And Tatay kong Baduy

I REMEMBER one cold morning at school, together with my father and my classmate lined up to pay our tuition fees for the exams on the same day. I remember that day, when my classmate told me she had never seen a daughter and a father close with each other like me and my father do, so close that my father still has the time to kid around despite the pressures of the exams my being senior high school student brought about. She told me she envied me, and that I am so lucky for having a friend in my father. “Should I be really proud of my father? If she only knew” was the first thing I thought of after hearing those words from her.
Being a teenager, I came to this stage of being rebellious. Not that I’m-not-going-back-to-this-house type of drama, but that I-hate-things-about-my-dad type. He’s short-tempered, sloppy, and he snores so loud when he sleeps. I so hated a lot of things about my father that I once wished I was born with another father who deserves all the respect- not bash- in the whole wide world. A father so decent that when you just look at his cleanly shaved beard, nicely done tie, and austere bearing, you will know he is not the type whom you want would mess around with. I hate the way he dresses up. He loves buying stuffs in ukay-ukay. I abhor his being comical to people of total strangers. I hate it when he picks garbage on the street when we walk together, thinking that it can still be reused- if not- repaired. I can’t bear his sermons about relationships, telling that I should at least reach forty before I get myself a boyfriend. I hate it whenever he gives his juicy comment on showbiz clutters out of temper- this I grant an exception; because I heard somewhere that aging people are short-tempered in nature (no offense.)
If you’re through or at the same age as mine, you should have gone through the same problem. I was ashamed of my father that whenever I needed to go somewhere, it’s my mother-at my disposal- who accompanies me. My father does foolish things when we are out together, like picking flowers where a signage tells him not to pick them, or buy substandard home tools along the city sidewalks, which- in my mom’s point of view-is impractical. Those are just some of the things that make my father happy. On the flipside, his happiness was once my nightmare. I was embarrassed of my simpleton father-that’s what I thought of him before. Am I an evil daughter?
I was suddenly struck by a bolt of contemplation. I realized that the things I hated about my father are the exact things why I should be really proud of him. He prefer buying clothes in ukay-ukay because he thinks, instead of spending money on flashy clothes, he could buy them in the price of a single item in malls which would mean a minus to my mom’s bad budgeting. He cracks jokes to people so that he will be able to draw a smile on their faces and to make them realize that life isn’t just about stresses and problems, it’s about making the most out of our one chance existence. He picks up rubbish so that street sweepers wouldn’t have much work to do, considering that they stand in the streets for hours in exchange of small amount of money. My father hated watching showbiz talk shows because he believes television must be a source of entertainment, and entertainment doesn’t mean drawing beings to public humiliation in expense of high ratings and high paying advertisements. About reaching the age of forty for future relationship/s, with that I haven’t found any logic at all.
My father is blessed with so many things-intelligence, charisma, artistry, and-well, good looks (that’s what he says.) I may have hated the way my father dresses, the way he talks and the way he acts, but there’s one thing I hated most about my father- that is, the reality that the things I hated about my father will wither along with time, and in a halt, everything will be forever gone once God says it’s time for him to go. But one thing will never change: I will always be the daughter of my baduy father.

Happy Father's day to all dads out there!