Stories of a Daddy's Girl Part 1

 I have never not been a daddy's girl. It doesn't mean I love my mom any less. It's just a fact.

My first memory of being a child was saying goodbye to mom in the early morning so she could go to work in another city. She was a schoolteacher, so she was away for most of the day and wouldn't get home until dinnertime because of her commute. I would stand with my dad, wearing a white undershirt with holes and my underwear, give her a kiss, and wave until I couldn't see her. Then my dad and I would start our day. We'd walk to the bakery and get my favorite breakfast rolls or pandesal or just keep on walking around our neighborhood. He loved to tell stories, and I loved to ask questions and listen to his stories. It was perfect. I helped him or just watched him do chores around the house. He liked to chat with the neighbors while he swept away leaves and dust outside. At the weekends, sometimes, I'd have breakfast with my mom while my dad was outside regaling everyone with tales. Then you'd hear his big belly laugh that always seemed to go through all the vowels (HAHAHA, HEHEHE, HIHIHI, HOHOHO, HUHUHU). At least, that's how it always sounded like to me and my mom.

My dad said I started speaking and walking quite early so he had nothing else to teach me but how to read. I remember those Filipino primers where I'd have to repeat the syllables over and over again, matching consonants and vowels. Reading in Filipino is easy because the sounds are always the same - well, most of the time. Then two of my cousins moved in with us. It was a lot of fun because they were near my age but because they were going to school I wanted to go, too. So the next thing my dad taught me was how to write. My dad and my sister are naturally left-handed and it turned out, so was I. However, my dad was a product of his generation when he was forced to write with his right hand and so he said he had no choice but to do the same for me as he couldn't figure out how to teach me otherwise. It was 30 years or so before he admitted this to me. My mom just always said she let him decide because he was the one teaching me and not her.

Eventually, he got a job as a messenger in a law office. I couldn't always go with him, but whenever I did, it seemed like we went everywhere. My mom didn't like us having any street food, but my dad had no reservations. I knew we didn't have a lot of money so I only saved my requests for my favorite honeydew juice. My dad was never very good with money though. One time, my mom gave him PhP1,000 (around $20), which, in the 80s that would have been quite a lot. When we got back, we took a taxi, and he didn't have enough to pay the cab driver so he asked me to run to my mom to get some cash. When we came inside the house she asked what happened to the money and he said he didn't know - young as I was though, I was already quite astute at keeping track of where the money had gone so I reported the snacks we had and how many taxi rides we'd taken instead of the bus. I have no idea if my dad ever got annoyed with that habit of mine. I guess he minded little as he still took me everywhere whenever I could be away from school. I even remember sitting on a random lady's lap once because the bus was full and my dad had to stand. I distinctly recall that she had an ample bosom and a soft lap. I fell asleep and then we thanked her when my dad woke me up before our stop.

Our adventures had to end, though. My sister was in high school and I was in elementary school. Our parents wanted a better future and brighter opportunities, and the only option was for one of them to work abroad. My dad said it was better for him to go because my sister and I would need her more. Thereafter, I would only see my dad two months out of the year. It was strange to be without my dad. Between him and my mom, he's the crier and when I had tantrums as a child he would just tell my mom I was cleaning my eyes. She, on the other hand, would get really annoyed and ask me if I was being abused. My dad was the reader and so she banned me from reading during the school year because she said I read too much. My memories of my dad reading at night eventually got me to move to my room that I rarely slept in so I could also read without my mom's prying eyes. 

In the 90s, our only option was sending letters and packages. I sent him letters both written and recorded on cassette tapes. Sometimes I read him fairy tales. I wondered later what he thought of them. As an adult, he told me that my English got better as I got older. He never once commented on it when I was young, only replying to my letters and saying thank you when I sent him something. I was never really religious but when he was back; I loved singing Christian songs with him and we would sit outside and belt them out while going through his songbooks. We had to stay outside coz my mom said his singing voice wasn't very pleasant back then. Now she says it got better with practice and age. 

I can go on and on and on with all the stories that my heart holds but I think I'll continue some other time.