’s way back to it’s rightful place and at the right time.

I may not have received expensive toys, dresses and all those luxurious childhold fantasies but perhaps it’s a lesson I need to eventually learn in the future. Not all material things can bring real happiness and peace of mind. Though maybe I am still denial that Dad is just tight-fisted or perhaps just like other fathers, I’ll never really know if I am really an only child until the reading of his last will and testament *knock on wood*.

And although in several ocassions I have shown that my sharp tongue has no match to your great wall of patience, believe me father, when I say that when you let out that thunder clap, I almost shit bricks.

And so once again this Sunday and for all the days when I forgot to acknowledge that you have contributed to my existence to this world, I thank you.

I thank you for subtly erasing feelings of mediocrity, knowing that we are on the same level or at times you are by far more mediocre. HAHAHA. kidding.

In several bouts of tantrums, you have volunteered to be the human punching bag,encouraging me to just let it all out–that lifetime supply of hatred to your co-teacher who borrowed my doll named bebe bikay and never returned it or for any pre-pubescent outbursts I had during my adolescent years.

And I know that I’ll never be able to say this — that my gratitude will just be in a form of smug or smirk. Heck, I’m an ingrate by default.

Dad, you’re loser and for that I won. I won a prestigious prize, more coveted than the oscars or the pride of being called a pound-for-pound champion.

You’re a loser, Dad. You see this big L in my finger. This one’s for you.

In advance, I’m saying “Happy Father’s Day to all you old farts!”