Pampanga's Best
I promised my friend that I will write about our trip to Abe's Farm but each time I sit down and try to write about it, I find myself paralyzed. My mind wants to write about Abe's Farm but my heart brings me somewhere else.
Here's why. The mere thought of Pampanga floods me with memories of my first image of Pampanga, my father. He was not only a Pampango to me, he was Pampanga. His was a language strange to me, having grown up surrounded by my Malolos folks. Somehow then when he would speak Kapampangan with his siblings and Pampango pals, I felt a certain distance from and strangeness in this man. It was a kind of distance though that permeated many aspects of him, of our father-daughter relationship. I used to envy some of my friends who had very intimate relationships with their fathers. It would take many years after his death for me to come to terms with and accept the unique person that he was and the unique relationship that we had.
As a young child, I looked up to him as a hero - intelligent and seemingly invulnerable. As a growing woman, I continued to look up to him for his scholastic abilities, particularly his gift of writing. What I deeply appreciated and admired about him though was his sense of integrity. I always take pride in this quality that I had witnessed in both his personal and work lives. While his work offered a lot of opportunities for corruption, he remained firm in his convictions and held on to the principles of honesty and integrity. He thus left government service with nothing but his retirement money and his untainted name. Hence, when I trace my own vocation story, I know that my very first social orientation happened not in Theology of Liberation classes and the social movements sessions but with my father. The aktibista in me as well as the principled person in me is something I would attribute not to what he said but to what I saw him do, to how I saw him lead his life.
In his own quiet and emotionally distant way, I know he had loved us. He may not have expressed this in words I had hoped for but all the years of healing work had thought me how deeply he loved us up to his deathbed.
And so, tomorrow, as we commemorate his 17th death anniversary, I remember him and celebrate in a quiet way the gift that he was to my life and to those whose lives he had touched. I whisper to him words of gratitude for all the sacrifices made to give us the best he could so that we could become the persons we are now, for showing me how the pen indeed is mightier than the sword and how words are sweeter and much more deeply enchanting than any expensive gift, for teaching me that an untarnished name is not just about not doing something bad but also about taking the necessary step and being brave enough to stand by one's ground and do something to make things right, and for intilling in me the spirit of sharing and giving of oneself without counting the cost or waiting for reward.
He is no more than an unsung hero but for me he is one of Pampanga's best and finest.
(Sorry, Sim, but Abe's Farm will have to wait till another blog entry.)
Here's why. The mere thought of Pampanga floods me with memories of my first image of Pampanga, my father. He was not only a Pampango to me, he was Pampanga. His was a language strange to me, having grown up surrounded by my Malolos folks. Somehow then when he would speak Kapampangan with his siblings and Pampango pals, I felt a certain distance from and strangeness in this man. It was a kind of distance though that permeated many aspects of him, of our father-daughter relationship. I used to envy some of my friends who had very intimate relationships with their fathers. It would take many years after his death for me to come to terms with and accept the unique person that he was and the unique relationship that we had.
As a young child, I looked up to him as a hero - intelligent and seemingly invulnerable. As a growing woman, I continued to look up to him for his scholastic abilities, particularly his gift of writing. What I deeply appreciated and admired about him though was his sense of integrity. I always take pride in this quality that I had witnessed in both his personal and work lives. While his work offered a lot of opportunities for corruption, he remained firm in his convictions and held on to the principles of honesty and integrity. He thus left government service with nothing but his retirement money and his untainted name. Hence, when I trace my own vocation story, I know that my very first social orientation happened not in Theology of Liberation classes and the social movements sessions but with my father. The aktibista in me as well as the principled person in me is something I would attribute not to what he said but to what I saw him do, to how I saw him lead his life.
In his own quiet and emotionally distant way, I know he had loved us. He may not have expressed this in words I had hoped for but all the years of healing work had thought me how deeply he loved us up to his deathbed.
And so, tomorrow, as we commemorate his 17th death anniversary, I remember him and celebrate in a quiet way the gift that he was to my life and to those whose lives he had touched. I whisper to him words of gratitude for all the sacrifices made to give us the best he could so that we could become the persons we are now, for showing me how the pen indeed is mightier than the sword and how words are sweeter and much more deeply enchanting than any expensive gift, for teaching me that an untarnished name is not just about not doing something bad but also about taking the necessary step and being brave enough to stand by one's ground and do something to make things right, and for intilling in me the spirit of sharing and giving of oneself without counting the cost or waiting for reward.
He is no more than an unsung hero but for me he is one of Pampanga's best and finest.
(Sorry, Sim, but Abe's Farm will have to wait till another blog entry.)
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