Tall and proud, every inch of him a
soldier- a model soldier. The man I love.
He had eight children, but even if his meagre soldier's salary could hardly feed his brood, let alone send them to school, he never thought he had an option- all of us should get a college degree in a country where only a diploma counted. And only the best and most expensive university in town would do.
And so we would get home, tired and hungry at 9 pm from school, which began at 4 pm and found him heating the soup so it wouldn't be a cold dinner for us. And as he spooned out a microscopic looking fish, which he divided among his four eldest "scholars", he would drone about the virtues of vegetables to take our mind off the tiny fish floating in a sea of greens. "Them veggies have more
vitamins compared to fish which has only Vitamin F", he would say. It was his
feeble attempt at humour.
Ah, it was only his humour and deep pride in his children, which sustained us in
all those years of deprivation. Money was only enough for our most basic
school needs and nothing else- certainly none for light snacks during breaks.
And so while everyone hide off to the Canteen, my sister and I stayed in the
Ladies' Lounge "to read" while waiting for classes to resume.
How can I forget his fierce pride in his children? They were the best as far as
he was concerned. I was the "writer" in the family and on days when I brought
home an essay or a poem published in the college paper, he would have a
satisfied grin at our breakfast table as he teased my mother that "she took
after me." And the day the local radio station blared the result of the
Teachers' Competitive Exam where I placed 2nd, he made the rounds of the whole camp to make sure that everyone of his soldier friends have heard the good news.
Typically the Asian father, he never trusted any guy near his daughters. So he
brought home guavas in his pocket because he never allowed us to pick ripe guavas in the sprawling camp with our friends. And when at 20, I started to teach, he would be waiting at 5::15pm, because classes ended at 5pm. Yes, he guarded his girls round the clock, and would sit with my Mom in the living room when boys started calling.
He was my first love- this man who never raised his voice in anger. Not with
his wife and never with his brood of eight even if the boys misbehaved. There were no spankings I could remember and we would only know if there was a "lovers quarrel" because we would hear him and my Mom talking in bed softly at dawn, threshing out their differences away from their children's earshot.
How can I forget him? He died a lonely man, a "broken" man. He lost my
sickly Mom and a year later asked permission from us to marry an ageing
spinster next door. "I miss your Mom and you're all away the whole day now,"
he complained.
We never understood his need to remarry, nor tried to. He "lost" his children
who stopped talking to him and barely 18 days after his marriage, he suffered a
fatal stroke.
His "writer" is now a retired teacher and is herself, a widow. And what I
dread most days now as he did then, is to face my coming sunsets alone, lonely
and scared. Only a loving hand in mine, a gentle pat on my back, would erase
those fears I know. Yes, I understand him now, even as I know deep in my heart
that the man I love understands me too.
HE ALWAYS DID!
(Bing Mesias is a resident writer for Filipino Radio Brisbane. She welcomes comments from readers through the 'leave comments' box below. - Ed)
He had eight children, but even if his meagre soldier's salary could hardly feed his brood, let alone send them to school, he never thought he had an option- all of us should get a college degree in a country where only a diploma counted. And only the best and most expensive university in town would do.
And so we would get home, tired and hungry at 9 pm from school, which began at 4 pm and found him heating the soup so it wouldn't be a cold dinner for us. And as he spooned out a microscopic looking fish, which he divided among his four eldest "scholars", he would drone about the virtues of vegetables to take our mind off the tiny fish floating in a sea of greens. "Them veggies have more
vitamins compared to fish which has only Vitamin F", he would say. It was his
feeble attempt at humour.
Ah, it was only his humour and deep pride in his children, which sustained us in
all those years of deprivation. Money was only enough for our most basic
school needs and nothing else- certainly none for light snacks during breaks.
And so while everyone hide off to the Canteen, my sister and I stayed in the
Ladies' Lounge "to read" while waiting for classes to resume.
How can I forget his fierce pride in his children? They were the best as far as
he was concerned. I was the "writer" in the family and on days when I brought
home an essay or a poem published in the college paper, he would have a
satisfied grin at our breakfast table as he teased my mother that "she took
after me." And the day the local radio station blared the result of the
Teachers' Competitive Exam where I placed 2nd, he made the rounds of the whole camp to make sure that everyone of his soldier friends have heard the good news.
Typically the Asian father, he never trusted any guy near his daughters. So he
brought home guavas in his pocket because he never allowed us to pick ripe guavas in the sprawling camp with our friends. And when at 20, I started to teach, he would be waiting at 5::15pm, because classes ended at 5pm. Yes, he guarded his girls round the clock, and would sit with my Mom in the living room when boys started calling.
He was my first love- this man who never raised his voice in anger. Not with
his wife and never with his brood of eight even if the boys misbehaved. There were no spankings I could remember and we would only know if there was a "lovers quarrel" because we would hear him and my Mom talking in bed softly at dawn, threshing out their differences away from their children's earshot.
How can I forget him? He died a lonely man, a "broken" man. He lost my
sickly Mom and a year later asked permission from us to marry an ageing
spinster next door. "I miss your Mom and you're all away the whole day now,"
he complained.
We never understood his need to remarry, nor tried to. He "lost" his children
who stopped talking to him and barely 18 days after his marriage, he suffered a
fatal stroke.
His "writer" is now a retired teacher and is herself, a widow. And what I
dread most days now as he did then, is to face my coming sunsets alone, lonely
and scared. Only a loving hand in mine, a gentle pat on my back, would erase
those fears I know. Yes, I understand him now, even as I know deep in my heart
that the man I love understands me too.
HE ALWAYS DID!
(Bing Mesias is a resident writer for Filipino Radio Brisbane. She welcomes comments from readers through the 'leave comments' box below. - Ed)













