Memories of a Daddy's Girl

I was once a daddy’s girl.

I was his favorite child, the apple of his eye. I was the only one he allowed to sit on his chair in the dining area. He never allowed anyone, not even my mom, to sit on his trono. Anyone, but me. I was his precious daughter.

I was his little princess. He always had pasalubong for me. He always bought hopiang baboy from Tipas on his way home. I never got tired of hopiang baboy, because it was our favorite merienda. On my fifth birthday, he gave me a Pink Pig Pillow. He said that I looked like the pillow. Despite my mom’s protest, he also gave me a white and green truck for a toy. He even gave me an endless supply of Mongol 2, only because he knew that I had the habit of sharpening my pen every 10 minutes.

I was his little buddy. We watched X-Files together every Thursday night. We both liked soft boiled egg on top of fried rice. We went to Tita Penny’s grave together. We cooked barbeque every Sunday; he was the one doing the barbeque, I was the one grilling them. We listened to DZMM every morning. We were buddies in every conspiracy we had against my siblings.

I was his sidekick, his right hand. He always tagged me along to the piggery and to the grocery. He taught me how to bathe a pig and how to feed it. Despite the searing stench of the piggery, I gladly obeyed his teachings. He let me play with his fishing rod, and let me see his .38 gun. He allowed me to help him in cleaning the car, though he never let me touch his babies.

I was the answer to his frustrations. Days after I turned seven, he gave me his college ring. We were sitting on the stairs. He told me, “I know you’ll be a good lawyer someday.” I knew nothing of being a lawyer then, but it sounded awesome. I grinned, and observed the green stone on the ring. I tried putting it on my ring finger, but it was too big. Little did I know that that ring was just as big as the dreams he had bestowed upon me, and that I was too small or too young to even know the gravity of it.

I was his favorite child. He could have given his college ring to my sisters, but he chose me—the middle child. I did not know his reasons for doing so. I never learned why, but one thing was clear: I was his darling little girl.

I was a daddy’s girl until that 24th day of April 1998.

I opened my eyes to the blinding light that came through my window. The roosters were singing their daily anthem, signaling another day in that boring summer of ‘98. I grunted in my bed, squirmed as I reached out my screaming alarm clock. It was eight in the morning. I got up. It seemed to be a nice and sunny day, a perfect day to test my newly made kite.

I smiled to myself. I had been able to make a kite the other day. For an eight year old kid, that was already an accomplishment. I got up from my bed, stalled a little, and inhaled the sweet tangy aroma of cinnamon and soothing smell of coffee coming from the kitchen. It might have been my cousin’s doing. She liked cinnamon bread and coffee together. Hearing the grumbles in my tummy, I postponed my daydreaming and headed out to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, I found not only my cousin but her parents as well. That was new. My aunt and uncle were usually out and working during the day. It was unusual, but I was more concerned with the breakfast than with their reason for ditching their work. I greeted them good morning. As I sat on my usual seat on the dining area, they seemed to be overly happy. They wore a big smile on their faces, as if they won the lottery. They looked like the clown from Hunter X Hunter. Not that I was complaining about it, but it was weird.

“What’s up with the smile?” I asked.

“Are you up for some malling today?” my cousin replied.

I was taken aback. As a child, I spent every summer of my life in Bulacan—a place of infinite rice fields, scorching heat, and permanent flood. Every summer vacation, my parents would deport me to my Aunt’s place in Bulacan. They had this notion that I should be introduced to the old school type of vacation, that I should have a normal vacation with my normal cousins. You know, a summer vacation with human interaction. They hoped that human interaction would ease my intense dependency on TV and imaginary friends. And summer vacations there usually did not involve the comfort of airconditioned malls. So, malling was really a wild suggestion.

“But I am going to fly my kite later.” I responded, a coy smile forming my lips. I tried hard to remain nonchalant about the idea of going to the mall. I was raised that way—to be subtle in my desires and not to demand anything, unless it was strongly suggested.

“It’s okay. You can do that any other day.” my uncle said.

I looked at him, wishing that my eyes would not betray the building excitement in me. He was still wearing his smile. That was something. My uncle rarely smiled. He usually kept his lips sealed and his face void of any emotions. My uncle was a strict patriarch; his words were law. He was also a traditional person. He had an aversion to malls and the likes. He believed that a kid should always know how to play the traditional games—piko, shato, sipaang bola, and even kite flying.

I did not reply. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

My aunt placed a piece of cinnamon bread and hotdogs on my plate. I thanked her. Like any caring mom, she patted my disheveled hair and smiled. Her pat felt weird. Her smile looked weirder. I glanced at her; she was still looking at me. I caught a glimpse of her soul through her eyes. She was telling me something, yet my feeble mind could not process it. Blame the cinnamon bread, I was distracted.

Silently, I ate my breakfast. I heard their whispers and felt their silent knowing nods.

“Once you’re done with your breakfast, we’ll go to the mall.” my cousin interrupted my little privacy.

I nodded in response. They were acting like they were hiding something from me. Being an eight year old kid, I was not to suspect anything, but I hated not knowing. Did they sell my doves? Did they feed my goldfish to Thalia, their cat? Did they burn my books? Did they seize my piggy bank and forget to replace it? Did they do something that would upset me? They were certainly hiding something from me. And I hated not knowing.

Silence dominated the dining area. I could feel the thick pressure rising. My aunt, whose tension I could feel, melted the gnawing silence. She asked, with her soothing and soft voice, “Ano’ng gagawin mo sa savings mo kapag nalaman mong patay na ang Daddy mo?”

I stopped eating. I was eight-year-old, and answers were simpler then, because I knew nothing of difficult questions. I was eight, so I said, “I’ll buy him a casket.”

With that, she cried and left the dining room.

“Why did she cry?” I asked my cousin and uncle, who were both staring at me, dumbfounded. I didn’t know why she cried. I didn’t know why the others kept smiling. I didn’t know why they kept on insisting that we go to the mall.

I caught my cousin and uncle share a knowing look. My uncle set his coffee mug aside, and looked at me with a kind smile.

“Get yourself fixed. We’re going to the mall.”

But we did not go to the mall. I was not able to fly my newly made kite. Instead, we went straight home in Rizal, where a gloomy feast was being held. I ceased to be a daddy’s girl, because daddy left his little princess, the apple of his eye, his little darling on that nice and sunny day of April 1998.

I could not remember what happened after that. My memories were hazy and somewhat inconsistent, but one thing was for sure: I was not the same person again. Things changed. I did not want to sit on his trono anymore. I stopped liking hopiang baboy. I stopped watching X-Files and listening to DZMM as well. I basically ceased to do the things we used to do together. Then, I grew up and forgot most of the memories I had with my dad. I grew up and moved on. New memories occupied me, and I was not sad anymore. I think that’s the thing with children; they can forget even the most painful event in their lives. They can forget and move on. Just like what I did.

I might have forgotten how it was to be a child or how it felt when my dad left me, but I knew that once upon a time, I had a dad. I was once a daddy’s girl.

Meet and Greet my Dad

Once upon a time, I had a dad. A real one. Let's call him Valentin.

December 16 was a usual cold day for many Ilocos Norte dwellers that lived in 1938. Second World War was looming over the horizon, but that did not prevent them from preparing for the start of Simbang Gabi, a tradition we inherited from the Spaniards. They were hoping that they would be able to complete the nine days of Simbang Gabi so that their wishes could come true. Unfortunately for Justina, a devout Catholic, she would not be able to complete it because the night before she was rushed to the nearest hospital to give birth to her fifth child--Valentin. That day, December 16, 1938, the world gave its nastiest smile on him.

Valentin grew up in a large family, which was very common at that time. He was very good in numbers, just like the rest of his family. He graduated Valedictorian in elementary. Like any of us, he had his childhood dreams: to be a CPA lawyer (unfortunately, only the CPA part came true). He had a sunny disposition in life, he believed in everything. He believed that he could do anything and that he could be anything he wanted to be. In his eyes, everything was possible. But when his father went bedridden due to stroke, the family's middle class status went down the drainage. So as his childhood dreams.

At a young age, he learned the hard way. He helped his mother in her work, so to add to their income. He worked some odd jobs just to help his family. Among the brood of six, he was the only one whose education had suffered a lot. He had to stop schooling because his older siblings were all in college and high school. He had to sacrifice his "tuition fee" so that the college students in their family could continue studying. He just resumed studying when there was extra money. Then when there won't be enough money to support his education, he would stop again. His education went on and off for some years. But he did not stop believing then. He worked harder. He studied the books of his older siblings just to catch up. At long last, he graduated in high school in 1957, three years behind his supposedly graduation.

He then ventured to Quezon City when he learned that he passed the UPCAT. He was full of positive vibes when he got to Diliman. All his dreams were slowly unfolding before him, he thought. He explored the city, hoping he could get a boarding house he could afford, there wasn't any. Instead of being Iskolar ng Bayan, he became Construction Worker ng Bayan. Instead of having diploma from the University of the Philippines Diliman, he had nothing but a piece of paper signifying that he passed the then-prestigious UPCAT. And instead of living in a decent boarding house near UP Diliman, he ended up living in an abandoned truck in Caloocan. He then moved to Malate to live with a photographer cousin. He helped his cousin in developing the pictures in return for free lodging. He held three odd jobs at the same time only to make ends meet. After sometime, he went back to Laoag with his baggage full of dirt and with his skin pitch-dark.

He continued his college education at Divine Word College of Laoag, majoring in Business Administration. This too went on and off. During the years that he stayed in DWCL, he showed exemplary academic performance. He topped most of his major subjects. He worked while studying. He was a laborer during the day, and he was a student in the evening. It was not until his third year college that he decided to go back to Manila. He thought that he would earn decent living once he was there. He left his college degree undone with a mission to give a better life to his family.

Once in Manila, he became an employee in Congress. After that, he looked for a better paying job to support his younger brother and his father's medical needs. He then applied as a staffer in an oil company, then made his way up to being a manager. Life was indeed smiling upon him at last. Years came by; he decided that he was not growing as an individual in his current managerial post.

In 1969, he ditched his managerial job and started working in BIR as an inspector. After a couple of years, he decided to continue his degree. He enrolled at Philippine School of Business Administration to finish what he started out. Like before, he studied while he worked. He obtained his degree in 1975. Though not with Latin Honors to tag along with his name, it could be assumed that he graduated with high grades. In 1977, he made his fulfilled the first step to being a CPA Lawyer. He passed the board exams, and became a Certified Public Accountant. This gave him a high position in BIR. It was the start of Valentin Bareng-Santos' time so to speak.

He was indeed a hard working man. He loved his family more than he loved himself. Though he spelled success in his career, his married life was close to being dysfunctional. He had three wives. The first one he had annulled. The second one died from cancer. And the third one he had died on. He was known for being cool with women. He was Mr. Suave personified. Despite that, he was a good provider and a good father to his children. He never forgot their birthdays (for those he knew). And he never forgot to have quality time with his family.

However, good things must come to an end. On September 9, 1997, he was diagnosed with Liver Cirrhosis (which later became cancer of the liver) due to his excessive alcohol intake and failed health-seeking behavior. That day, the optimist in Valentin Bareng-Santos died. He got depressed. He could not accept the fact that he was not invincible, that like everybody else he could acquire such disease. He was in denial. He sulked and drunk even more. He felt alone. And he did not know what else to do. His family supported him in every way possible. After some time, he went to a support group (a group of people with disease like him). But he found it difficult to accept his situation. The disease was slowly eating him. Cancer cells already hit his lungs. He was at the point of no return.

Exactly 600 hours and 10 minutes after my eight birthday, he died. But all I know is that once upon a time, he existed.

Young, Wild and Free

Here goes the obligatory birthday reflection.

My 21st year of existence, as I prefer to call it, was a huge terrible hangover. A year-long hangover, both literally and figuratively speaking. It was as if I gulped two (or maybe three) bottles of Vodka coupled with a case of beer and I-couldn't-remember-alcohol-blah-blah on New Year's Eve and forgot where I put my sanity the morning after (in which case the morning after meant the rest of the year).

It was a fog of good and bad memories, but mostly bad, of which I refuse to think about now. I was 21 and most of the time, high and drunk. I was 21 and I thought the world was for me for the taking. I was 21 and I didn't know any better. (Of course, I thought I knew better at the time. Who am I kidding?) I made bad choices and stupid decisions which resulted in a series of unfortunate events that I call my life. (I know that now, thank you.)

It started with me ditching my first job for the search of The Great Perhaps, which turned out to be, well, The Great Ellipsis of the year. Then, I thought I was in love with a man I never really liked. And then, law school happened but it didn't really happen (I dare you to make sense of that.) And everything went downhill from there.

I whined about it, but I'd like to think that I shut off some well-meaning people in my life. I became this massive ball of despair and hopelessness. But thanks to beer and friends (or friends and beer, whichever comes first) who listened to my repetitive rants about frustrations over life and the choices I made. They kept my insanity to a minimum level.

To say that I drank the year away was an understatement. And no, don't mistake me for an alcoholic. I was not and never will be an alcoholic. (Oh shit! That's what alcoholics say.) I spent most of my nights in misery and most of my days nursing a hangover. But the thing was, I 'moved on' with my life. I struggled everyday with high hopes and crooked optimism that everything shall pass as it should.

And it did. It actually did when I finally decided it should end. My ultimate realization was the cliche--it was only up to me.

Everything is a decision, even the decision to drown in misery or to shrug it off and learn from it. The result may not be what I expect, but there must be some wisdom in it. There's got to be something from it for me. In this case, I learned how to overcome defeat and frustrations. I learned to make the most out of the lemon. Get the Vodka, drink, and get on with what I currently have. That's how life is. I cannot always get what I want, but I can always give it my best drunken shot. I know that sounds too Mitch Albom-ish or Legally Blonde-ish or whatever inspirational shit you have there, but whatever.

The year 2011 wasn't the best year to count. I had my shares of wrong turns and detours, but I think I am where I should be at the moment. Being 21 sucked, but it was quite a learning experience. Cheers to being reckless, drunk, and most especially, to being 21.

Now, time to take down that hangover—I am getting high this year.

Four Scores and a Book

I want a lot of things lately.

I want to have travel blog, or maybe some posts about my travel experiences. Or maybe about the people I encounter in each of it, or maybe about the food, the scenery, the odd things in a certain place. But I know I can't.

I want to put up a clothing business. Or a food business. Or anything profitable. (Yes to money, yo!) But I know I can't.

I want to experience the world, to be part of it, to see people and to live life. But I know I can't.

I want to want the things that I did, but I know I can't.

And I want to keep this post decent and lengthy, but I know I can't.

Update you soon.