My father was a storyteller. I grew up listening to his stories — stories of love, life and adventure. But he was a gentleman. He did not kiss and tell.
He only spoke of other people’s love stories. And of his own, he only spoke of the one with my mother. He didn’t speak of other women. It was my mother who regaled us with stories about women who continued to pursue him even after they were married.
But we were always enthralled by the stories of his war-time experiences. My father didn’t know it then. And neither did we, that he actually suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) from the war.
He had a recurring nightmare — one where he was constantly running from Japanese soldiers. He would wake up with labored breathing, drenched in sweat. These nightmares plagued him for decades.
Looking back, I realize my father was who he was because of his past. He was highly controlling, anxious and critical. It took me a lifetime to recognize that all that he had become was a response to the trauma he had experienced in his life.
He couldn’t control the war, the occupation of his hometown by enemy forces, his capture and month-long incarceration by the Japanese Imperial Army, his servitude to the guerilla forces.
They were called volunteer guards by the guerilla forces though they never volunteered for the job of night watch. But they didn’t have a choice. To refuse meant to be branded as Japanese collaborators. My father had to work two shifts: one for himself and another for his father. He had just turned 17 when the Japanese occupied Bohol.
My father was hard to please, slow to praise, quick to criticize. He could drive you to the ground. He had exacting standards. But I later realized he was the way he was not because he didn’t love us. He just wanted us to be tough. He just wanted us to be prepared for hard times. He just wanted us to be prepared for war. All the time.
My father rarely talked about his emotions, only about his exploits which mesmerized me. Growing up, I wanted to live his life.
You see, while my father’s life wasn’t easy, that didn’t deter me from wanting to walk his path. He had always told me that life would never be easy so I felt prepared for a hard life. (I wasn’t. But I learned as I lived.)
You see, while my father was a hard worker, he knew how to enjoy life. The hardships he experienced did not make him vengeful, joyless or bitter. They made him empathetic, appreciative, grateful. He could be crass or tactless but he was never mean or spiteful.
He was not a complainer. If something went wrong, he fixed it. He didn’t dwell on it. He didn’t care much about what people thought of him. He just lived his life the way he wanted to: with joy, passion and great interest in everything and everyone.
He always wanted to know what was happening around him. He was always interested in new things and new people. He never stopped being curious, inquiring, interested.
That was the secret to his long life of 99 years.
All the doctors I took him to always asked him what his secret was. My father would simply smile. Was it living a healthy life? Well, my father was physically active till the day he could no longer be but he didn’t exactly eat a healthy diet.
He did have a healthy mindset. He did have a lot of stories. And he did live an amazing life.
I grew up wanting to live a life like my father’s. I still do. A life lived well. A life worth writing about. A life worth living — a few more times. I want to live and die like my father, with lots of stories to tell — stories of love, pain, failure, triumph, passion, adventure.
Happy Father’s Day to my one and only: the OG.