Young 'uns

I never really get to know my son that much as I would want to. It is not due to the fact that we are 6 hours away from each other or anything that has to do with proximity. We really click it when we hang around the city with our little snacks and drinks and mischief that is innate in every boy. We're really both messy, sweaty and angry. It's true, we are angry. I don't really know how that happened or what but I know I'm an angry person and my son has probably inherited much of that rage from me. He'd throw fits every now and then, cry about things he couldn't get and look all mushy and cuddly right after. He's a handsome bastard, more handsome than his male predecessors. I guess that's how children are, I guess that's how my son takes after me than most ways that I can think of.

I make sure that I see him as often as I could and not miss the most important parts of his young life. He is a good kid, I know that, every parent does when they're dealing with their kids. He may be a bit of a snotty kid but he's really the sweetest, even sweeter than her mother (that part, I admit, I had nothing to do with.) My last visit was like the usual, eating out, buying stuff and doing the same old family thing. We do what we can. It's fun like that.

We tried to bring him to the barber for a cut but he was having none of it. He scolded me and his mum and even the barber for having him try to sit on the chair. He was angry like that, plus, he wanted a bottle of milk and his afternoon nap. He was just furious and teary eyed but still handsome as ever.

It happened to be the last week of the Panagbenga 2013. Session Road was closed for a week and was commissioned to be full of stalls that showcase the different trades and crafts of the modern Filipino. Food was the number one priority for me, though. Nothing beats the variety of food available during the event and be ready for the extra pounds

His mum lined up for an order of Ilocos empanada (which unfortunately was a waste of money, it was an injustice to call it such since the genuine Ilocos empanada is as heavenly as food can get.) She ordered that the little prince be walked around for a while so he wouldn't be irritable or anything and to get him away from the burning heat of the day. That's just what I did, I carried him around like a trophy. I heaved and huffed and the sweat started to show. It was a mess, I was a mess. He was enjoying the sights though he had a scrunched expression on his face, he got that from me. Beams of light peeked through and felt like heat from a nearby oven. I watched my son look on and about and at different things and faces that we passed by.

The pretentious oily mess that posed like empanada was not yet ready so we turned and walked further. We walked past a local office supplies store and my prince started wriggling on and about. He was pointing at something on the display of the store. Of course, I had to stop. Everything for my little boy, of course. He was pointing at the toys on display. I asked him which one he liked and he just said "That one." I pointed to everything at the display until the last one. I figured he wouldn't want that one, but he did. He pointed at the a cheap looking toy set, a cook set.

I told him he wouldn't want that because it was for girls but he insisted on buying it. He was starting to get angry then. I urged him not to get the toy but he really wanted to get it. He was starting to get teary eyed and his cheeks flushed. I carried him back to his mum to ask for the go signal. He was having none of my behavior and attitude towards what he wanted to do. His mum gave the green light and back we went to the store. I gave him a hundred, he held it firmly in his right hand. He knew he was getting that toy set. He just knew it.

I think I was supposed to be angry at that thing. About the fact that my son wanted to play with girly toys. But what he did next taught me more than I could teach him. He was slicing the toy veggies and meat and put it inside the casserole, he was careful to put it on the stove and check the flame level. He was keen and bright like that. 

"Daddy, cook. Luto!"

I know I'm an angry man but when it comes to him, I'm just like a neophyte again, undergoing a further initiation into a bigger responsibility and humbling experience. He was angry but patient enough with his dad. It made me think how people make up the constructs inside their heads and try to impose them on their kids and the younger generations. It always had to do with rules and the main prospect of following it, to the letter. The construct of being gay has something to do with toys, colors, dainty things and queer stuff but really, they don't. And people should stop being angry for the wrong reasons.

And as my son taught me, parents shouldn't be always the ones to jump the gun and reinforce the fate they want for their children. They just want to play, they need to play, even if they had to do so with their own choices and preference. He wanted to play with the cook set because he associated it with his mama and papa cooking dinner and yummy snacks for him, not because he was gay or what. And so what if he was? So what if he chooses that path in the future? It isn't a disease that can be cured or a decision that can be swayed with indoctrination and severe enforcement.

He really loves that cook set. I think I'll build him a real kitchen in the future. I'll have my own angry cook. Flushed but with taste.

Side Mirror

On the way to work, I saw a portrait of a father and son. 

It was on the jeepney and it sat on the the right side mirror. They were sitting on the front passenger seat. At first it was awkward, the way the two sat side by side. The father was scolding the kid, he was sort of angry for things that needed context for me to fully understand and comprehend.

He was being angry for a lot of different things, really. I couldn't hear exactly what it is but the tone of the father's voice was enough to tell me that he took it seriously. He had an expression of wrinkled anger. The lines on his old and sun-burnt skin showed and creased as he continued to scold his kid. The son was about 14. He had a cheap haircut and he looked like he didn't even take a bath just to go with his father. The simple distress in his face was enough to tell anyone that he was sorry and that it was not fun to be scolded at. More so inside a jeepney where more people, strangers can hear it. He had a creased face, too. Not out of old age but from the way his father was scolding him.

The father stopped talking. He looked out into the dusty and pollution-ridden streets of Quezon City up into the Memorial Circle. We were nearing one of the most congested places in the city, also nearing one of the most deadliest highways: Commonwealth. The driver sped past the rushing vehicles and onto the mouth of the highway. Public buses dragged on with a trail of smoke. The father covered his son's nose, only then noticing that he had fallen asleep; his head bobbing to the traffic and the steering of the jeepney.

As the father looked on, it was evident that he didn't mean to be angry at his son. He had that continued crease on his face, on his brows. I am just assuming here but it felt like he was contemplating on what he had said earlier. He took his hand and put it on his kid's head, leaning it on his left shoulder. The father tapped his son's head two times and kept it close to keep it from bobbing around. Ever so lightly, he kissed his sleeping son's head and kept his hand on the side of his face.

The kid slept throughout the rest of the ride. They happened to get off at the same stop that I did. And into the busy pedestrian streets, they joined the stream of ordinary people, unknown to them that they just told a great story.

That portrait of a father and son is something that digs at me. It didn't have a single frame, it was composed of many shots full of complexity but is simple enough to be understood even without context. 

It could easily have been a short film in my head.

smoky weekend

It's a Monday. Another Monday in an endless and vicious cycle of weeks and months and years. Hopefully, I'd get to take my money home for last month's worth of work.

Anyhow, there are a few things that are worth writing about today. Well, all of them happened during the weekend. I was lazing around during last Saturday. It was sticky and humid. Another sleepy weekend. I got a call from a friend, he was asking me what I was up to. I sheepishly answered 'Not much. Just trying to get some more sleep." He told me to come over, I did, and so did other friends. We were gathered to hear news. He told me on the phone that he'd rather tell the story personally.

I was first on the scene, he was grilling some homemade burgers. They were delicious. As other friends arrived (most of us came from the same high school but we never really got to hang out in the same group of friends.) He popped the news. He was already a dad. It didn't come out as a surprise to most of us, the surprise was he was a father for almost three months. The kid was beautiful. Congratulatory remarks came after and so did the story behind it. He himself told us that it felt like it came from a comedy script. I'll write more about that later on.

We enjoyed drinks and snacks and helluva lotta laughter. We remembered different tales from the not so distant past. But it felt like it was a decade ago. Come to think of it, we're half past due on those stories. We got acquainted with each other's current dilemmas and idiosyncrasies about being on the post-college phase.

Sharing a paunch with the new dad and son. 
They have identical perfect domes for an old man cut.

Fatherhood has different faces. For my dear friend, and for me, as I put it all up in my idea board of a mind: his story was that of irony and quirkiness. His daddy face is somewhat of a guy reading a magazine or a book or an online article on a hot afternoon. He is a fellow writer, and a god damn good one at that. Straight fucking A of a writer and he's now a dad. His story will be unfolding and it feels script worthy. I know it is. I feel it is. We just have to think of ways to write it.

I don't know how he'll react to this. I know he'll be reading this post and I didn't get the chance to fully congratulate him. Good job. You'll be a great father and friend to your son. He'll grow up to be a weird but brilliant hipster just like his old man and sweet mom.

Another noteworthy thing is a friend having the same feelings about work and making it big and happy in the fucking world. "Tara. Game ako dyan. Tapos magreresign ako, magbibisyo at magsusulat. Maganda pa t-shirt ko" like minded shit from a brilliant mind. I just put my friends in such high regard and they deserve every bit of it.

We kinda hooked it up on making my project work. It'll be more than a collaboration, more of a partnership. With his help, I know we can make something good with our god-given talents and ill skillz. I love that dude, no homo.

Quit our jobs. Do our shit. Write the hell out of every emotion, injustice, unfortunate event and other shit. Do more shit. Feed our vices and do more shit. And as icing to the cake, we get to have cool threads. How fucking good is that? And we'd get tatted up like we own our bodies. Sorry moms.

Head strong, boiiieee.

Wee King

"Afternoons are always lonelier for one little boy. He missed his parents so much but they had to work to days' end. They were not a wealthy family but they live comfortably. He used to cry when his parents leave the house. He clutches his parents' clothes and cry 'Mama, Papa.' How he loved his parents, he just did not know how much he did at the time. He was a kid. A child, a rightful heir to everything that the universe has to offer. He still did not know that at the time.

Then he grew up smart. Maybe, too smart. He grew mean because of all the new things he learned. He learned quick and thought high of himself. His parents were too late to see what has happened. He loved them, still. And they, him.

The universe conspired to bring him a little boy. A little boy strong enough to have made him cry the hardest and loudest. That little boy reminded him of what he didn't know. That little jailer reminded him how much he didn't know of things and how much he wanted to learn more. The once sobbing, snotty boy was now a captive. He could not resist the charms of the little one. His wee image of what he once was.

He remembered the universe conspiring, well, he thought that one time. He was not the rightful heir to everything that the universe has to offer. Someone snatched it from him before he even knew. But that someone is now the reason he offers the universe to one man, a tiny little man who has forever chained and changed his mean heart. He was happy. He was holding his universe in his own arms."

Lit time! Oyea! Little kid stories... right in the heartszs.

Babes

Dahil usapang bata na lang din naman, ipapaskil
ko na rin ang picture ng anak kong nasobrahan sa
kagwapuhan. Pasensya na po at proud lang talaga ako.
(Gab before his 1st year)

Ang saya tignan ng mga reaksyon ng mga bata. Mangingiti ka sa pag-iisip kung ano ang itsura mo noong ikaw ang nasa ganoong edad. Anim na buwan? Isang taon? E pano pag 3 years old na? Ano kaya ang mga kalokohan mo noon?

Pauwi ako mula trabaho nang may makasakay akong magnanay sa jeep. Mestiza yung nanay at mukhang may dugong banyaga. Maging ang batang lalaking karga nya ay ganun din. Yun nga lang, may kakaiba sa bata. Parang Caucasian ang ama nito. Tisoy, halata pating gwapo. Hindi ko maidescribe pero ganun. Manipis ang buhok nya at pabilog ang hugis ng mukha. Mahabang mga pilik mata ang pumipitik pitik habang nakasakay sya sa jeep.

Post-halloween unrelated post

Getting back to writing. It has been a few days since I've really thought of making anything interesting. Aside from the tattoo designs that I'm planning to get, nothing seems more of a buzz to do.

Here's a good thing though, the past few days have been very eventful: I got the chance to spend Tita's first death anniversary (it's nearing the 26th already, it's been a quick year and she is still sorely missed) and I got to visit my Lolo Pikong and Lola Gloria, still side by side even in their final resting place. 

My Lolo and Lola were grand people or so my father would lavishly recall. Lola Gloria would wake them up early in the morning to do the chores: split firewood, heat the cauldron where they make the kakanin they have to sell on the streets and at their school, fetch water for their everyday baths. Papa always had the time to tell the story of how he got that burn on the side of his left butt cheek. He said it was from the dagta of a mango tree he religiously scaled for ripe fruits to sell or eat at home.

Lolo Pikong on the other hand always referred to me as Mac Mac. He was of Spanish descent. And as I can remember; he had fine silver hair and more than fair skin. You could see the blood in his features. Espanyol. He'd always give me ice cream money whenever we visited him in Magdalena. 50 pesos for me and 20 pesos for my Kuya Pao who would then hustle me the money afterwards. Papa said Lolo was very strict and he had a belt to impose discipline on his children.

It has been years since I last set foot on Magdalena. Many things changed: houses were bigger, everything was semi-urbanized but the welcoming feeling was always there (not to mention Rambutan fruits as big as half fists.) It was a fine feeling, knowing that that place was where I could trace my less than average roots.

Another thing that I got to do in the past days was to visit my kid in Baguio. Papa was with me. He enjoyed the night market and the pretty girls that scoured the cold streets for cheap thrills and good buy's. Lots of skin were exposed to the cold Baguio night and they embraced the cold as it was a reprieve from the punishing heat of the Metro. Papa scored a fleece jacket by The North Face, he planned on wearing it on the bus. I said 'No.' Papa also got to enjoy his grandson. He reveled in the sight of outflung arms of a small replica of himself. I thought I saw a little tear in his eye when my kid yelled 'Lolo! Lolo! Lolo!' His arms grew happily tired under the weight of my son he so gladly swung as he did with me back in the day.

I'd take a picture of the two doppelgangers but I had wrecked my phone last week. I also managed to leave our camera. So, I suck. It could have been a better weekend with pictures of the grampa and grandson wolfing down quarter pound burgers and running around Camp John Hay, which, on a different topic, has been fully commercialized and dubbed as Techno Hub.

We were happy and it had a lingering effect up to this time. Oh, yeah. I managed to sneak in two Uniqlo walking shorts for 130 php a pop. Not bad, no? Plus, I got to discover the wonder of a fish shaped ice cream sandwich with red bean filling. It beats Magnum in every field. Again, I would have taken a picture but I had wrecked my phone as I said earlier. 

No pictures for now, sorry.

Son, read my blog

NOTE: This will be a longer than usual post.

“He wants to live on through something – and in his case, his masterpiece is his son... all of us want that, and it gets more poignant as we get more anonymous in this world.” – Arthur Miller

I can never explain the quirks of being a father just in words, not even in volumes of writing that I may force my weird looking fingers to write. The feeling is just weirdly beautiful in a way, and somewhat disturbing and superficial. From here on, I would like to say sorry due to the fact that I have avoided this topic for a great deal of time, confining my realizations and acceptance to myself (note that not all realizations and acceptance are of necessarily good.)

There are things that will definitely change when you become a dad, especially a young one (in my experience.) That leap towards parenthood is frightening enough that you retort to that basic human instinct: fight or flight.