Of flawed dads and errant daughters

Motherhood has been celebrated and idealized so much in art and literature– and yes even in our minds – it almost sounds like a cliché. A mother is so highly revered she is almost deified: the “holiest thing alive” (Samuel Coleridge), “the sweetest sound to mortals given” (William Goldsmith Brown), the one God had to create “because He couldn’t be everywhere at the same time” (Jewish proverb). In my generation, one of the first songs we learned was the mushy, catchy tune about she “who ran to help me when I fell and would some pretty stories tell (stories tell) and kissed the place to make it well (it well) …”

Fatherhood, comparatively, is handled as light-weight stuff. To be sure, dads are treated affectionately, but also often flippantly, sometimes irreverently. A dad is usually remembered for his practical uses: “a banker provided by nature” (French proverb); “ “the provider for all, the enemy of all” (J August Strinberg); someone equivalent “to a hundred schoolmasters” (English proverb); a person who “just has a way of putting things together” (Erica Cosby). As a child of 14, Mark Twain recalls “an ignorant father” whom he "could hardly stand to have around." “But when I got to be 21,” he hastens to add, “ I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”

The physical bond between mother and child is so blatantly represented by the umbilical cord. Alas, fathers have no such overt ties. They have no wombs to carry their young in; no flowing breasts to suckle and nurture them with; they are deemed to have participated little in human creation except at the hour of conception. Nowadays, with artificial insemination and upcoming sperm-in-a-dish technology, they need not be physically around at the crucial sperm-meets-egg moment.

The biological gap with fathers is often exacerbated by the patriarch’s traditional role of providing for the family. Dad has to leave home when the sun rises, often when kids are still in bed, and doesn’t come back until nightfall – tired and stressed and hungry and unable to relate to their young in touchy-feely ways except for the perfunctory hug, kiss, and “how was your day, kid?”

And yet, he is expected to be the disciplinarian – the one who should not spare the rod. “Wait till I tell your father you did this and didn’t do that,” a mom would often threaten a misbehaving youngster.

When a marriage flounders and eventually breaks, it is often assumed it is Dad’s fault. He is supposed, often unfairly, to be the one more easily seduced (than moms) by the lure of barkada, drinking, gambling, extramarital flings, and other threats to family happiness.

No wonder, Dads, poor dads, are regarded as “provider for all, enemies to all.”

And yet -- what would life be for all of us without our fathers? They can be the sweetest, most indulgent, most protective of all creatures.

"Wrapped in his arms I feel sheltered, safe from a world that sometimes scares me."

- Anon.

Come to think of it, families and society in general seem to demand too much of a father. He needs to be strong like Superman, provide like a tycoon, discipline like a Zen guru, show a good moral example like Caesar’s wife, banter like a best buddy. In addition, he should be fun to be with – like Bill Cosby or Dolphy.

My friend has this memory of her father which she calls a “mixed bag of sweet, sour, and bitter.“

“I loved-hated my dad,” she began.

She goes on:

He was the sentimental one in the family. When anyone of us was ailing, he virtually climbed the wall. As a baby, (I was told) I fell down a steep stairway. He was so wracked by anxiety, grief and guilt – he was supposed to be keeping an eye on me – he was disconsolate. “Tulo sipon at luha,” my mom recounted to me.

He loved to indulge us, when he had the resources, which he ofen hadn’t. He would come home from where he was currently assigned – usually from the province – and take us to shopping sprees to Escolta and Azcarraga (where the shoe stores were located) which was then followed by the inevitable mami-siopao at Mamonluk. Once, he mock-scolded me: “Neneng, don’t you love me? “ I must have mumbled "I do." Well, then,” he boomed, “why don’t you ever kupit (take money without permission) from my wallet like your sisters and brothers do?”

He expected his children to do well in school and make it to the honor list. Whenever I had a red mark on my report card, I’d become a shaking bundle of fear as I waited for him to look at and sign it. A "75" was a no-no, that was the law. He didn’t spank us, never did. But the disappointed face and angry words stung more than any beating could.

Wanting to get married at 22, I was quickly given his blessings when I asked for it. After all, he had by then conducted a character and status check on my boyfriend.

My dad must be the most charming man on earth. He was malambing and sweet-tongued and funny. He had a pair of beautiful eyes that lit up and then turned dreamy (namumungay) at the sight of beautiful young women, including the dispatsadoras of Escolta and Azcarraga. Our family life had turbulent moments because of this predilection. He tried to defend it by saying he had a big enough heart to accommodate many."I don't love your mother any less," he would say, which we would meet with a "tell-it-to-the-marines" look.

That was the wedge that divided us. Years before he died, I wrote him a letter indicting him for turning my mom into a sad and bitter woman. I feared, I told him, not being able to cry when he died.

He never replied to that cutting letter. When we met, he behaved as though it was never written and sent. But I guess he turned more silent and reserved.

I did cry at his funeral. Deep, wracking sobs that came as much from the pain of loss as from a sense of guilt.

At the end of the telling, I squeezed my friend’s hands as her eyes misted. Handing her a piece of tissue paper, I summarized what she said for her: “All I am seeing is that your Dad was perfect – almost.”

‘Yes,” she agreed. "I demanded too much from him."

Photo: “Hand with shadows, father & daughter” by Chris Darling, c/o Flickr. Some Rights Reserved

Add this page to your favorite Social Bookmarking websites