WRITING LETTERS IN A JOURNAL

IT'S true, and it’s a shame, that most people don’t write letters anymore. They would rather express their feelings through text messaging, social media forums, blogs, or Facebook posts. Exchanges or interactions become faceless or impersonal or temporary. And very few, if none at all, had bothered to regard the power and longevity of written words.

Years ago, whenever there’s a chance to talk to their children, people were sometimes disappointed because they didn’t know how to communicate exactly what they wanted to. So they resort to letters. Some hand-written letters were often so beautifully composed and simply inspiring that people love to keep them in their personal files. Love letters, or friendly letters, or letters of a parent to his or her child, always carry sweet reminders of the feelings that had long been gone.

TO DANCE AGAIN!

THAT smile full of sunshine. That sparkle of excitement in her eyes. That confidence shaping her moves. Those things I usually see from Roseya before a dance performance.

I was glad they were visible again in my eight-year-old daughter during the foundation day celebration of her school Jocelyn V. Cacas Montessori. She was the star dancer of her Grade 2 class. There’s no doubt that my daughter was very pleased.

It’s a quarter before 1, and Roseya was already dressed up in her fairy costume, white skirt layered with pointed strips, short-sleeved blouse, and butterfly wings. She wanted me to hurry and bring her to the venue one hour before the program (scheduled at 2 p.m.) but I had asked her kuya Nathaniel, who was also a participant in the high school level, to accompany her.

I explained to Roseya that I still have tasks to do at home. With my wife gone, I was left alone to prepare for my three children. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her, but I felt a strong effect on me on occasions like this.

My daughter has loved dancing ever since she was a little girl. She is a natural dancer, she doesn’t require a lot of coaching, and she can choreograph her own dance steps. She was a little ballerina for the past three years, and had auditioned a number of mall-sponsored talent searches and a TV dance contest. She has been invited to birthdays just to showcase her graceful moves.  

Roseya and Mom, 2010

My daughter’s talent would not have been discovered, developed and shown to admiring crowd without my wife’s guidance. Her mom’s plan to expose her early to fun ballet courses had made my daughter a lifelong lover of dance. They had a perfect mother-daughter relationship. My wife was the typical stage mother, who would always accompany our daughter in every recital or dance performance. She was a personal assistant, a make-up artist, and a manager in one package. She had been a part of the equation of my daughter’s early passion in dancing.

But things have changed for my daughter since the death of my wife. It created a seismic shift on her life. She was forced to stop going to her ballet school because without her mom, she couldn’t attend the weekly dance lessons. No more dance auditions for her, too. Her dreams for stardom lain by the wayside.

My daughter was trying to understand our present situation but sometimes, she would ask me if she could continue her ballet lessons. The ballet school owner, a kind of person who wouldn’t allow a good talent go to waste, had offered my daughter a big discount should she want to enroll again in her ballet school. 

Two months ago Roseya asked me again if she could still go to ballet school in the near future. We were in attendance at the birthday party of her neighbor friend who was also her classmate in ballet. Her friend, the celebrant, performed a couple of ballet performances with her classmates that she invited for the occasion. I felt sad seeing her watching with envy her former classmates showing the moves she would have loved doing with them. The ballet school owner approached me and reminded me of her offer. But I couldn’t commit to her nor make empty promises to my daughter regarding the matter.

                                                                                  

The last time my daughter performed a dance number was December last year. She was part of a selection of dancers who represented their school for an intermission number of a district-wide academic affair held at SM Marilao. I wasn’t able to watch the performance because of a conflict in my schedule, but with the way my daughter described it with relish, I felt I was present at the venue, beaming surely with pride seeing my daughter wowing everyone with her graceful moves.

And for this year, I wasn’t surprised when they assigned her again as a star dancer. In last year’s foundation day, the Grade 1 class topbilled by my daughter won the dance performance for Level 1 competition (preschool to grade 3). And the year before that, or when they were in Prep, they won the same competition for Level 1. There was even a joke then among the teachers that Roseya is every class adviser’s lucky charm for the annual group dance competition.

Roseya and the Grade 1 class, 2011

But without her mother around to guide her during the practice and who might have helped in the preparation of their class costumes, I had little expectations this time for my daughter’s dance performance.

Before she left the house with her kuya, Roseya asked her mom’s makeup kit from me. And it took me awhile to find it from my wife’s still unsorted things in the cabinet. Her class adviser, as suggested by my daughter, would be doing her makeup this time. About fifteen minutes later, my second child Dudoy went out the house with his newly pressed polo and an unkempt hair. I followed him after another fifteen minutes or at exactly 2 o’clock.

The sky was cloudy with patchy drizzle when I reached the venue, just about three blocks from the school’s main building. It was an uncovered basketball court with a stage and a pavilion. I immediately saw Roseya among her classmates in one corner of the court. She stood out with her fairy costume and radiant face. Some parents were beside their own children, as they try to shield them from the drizzle. My daughter kept herself near her adviser to avoid being wet.

Roseya in fairy costume with her Grade 2 classmates, 2012

Roseya flashed her toothy smile when she saw me. The drizzly weather and the resulting delay of the program couldn’t dampen her spirit for sure. And during the parade after the drizzle, she was all smiles and she didn’t forget to wave at me when she saw me in the crowd. I noticed that her face and hairdo were not done the way I expected or what her mom would have done to her. She looked plain and simple in contrast to the well-made facial enhancements of her female classmates. But my daughter’s rather shabby appearance, her hair at the back tied up by a rubber band!—was overshadowed by her bubbling aura exuding from the sheer joy of having to perform again.

After a crowd-pleasing dance numbers presented by preschoolers and a better-choreographed performance from the Grade 1 class, Roseya and her classmates had a grand entrance with their own props. But I saw my daughter being the proudest for having again the chance to dance on center stage.

With each pounding rhythm of Maroon 5’s “Moves Like Jagger”, Roseya twirled, leapt, and spinned and jumped. She still had the grace and beauty of a ballerina. Her movement was perfectly articulated by her confident grace. She’s back in her element as a dancer. She was happy because she danced.

And Roseya danced not for the award or recognition but for the happiness and excitement. She danced because she knew her mom would have loved her doing it. She danced to feel the vibrant rhythm of life again. Dancing made her feel free!

The dance number went on without a hitch. All of the performers were good, their props perfect for the concept. But again I was not expecting them to win for their category.

I stayed on to watch Dudoy’s performance in their dance entry for Level 2 (Grades 4 to 6) and that of Nathaniel for the high school level. After that, with three more performances to go, I went home with Roseya. My two sons had to stay to wait for the awarding ceremonies. Dudoy would be receiving his gold medal for the scrabble competition and I asked his kuya to assist him in the awarding. 

I didn’t have to wait long to receive the results of the dance competitions. My two boys came rushing home telling me that Roseya’s dance presentation was adjudged champion for Level 1 and the group even won the Best Costume award. That lucky charm thing was true after all with Roseya, her winning streak now at 3. Her mom would have been really proud.

Roseya was slumped on the sofa for a much needed rest. She’s tired but happy. I told her the good news.

She hugged me tightly. “Thank you, Dad,” she said. I feel I was her mom receiving the warmth of love being reciprocated. I guess, allowing her to dance is the best way to create a solid, trusting, unbreakable relationship with my motherless daughter.

THE TRUE MEASURE OF A MAN

WHAT is the measure of a man?  

This is a question I haven’t bothered to ask myself until I came across the book The Measure of a Man: A Spiritual Autobiography by Sidney Poitier. I chose to read it not with the fact that he is very famous being the first African-American leading actor in Hollywood (I haven’t seen any of his films though), but simply by the appealing title and with the Oprah’s Book Club logo on its cover.

I had expected that this legendary movie icon, one of Hollywood’s most admired actors, would share in his book some insights to the kind of scale he used to measure the true meaning of his life, and what it takes to be called a real man.

Oprah Winfrey, in picking this book for her eponymous book club, states that the Poitier “is the measure of one of the greatest men I think who has ever been on our planet.”

Poitier, who was 73-year-old when the book was published in 2000, provides reading to his fascinating personal and public life, filled with ruminations and insights on some spiritual aspect of life; commentary on poverty, black prejudices, integrity, and the film industry; and lecture on family values and upbringing—“like having a conversation with a revered older relative,” as one reviewer says on the back cover. His ideas and thoughts are easy to understand, and he doesn’t expect readers to agree with him.

Looking back on his celebrated life and career, Poitier delves into the elements of character and personal values to measure himself as a man, as a son, as a husband and a father, and as an actor. He talks about the lessons he has learned on tiny Cat Island in the Bahamas and that “feelings of groundedness and belonging” which has been woven into his character there.

Poitier credits his parents and his childhood for equipping him with the uncompromising sense of right and wrong and of self-worth that have been his companions on his life’s journey. He narrates how he made his way from his beginnings, marked by poverty, in the Bahamas, his turbulent teens in Nassau and Miami, how he ends up in New York, and his triumphs in the stage and stardom in Hollywood. He tells us of the civil rights movement in the US, the changes that brought in the acceptance of the colored race, and the influence of Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi on his life. He has helped to break the color barrier in films and theater by his outstanding achievements.

He has overcome incredible odds to find his place in American cinema. He has starred in over forty films, directed nine, and written four. His landmark films include The Defiant Ones, To Sir, With Love, and Lilies of the Field where he won Academy Award for Best Actor in 1963, the first ever major award given to a black actor.

The book covers only a small portion of his failed marriage and how it affected his relationship with his children. His parenting techniques as an estranged father are instructive and very inspiring. He shares points of wisdom that can only come with age. He writes about forgiveness (“should be a sacred process”) and his mistakes as a father. It is an admission of imperfection and he risked being regarded as too inane and unsuccessful, but it highlights nonetheless his honesty and purity of intention in writing his luminous memoir.

We must understand that every man at some point in life endures ill luck or some unhappy event. However, these challenges of life offer men the potential for great good and happiness. This must be the true measure of a man that was enunciated long ago by Martin Luther King Jr., whom Poitier also admires in this quote: “The true measure of a man is not how he behaves in moments of comfort and convenience but how he stands at times of controversy and challenges.”

In the book I didn’t find Poitier saying that you can measure a man by his physique, the fierceness in his tone, and the words he chooses to influence others. He also doesn’t say you can measure a man by his bank account, the size of his house, the model of his car, the number of people who will give in to his wishes, or his college degree. To him, the real measure of a man is his ability to provide for his children. This was actually an advice given to him by his father.

Obviously, family was, and continues to be, the most important thing to Poitier. He wants to maintain his dignity, honor his parents, and become the best father he could be. This is possibly one of the most profound themes of the book.

I agree with him because I think a person, who is a good father to his children, is a man of immense measure.

Being a good person is a way of life. But being a father is something that everyone strives to do. And a really good father has a deep spiritual understanding that everything he does in his daily life is beneficial to his family.

How can I raise my three children to be the kind of man described with such conviction by Poitier in his book? What is my own personal measure of myself, especially as a father to my children?

Now that my wife is gone, and I am left alone to attend to my three kids, I needed some good stuff to reflect on, some lessons on how I should be a father to my kids. And I think a memoir of a successful family man such as Poitier is absolutely helpful.

For me, the most important thing about being a good father is being one. It’s who I am, what I do, and how successful I am at what I do. The proverbial expression, “you are only worth as much as you have” is also very appropriate in my lifetime role as a father.

My children need a doting and loving father—a father who can fill the void left by their mother, which is a very formidable task, I should say, for any ordinary man. They need a trusted confidant, a caring and benevolent father who is in their life, who pays attention to them, who is interested in them, who does things with them, and asks about them.

I often hear parents say they absolutely don’t want their children to go through the same hardships that they experienced, and so they end up protecting their children from any risk or danger in the best way they can. For whatever reason, I wouldn't let my children suffer. I cannot leave my family vulnerable in their own crowded universe. But even with my protective wings around them, I wouldn't deprive them the opportunity to learn, to unlearn, and relearn lessons in life on their own.  As a single parent, this is the biggest challenge that I must face for the rest of my life.    

Two of my three children are boys who could someday be real men in their own right. They should learn what it takes not to be a barako (macho) but to have the true character of a man. They should know how to speak the truth and honestly convey their feelings.

In addition to Poitier’s scale, a real man must be secure in himself; unwavering in the face of challenges in society concerning manhood and personal convictions. And more importantly, he will be measured by the manner he treats the women in his life, how he keeps his promise, and values palabra de honor (word of honor).

That to me is the real measure of a man.

BEST GIFTS

IN my birthday last week, my kids surprised me with their personally made birthday cards, which they handed me with hugs, kisses and chuckles early in the morning on the 21st. That’s what I meant in my previous blog that there are good reasons to celebrate your birthday, just as there many reasons to establish a good attitude in life. Let me say then that receiving greeting cards from the kids is the best gift ever a father could have on his birthday. 

My three kids are a good bunch of inspiration for me. Seeing them in the morning completes my arsenal for staying on, moving on, and hanging on in every setting of my life. Of course, I flare up sometimes, scold them, and find less time with them. But I will not dwell on that. A child is a child, sometimes naughty, demanding, and sometimes sweet; as father must always be a father, and always in him a soft spot or a weak spot. As a father, I could be so busy with my daily schedule and routine that I could have become so clueless.

To my kids, there’s no better way to express their love than to put them in words and colorful artworks. Here are my kids’ recent masterpieces.

This one is from N-yel, my eldest.

Yes, that two photos are Manny Pacquiao’s which he (or with Mom as co-conspirator) had clipped from an old newspaper. My wife and my kids love to tease me that the world-renowned boxing champion and I are like peas in a pod, especially when I sport long hair with a split on the middle and bangs hanging on the sides, and when I made myself unshaved for two or three weeks. But read on, did my son scribble the word handsome? But I rather take the whole message to mean, “Hey, my dad’s the champ!”

This one is from Dudoy, my second child.

This boy hasn’t grown up his love for dinosaurs. Not yet. He still loves to collect dinosaurs, to watch dinosaur movies, to read about dinosaurs, act like dinosaurs, and think like dinosaurs. So what do you expect when he thought of something to represent me on my birthday card? A T-rex with a big mouth ready to devour its prey would be it (but instead he cropped my picture and drew a cake as prey this time). Now I realized my dinosaur lover of a son loves burger than anything else. But for “dinosauring” me, I won’t treat him not even a bite of his burger. Just joking.

And this one is from Eya, my youngest.

My girl with a toothless grin loves to write love notes and to doodle on paper scraps and on pages of her notebook. (Last time, I heard her Mom telling her to stop sending sweet-nothings to her classmates, one of them a boy.) And for this one from her, she used a colored paper and a scented pen for a change (why not, it’s her dad’s special day). The erasures must have been due to her brother’s editing. And the unusual cut on the corner must be hers, because she still messes up her artwork with the scissors.

Just like their other letters and impromptu cards I received from them, I will keep these cards in my personal drawer. I know that anytime soon, they no longer do this for me or for their Mom. One day they will no longer recognize themselves in what they wrote. The he-he-he’s and emoticons, the dinosaurs, and scented notes with erasures may soon be a thing of the past, and they may not be as sweet as they do now. And like many of my fondest memories, they’ll be anchored on things that no longer exist. But I just hope they won’t stop sending me those handwritten cards.

My kids love to write sweet-nothings and flaunt their creativity when they make cards for their Mom on her birthday or on a Mother’s day, and for each one’s birthday, and during Christmas. Even when there is no occasion at all. My youngest, when she has the mood, draws stick figures with I love you’s and I miss you’s naturally matched with heart shapes and smileys. Then, pointing at the figures for me to see, she chatters with her sweet little voice “This one is you, Daddy, this one is Mommy, this is Love, this is our house, etc.”

A CHILD'S STORY

I THINK I have been so passionate with this fatherhood thing (can't blame me, it's normal) that I tasked myself to write a longer essay about it. But what I got instead is a brief story for children. So here it is...

I LOVE SUNDAY!

I LOVE SUNDAY very much. Daddy is around the house. He cooks for our breakfast, especially my favorite, egg omelet with fried bacon. He plays computer games with me. He horses around with Mimi, my younger sister. He fixes Kuya Boyet’s bike. He does home chores while Mom goes to market. Sometimes Dad takes us out for lunch to a nearby fastfood. Or he leads us to a children’s park to play. Or he brings us to cinema for the latest kiddie flick. Mom is so glad seeing us happy with Dad.

That is why I learn to hate those days when Dad stays long in the office. He stays there until late at night. He no longer reads me bedtime stories as before. If I have a test the next day, he does not even go home early for my review. Dad will just ask Mom to do it for him. When I happen to be awake when he goes home, he will just kiss me good night and tell me to go back to bed at once.

“Dad is doing overtime work. He will be tired when he goes home,” Mom explains. I want to complain but I don’t know how to say it. Kuya Boyet does not mind, because he is old enough. Mimi doesn’t seem to care either.

But when Sunday comes, I forget everything. Then I love Dad again. 


ONE SUNDAY, Dad did not bring us out as before. We didn’t even attend the mass. We just played around the house. But he got tired easily. He took a long nap in the afternoon. In the evening, he told us the usual bedtime stories. Before he kissed me good night, he hugged me tightly, patted my back and ruffled my hair. And I loved him for doing that.

Monday, the next morning, Dad did not go to work. He was the one who helped me dress up for school. He even fetched me from school on time. Then we played computer games together.

The next day, Dad did not go to work again. So with the next day and the next day. The next Sunday was just another day. He was at the house, cooking for our breakfast, doing home chores and playing games with us. But we did not go out as before. Except in the afternoon where we attended the mass. For the first time I saw Dad praying so deeply in the pew. 

Dad was unusually silent after his time with us. He had long and hush-hush discussion with Mom. Mom was also affected with this Dad's strange mood.

Is he sick? Why does he easily get tired? I asked Mom about it. With a deep sigh, Mom looked at me straight in the eye. Then she hugged me tightly.

“Your Dad has lost his job. The company is losing money, so his boss must let your Dad and other workers go.” I couldn’t understand what does that mean. But I knew Dad was badly affected.

I cannot be happy when Dad is not happy. So I prayed like the way Dad did in the church. It was a deep and long prayer. I asked God to tell my Dad’s boss that he will ask Dad to return to work soon.

After a week, Dad went out the house, like he used to when he had a job. He was dressed at his best, bringing with him only a thin folder when he went out. He did it almost everyday. And on a Sunday, Dad was back to his usual self. But even so, I was so glad being with him again over the weekend. But now, I no longer hated Mondays and the long weekdays as before. Sunday with Dad was enough for me.

One afternoon, Dad went home shouting with joy. He kissed and hugged me tightly. He danced with Mimi. He had a high five with Kuya Boyet. And he embraced Mom so tightly until I saw Mom laughing with tears in her eyes.

“Dad has got a new job!” Mom announced.

I ALWAYS love Sunday. And I no longer mind if I could not see Dad before I sleep on weekdays. Because on a Sunday, it will be the day for me with Dad and Mom, and also for Kuya Boyet and Mimi. And every holiday means a looong Sunday for all of us!

A TAG PRICE FOR MY TIME?

I HAVE a busy schedule every day. I work from four to six hours in a publishing house, work with my computer for long hours to write articles for a local magazine, read textbooks and photocopied cases for my law studies, and manage with my wife a household full of three inquisitive and active kids.

I am rather a part-timer with each of my present roles. (But aren’t we all in this age of multi-tasking?) And with my current situation, I lost my precious time for sleep and extra time for pleasure (reading good books, watching blockbuster movies in DVDs, having beer sessions with my relatives or peers). But the good thing is, I don’t have time to be bored. Multi-tasking has always been a perfect antidote to boredom or a justification to beat the mad rush in this modern world. But for a price, and a heavy one indeed on the family.

I admit I have less time for my kids. I may be present for them every day, but only a physical presence looming before them so that they have to behave in my presence. As if to say, if I am around, they must study their lessons very well, they must not make unnecessary noise while I work at home, they must listen to their Mom, and do this and that, or else I’ll impose a sanction on them, or a heavy dose of scolding when necessary.

I had promised them that Sunday would be for fun and relaxation, for mass, and a good time to cook and serve them their favorite dishes. But for the past three years (or since I resigned from a regular job to pursue my law studies, just a year after my wife also left work to look after the kids) I had rarely fulfilled these promises, if not at all, because even when I didn’t have take-home jobs for the weekend, I did extensive research in the Net for my articles and my case readings, or had to attend make-up classes in the college. I would just be contented with the thought that those goodnight kisses before they sleep on nights when I come home early after a suspended or shortened class, or goodbye kisses when they go to school in the morning, and when I brought them pasalubong (donut and pizza are all-time favorites) would make them think that all's well with Dad after all. But am I really sure that they are not complaining with this setup?      

One time I come across this story from the Net, an appropriately symbolic story for my situation. It is about a little boy who waited for his dad until he came back from work. His dad was surprised to see him still awake at 10 in the evening and asked him why he had not slept. The boy told his dad that he had an important question for him.

His dad told him that he was so tired and had to answer his “important” question in the morning. The boy told his dad that he needed a quick answer to his question, which disturbed him and prevented him from sleeping. Finally, at his son's insistence, the father gave in. “How much do you earn per hour, Dad?” asked the little boy.

“Is that your important question? I earn 20 dollars per hour, son,” answered the father, shocked by the question. His son pulled a little bag from under his pillow and said, with a big smile all over his face, “Can you loan me two dollars, Dad?”

The father was upset but he gave the boy two dollars. “But we need to discuss this tomorrow,” he said. Nevertheless, the boy took the two dollars and pulled more money from his bag, mostly quarters and nickels, and started counting. Then he gave the money to his father while saying, “Here is 20 dollars, Dad. Can you please give me an hour of your time?”

It is a very simple story, but it delivers a very important message about the importance of spending time with your family, especially with the younger ones. It shows how children cherish every precious time they can have with their dad. I felt ashamed of myself when I realized that I have become a mechanical wage-earner providing only the material needs of my family. And sometimes, when my resolve to earn for the family was waylaid by some domestic problems, or conflicts in the office, I burst out like a dormant volcano and all the more I would shut myself out from the peering eyes of my kids. I had become oblivious of the passing days that I must have spent with them. And I had been so sensitive with my feelings and less with their feelings.

It happened not only once that I dismissed my children when they approached me in separate occasions and asked questions while I was busy with my work. With my rigid rules, my kids would rarely come to me again to ask about things, unless they have problems with their assignments, but most of the time I told them to go to their Mom for that bit of information. Or I would just give them a short answer bereft with explanations.

Thanks for the story, and subsequent day-long ruminations of my life as a father, I got a new resolve to change my ways and spend more time with my kids. I thought I have missed the fun part of being a father, like playing with them, hugging, listening, sharing activities and just goofing around.

I recalled the times when I would always answer the questions of my kids during the separate times they were toddlers. And how I’d loved seeing them flashing their toothless grins when I replied to their queries, from the highly philosophical (why there is God or where God is) to the absurd (what made the housefly pregnant or how ants lay eggs). But those were the days before I was swamped with work.

That’s why when my ten-year-old asked me why prices go up these days, I answered him as scholarly as a dedicated teacher can do to his inquisitive pupil. And only last week, he saw me browsing the Encarta dictionary for the meaning of a word. He asked: “Dad, why are you using the dictionary? I thought you have known all those words in there.” I smiled, not for his outright mistake, but for his innocence and his terrible impression of me as a genius.

Time will come my kids will no longer ask questions as frequent as they do now. They may keep their questions to themselves or may ask somebody else. Or they may have learned so much that they no longer see the need of asking me. From a know-it-all Dad, I would retrogress to a “doesn’t really know quite everything” Dad, then to a “doesn’t know everything” Dad. So while I am on that first stage, I must get the most of it by replying to all their questions and be the know-it-all Dad for them, even for a time.

I hope with proper time management and a firm resolve, I can show them more affection, communicate affirmation, and give them attention. And while nurturing them, I must enjoy being a father and let my children enjoy belonging to me.