My Dad, Much More than Househusband

    He was an obscure figure to some of us....when I say us, I mean my eight siblings and I. I fell in the middile of the brood and my older brother and three sisters had a decidedly different perspective on him then I and those younger. It was in the late 1939s, as a successftl owner of a business that he met my mom at a social dance event. My mother, who enjoyed partying with the transient Filipino sailors that frequented the event, loved Big Band music and dancing. My father apparently fell in love with her and persisted in his wooing her until she finally succombed to his charm.

      In 1944, my brother was born and father began study employment at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Over the next several years six more, including myself would be born and begin our lives in the quaint Brooklyn neighborhood. To my siblings, he was the full time wage earner who came home everyday for supper and slept in the same bed as my mother. I was too young to remember life in Brooklyn.

      At that time, WWII ended and families' lives were starting to stabilize, then came the Korean War entering the country into a "Cold War" conflict. My father no doubt followed the news with interest, but didn give it as much attention as the politics of his homeland in the Philippines. He was born around the time of the American takeover there at the turn of the century. He was already a boy of seven or eight years on the island of Panay when Americans started showing up on his native shores.

      It was a time of great transformation from a Spanish colony to an American colony. Most Americans had never heard about this small island country; but many would know more about it as it came under the scrutiny of the American public. It clearly was a tremendous influence in his life; because it eventually led him to the shores of America. I'll probably never know how it affected him then, but even as my father I hardly knew him. His heart and thoughts belonged to his country and people, although he'd lived and worked in this country since the 20s or 30s.

      My oldest brother was seven when I was born. In four or five more years we made the move to New Jersey where our lives changed drastically. My older siblings have vivid memories of life in Brooklyn. I have none. I only remember him as a weekend dad who remained in Brooklyn during the work week and came home on the weekends. He often brought us treats and we were always eager to greet him when he came to the door. Sometimes we couldn't wait and we would walk to the bus stop and assault him as he exited the bus. On Sundays, he headed back to New York. This is my most vivid memory of him during my elementary school age years.

      We rented for several years before we bought a small house in a summer resort town on the banks of Toms River. That is where the image of my father developed and preserved itself in my memory. I was only twelve or thirteen when he retired from the Navy Yard. His hair was greying at the temples and always seemed to stand up on his head like he just woke up. He shuffled around the hous in backless slippers. He had strong arms but his belly sagged a little. He tried to do repairs around the house to save money, especially when we had plumbing problems.

      He was up at dawn puttering around the kitchen, preparing lunches and breakfast for my younger siblings. He always fixed a big pot of oatmeal, scooped out a generous helping for himself, added butter and brown sugar, then his milk. He made himself a cup of coffee and sat down to eat. He would put out bowls on the table for anyone who wanted it. If there was nothing else we cared to eat, some of us would grab a bowl and help ourselves. Most of the time we preferred pop tarts or toast for a quick meal before the bus arrived. We all caught the school bus and he'd be left alone with baby of the family who was two years old.

      After school, starving, we'd go through the kitchen cabinets and the refrigerator for something to snack on. If he was in the kitchen,(which he often was), he would be cooking with several pots going. He chased us out of the kitchen, growling in his deep voice that dinner was almost ready and we needed to set the table and get it ready. While our dinner was on the stove he fixed himself some kind of seafood and rice or other dish unfamiliar to us. Our dinners were always complete and delicious and he insisted we all sit down together to eat. Afterward, we all shared in the clearing of the table and washing the dishes.

        In late afternoon or evening he went to his cabinet in the dining room where he kept his whisky and gulped a shot before he returned to his room. On days when there was no school and we were home, he would go to his bedroom in between meals and close the door until someone cried out because of teasing or some other conflict. Then he'd come out  and yell at us in his deep, powerful voice. If we persisted he would take off his belt in threat to use it and all would be quiet again.

        He hardly praised us for good report cards. He looked at them silently and approvingly and carried them to his room. We dared not ask him to give them back. He was not a big man; maybe 5'6" or so but he had a big voice and a large looming presence which none of us chose to challenge. He demanded respect without needing to ask for it and we gave it to  him unhesitatingly.

        He never said much to us except to tell us when he wanted or needed something done. He tacitly went about the house cleaning, cooking , sometimes watching the news if he was not in his room reading. He did, on occasion feel obligated to lecture us once in awhile if he believed it would prevent us from going astray. His English was limited and he spoke in a heavy accent, but he struggled to make his point clear despite this handicap.

        The tone of his voice and his English intimidated our friends more than us. He had a sense of humor, but he'd say something and laugh , while we were left gaping like we missed the punchline of a joke because we couldn't understand everything he said enough to respond to it. He had few outside contacts except for some Filipino friends who stopped by for a visit or call him on the phone. He'd come alive and carry on many an animated and passionate discussion in his native Tagalog whenever he had the opportunity to converse with them.

          His activities were limited to househod chores. He cultivated a garden and cared for our youngest sister when my mother had to start working to supplement my father's fixed income. He indulged her, perhaps to compensate for my mother being absent. She eventually exploited his leniency with her and became spoiled, bratty and demanding. She'd exasperate my father so much he'd chase her with his belt in one hand and his other holding up his baggy pants. She proved too fast  and shrewd for him, hiding under the table amid the legs of the chairs where she knew he was at a disadvantage. She was the only one in the family who defied him. The rest of us didn't dare. We just watched in awe and stayed out of the way.

        One day he caught me off guard while I was sitting eating my lunch with him at the table. Something set him off into a deep reverie. He gazed dreamily over my head and began talking about years when he had money and influence and the respect of the community. I watched a little uneasily him as he continued in this monologue because I had no clue as to what he was referring to nor how to respond. When he hesitated, I respectfully excused myself though I couldn't forget the episode. I told my mother about it and she chuckled and dismissed it. I was a little disappointed and annoyed at her response but I never brought it up again.

          Nothing changed too much in the house until I graduated high school. Some of my siblings had moved and relocated to California. I went to a year of college and then enlisted in the Navy for three years. I spent the last year of my enlistment in Tennessee. At some point during these transitions my father was diagnosed with Cancer and my siblings had convinced my parents to join them in California. So before I was discharged, they sold the house, my father flew ahead to California and my mother and two younger sisters had driven to upstate New York to visit her sister. They were to drive across the country and I would join them when I got out.

          Eventually we all wound up in Berkeley, California. After a few years my father became very ill and was bedridden and I moved in with them with two toddlers after I ended a volatile marriage. In between his painful bouts he sometimes watched as the children played and when they had a tantrum he'd laugh at their stubborness. I sat and talked with him briefly when he was in the mood letting him guide the conversation. He sometimes just vented a bitterness about his situation because there was so much more he still wanted to do. He just wasn't quite ready to go down without a fight.

          He would wield his powerful influence over us one more time before finally succombing to his inevitable death. Some Filipino friends and associates made an arrangement to stop in and present him with a check from a Filipino organization he'd been a member of. My father called on whoever was available to come over that day and prepare a traditional Filipino feast for them.  From his bed he had us all bustling in the kitchen, which was next to his bedroom, shouting orders and directions.

        The dishes had to be cooked exactly as he ordered and he demanded that he taste test them during the whole process of cooking them so he could make adjustments to spices. We finished and set the platters on the table in time for the guest to arrive. They were surprised and embarrassed because they really couldn't stay too long, but one doesn't insult a Filipino by refusing the well intentioned hospitality and respect of a host so they dished themselves out a plate while my father proudly watched them enjoying the meal. They then graciously thanked him and left. My father was ready for a nap after that and we ate voraciously while he slept.

          He died in his sleep on Nov. 7, 1977. One of the few possessions he left behind was an accordion folder that he had stowed next to his bed. It wasn't much but I took possession of it. It proved to be a valuable key to a past history that I was totally ignorant of. In it he had documents that told of his early contacts with Americans as an employee of the famous Corregidor  Island; his venturing out on various merchant marine ships and his successful businesses which he started in the states after working his way here. He had honored Filipino nationalism and was an active political figure in his community who was interested in fair treatment of his fellow Filipinos and was highly respected in the community.

          I was devastated by his untimely death, for I felt the need to know him better than as a mild mannered, caring father and husband before he died; and I'd never unveiled the secrets behind his dreamy reverie so long ago. His memory looms large as a motivated, ambitious young man who ventured out into a new world that promised opportunity and a better life for his family in the Philippines and who ultimately attained success for his family here in America.