Before Sept. 7
This was published in 2003 in the Philippine Daily inquirer two months after my father passed away.
——-
Before September 7
MY dad, Florentino Silos Silverio, died last September 7 of an aneurysm. He was 55. He would have been 56 last October 16. Days before that day, instead of panicking over what book, CD, shirt or shoes we would get him, my mother and elder sister Majalla gathered fragile, yellow flowers to put on his grave in Santiago City, Isabela. Yellow was my father’s favorite color.
He gave me my name. I was six when he first told me what my mouthful of a name meant: "Ina" means "Little Girl"(I forget in which language. When he gave my kitten Mariah her name, he said it meant "wind." ); "Alleco" is the combination of the first name and surname of a dear friend, political officer Alexander Cristoforo who was killed during martial law; and "Allende" is obviously lifted from the name of Chile’s President Salvador Gossens Allende who was assassinated by orders of the United States government.
He took charge of my religious upbringing. He taught me the tenets of Buddhism, Islam, Confucianism and Judaism when I was growing up. He didn’t allow me to be baptized in the Catholic Church right away, making my mom afraid her youngest daughter would go straight to hell. Papa always said children should be allowed to choose their religious beliefs, if they wanted to have any. He said children should be taught the differences between ideology, faith and religion first-these and the differences between religions right down to the historic and political contexts that formed them.
For a time I wanted to practice the Jewish faith. I had read "The Diary of Anne Frank" and liked the idea of Hannukah, with the dreidels, potato latkes and shining brass menorahs. But then Dad told me all about Gaza, the anti-Zionist movement, the Palestinian struggle and how young children fought alongside their parents with bows and arrows, rocks and slingshots to defend their side of the border.
Then I wanted to be a Buddhist, and got interested in the idea of reincarnation. I was ready to shave my head and walk around with a begging bowl. But Dad said I was too picky with food, and much too headstrong and proud to rely on the kindness of strangers. He also said that there was such a thing as class exploitation, and if reincarnation were true, most of the cockroaches and other pests must be big businessmen and landlords in their original lives feed off the sweat of others.
What clinched the argument for me, though, was his warning that if I were ever to reincarnate, given all the headaches I had caused my yayas, I’d be reborn as a tick or a termite. I never seriously considered turning Muslim because, though I admired Mohammed from the stories Papa told me, I thought wearing a jellaba in 35 degree weather would suffocate me. Also, Papa said that studying Islam required intelligence and patience, and I was nowhere near having either of them. Mostly though, he said that I would most likely sneak out to eat bacon.
Thus, my mom won and I became Catholic when I was 11.
A former seminarian, Papa told me stories of St. Francis de Assisi, St.John the Beloved, and his personal favorite saint, St. Therese, The Little Flower. And as if to put the fear of God in me, at night he narrated all the ghost and monster stories he’d ever heard growing up in the province: about the mambabarang, the kapre, the tikbalang and the mandurugo who butchered children caught playing outside the house between 1 and 2 p.m. and mixed their coagulated blood to strengthen the cement used on the foundations of bridges.
I saw my father doing and being many things when I was growing up. He was a political analyst and researcher/writer for the Department of National Defense (it’s a long story how he got there from being a member of Kabataang Makabayan and a seminarian), a teacher of sociology and world history, a cat and dog lover, a guitar player, a farmer, a speed reader, and an ambidextrous writer. He cooked the best chicken sopas, ginisang munggo and instant pancit canton. He was a fiercely competitive chess and scrabble player, never conceding a single point to his exasperated daughters. He sang to the ’60s, danced to the ’80s, read Neruda, Sartre, Gandhi and Kafka, and ably explained the intricate plots of early afternoon Mexican telenovelas. He also used to do impressions of politicians and Sammy Davis Jr.
When, after college, I made my decision not to pursue a career for the income I would earn but instead joined the movement of the oppressed and exploited, Papa did not stop me. He had always been a romantic, a dreamer-someone who spent his youth with farmers in Isabela and squatters in various communities in Manila. He raised us to be independent, to decide for ourselves, and to not be attached to material things. He looked at me, asked me if I was sure, told me to be careful and never do anything that would cause my mother pain or anguish.
But of all the things I learned from Papa, the most important thing was love. Even when he was rubbing alcohol and mercurochrome on the wounds I got because of clumsiness in the playground, he was firm but gentle, and I never cried. I grew up without being squeamish about saying "love you" to my parents. He taught us that by example. There were times when my sister and I would pretend to retch whenever he expressed sweetness to Mama. He used to bring her flowers-stolen from our neighbors’ hedges and vines. He called mom "Sweetheart" ; and me & "Palakol," or "Pating" on account of my tendency when I was still a child to bite people whenever I got upset. As for Ate Majalla, he called her simply that: Majal, or Love. Their relationship was much sombre than ours was. Ate Majalla’s a geek.
It happened on a Sunday morning. I was at the office, working overtime to finish Bayan Muna Representative Crispin Beltran’s privileged speech on the people’s position regarding the World Trade Organization meeting in Cancun, Mexico.
I was thinking how great it was that Papa taught me how to form idea outlines in my head, and how to organize sentences fast when I had a deadline to beat. The aircon was humming quietly, and the mug of tea I was drinking was still sending up fragrant fumes.
I felt alive, productive, my father’s daughter.
Then the phone rang and I heard my sister’s voice breaking on the other line.
He was the strongest influence in my life, and I loved him very, very much.
The heart stops briefly when someone it loves dies,
a quick pain as you hear the news, and someone passes from your outside life to inside.
Slowly the heart adjusts to its new weight,
and slowly everything continues, sanely.#
