From a prodigal daughter
My father would be happier if I publish this blog under my real name but an understanding father that he always is, he wouldn’t mind if I don’t.
I am a Papa’s girl but I rather want to be referred to as my father’s daughter. I realized I wasn’t a papa’s girl anymore when I and my Tatay started sharing opinions about serious issues like politics and economics, religion and superstition; when I started talking him about my "gugma" for a down-to-earth artist and when he started sharing his stories about his girlfriends before Nanay; and so much more, it would take me a hundred lines and spaces to fill in. But last year, he showed me why he is my Tatay.
After graduation, I hungered for adventure that I told him I want to work in Manila and try new things out for my self; he agreed and even went with me.
For a month and a half, we did many things together and bonded. We walked around the streets of Manila because he wanted me to familiarize the streets not only by riding buses and jeepneys and to strengthen my "batiis". After looking, e-mailing and waiting for employers’ replies, we spent our afternoons under the shades of trees in Rizal Park while we observed rugby boys walked in euphoria. He tested my Manila map skills that he had to go to a certain place first and waited for me until I got there. He even went with me during my interview for a bank in Makati and during that time, I couldn’t help but think about what would these Makati guys and gals think of this high school-looking woman in her best attempt of a corporate attire, strutting in the subways of this so-social city; but I wasn’t embarrassed with the fact that I’m with my father. The vice-president of the company who interviewed me even praised my Tatay when he asked me who’s with me, which only made me a prouder daughter.
Moving on, my Tatay brought me to GMA complex- um, just outside the complex but that was enough– it was the greatest birthday gift from him because he knows how much I want to work there. Teary-eyed, we circled around its gates and went home happy.
When the bank accepted me after two weeks, it made me (because I passed the 3rd level test- Math skills, heheh) and my Tatay proud (because I finally got a job). So I packed my bags with a dorm mate from Asilo de San Vicente and moved to a nice boarding house in Makati (but later, it turned out to be a boredom house).
My Tatay decided to go back here in Iloilo because my Nanay missed him that much (they easily miss each other that my Nanay had to give up promotions and trainings).
As much as he wanted me to keep my "comfy" job (where 8 hours in airconditioned room made me whiter), I passed my resignation letter after my fourth month of smiling, greeting customers, teaching them how to use this and that, and what account is better and what’s not. I got bored with all the tarays I had with my roommates, with big malls, with Divisoria for Saturdays, with Chowking and McDo for dinner; and I never wrote anything meaningful except for the funny poem I made about my work and how I developed varicose veins— the only reminder of my first job. After wasting a bulk of my Tatay’s savings, I had to go home.
And just like in the story "The Prodigal Son", he welcomed me home with my maleta and bags full of books— my only vice. He never mentioned about his wasted expenses on me. He just nodded when I told him I had to find myself in two months, so I just stayed home, wrote, played the pc, watched all Korean and Japanese horror movies that I and my brother could find in Video City, and discerned.
After those two months (in between, I got a job at a local call center and phoned some Americans who just know the words "stupid", "b*tch", and &^#@!!!), I decided to go where my heart is- writing. And though I know a Filipino writer doesn’t earn much(well, except for some who work for someone big or big companies), I pursued this career far from my course. And my Tatay understands that I cannot offer them a house in Savanah, for now.
My Tatay is still supportive of me, as ever. He critiques my articles if it’s written just so-so, or it touched him. And that’s my Tatay— this short blog isn’t enough. I’ll write a book about him one day. And if he ever comes across this blog under my pseudonym, I hope a smile and a tear for his reply.
To my Tatay, to my reader, to the man who created me. Happy Father’s Day!
