I never really knew my father. I was just ten years old, when he died at 47 of an aneurism, but not after having brain surgery and staying for almost a month in the hospital. This depleted our entire savings and insurance funds. We had a newly built home at the back of my grandmother’s house with a huge home loan to pay off. Mom sold off our car and took in boarders for a living since we lived in the university belt. From a cosseted life, we were suddenly poor, and had to make drastic changes in our lifestyle. To this day, I wonder how my widowed Spanish mom, just 32 years, with five young children aged 3 to 11 managed to bring us up and give us a good education. I marvel at her indomitable strength of spirit, and the sacrifices she endured far from her native land and her beloved siblings.
But this note is about my father. He was obviously loved and respected by his family, friends and colleagues. Flowers sent by well-wishers during his wake lined the walls of San Sebastian Church several feet deep. Eulogies at the jam-packed MLQ University auditorium were heartfelt and reverent. A long caravan of cars and buses accompanied his final journey to La Loma.
A romantic, I know that he loved my mom deeply. I remember listening to one of my dad’s friends as he paid his respects to my mom, assuring her he had always been faithful to her. He even wrote a book of love poems in Spanish and English for her. He met her while studying for his doctorate in law at the Universidad Central de Madrid. She was then an apprentice, learning how to sew from Dona Maria, my dad’s landlady in Madrid. He was smitten by her beauty and ended his days of bachelorhood soon after he finished his doctorate. Then 34, he took his 19-year old bride home to Manila (yes, he was a cradle snatcher!). My aunts used to say that a lot of women cried when they found out that Manila’s most eligible bachelor had gotten married.
Curious about him, I checked out his resume in Asia’s Who’s Who. Extremely intelligent, he seemed to collect honours upon honours throughout his education (i.e., grade school valedictorian at San Beda College, high school valedictorian at Far Eastern University, magna cum laude for A.A. and LL.B. at FEU, summa cum laude for A.B.at FEU, and sobresaliente for his LL.D. at the Universidad Central de Madrid). He garnered the Distinguished Alumnus Award for Legal Education and Jurisprudence at FEU, the Distinguished Alumnus Award for Education at San Beda College, and a Cultural Medal from the Republic of China, among others. No wonder, my aunts kept on urging us to study and be like our dad!
A prolific writer and a linguist (22 languages), he authored several publications in different languages, including La Telepatia Mental; Los Cuasi Contrators del Codigo Civil de Filipinas; books on Roman Law, Institute of Justinian, Legal History, a Primer of Land Registration, Legal Ethics, Pleading & Briefmaking, Rules of the Court, Primer of Jurisprudence, Simplified Bar Reviewer on Commercial Law, Aboriginal Justice in the Philippines, and many, many more. Interestingly enough, he also wrote English Grammar for Chinese Students, Eddies (Poems), Tropic Lyre (Collection of Poetry), The Lost Art(Chinese Bone Therapy) in Chinese, and The Gentle Art of Judo.
He must have had a tremendous sense of humor. Leafing through a very old school annual which he had edited, I chuckled at his witty writing, and the way he made fun of things. My mom said he had lots of friends, and would often go out with them.
As consul of Monaco to the Philippines, my father would attend social and diplomatic events. I would stay up excitedly watching my parents prepare to go out. Standing 6’4″, my dad cut a tall and handsome figure in his coat tails as he escorted my beautiful mother in her terno. He even had two television shows: Yoga on Channel 7 and Yoga for You on Channel 13, but since we were not allowed to watch TV while studying, I only learned about this while reading his biography.
Dad was vice president of Rico Life Insurance. Early on, he practiced law as a partner in his own firm with a dear friend, Emil Tuazon. He stopped practicing and turned to teaching, when a client who had run over a little girl reneged on a promise to take care of her financially after my dad successfully defended him in court. His heart was no longer in it.
An educator, dad taught law and arts at MLQ, FEU, San Beda College, Ateneo, and the Asian Social Institute. Despite his being strict, his students loved him. One of the people who serve at our parish studied under my father, and would regale me with stories of how my dad would teach with his eyes closed while delivering verbatim statutes and legal decisions. He was teaching in class when he had his stroke.
Aside from law, he also taught subjects in philosophy, letters and business. His interests were far-ranging, as he also taught mnemonics, Hatha-Yoga, judo, weightlifting, tumbling, acupuncture & cautery, Chinese bone therapy, muscle control, and hypnotism. He dabbled in painting and poetry.
He was also dean of the graduate school at MLQ, and a bar reviewer. As a young child, I thought my dad was quite the drunkard because whenever I would ask my mom where he was, she would say he was at the bar review. Little did I know that this meant reviewing law students for their board examination.
I remember a gentle giant who would talk in his deep voice to my mom at the dinner table. One who would bring us Sunday mornings to mass then to Luneta where we would run in the grass, ride the double-decked bus, licking our Dairy Queen ice cream and holding on to our balloons. One who would bring us to Chinatown to the barbershop (yes, I had my hair cut at the barbershop, together with my brothers) and who would hold me by the neck (I guess, he was tall and I was short) while crossing the street. One who patiently taught me how to use chopsticks so I could demonstrate this in my Show and Tell session in grade school. One who would sing “Lemon Tree” and “Que sera, sera” with gusto in the mornings while dressing for work. One who would tell us not to bother him while he practiced his yoga at the forbidden third floor. One whose strong yet gentle hands would give us healing massages whenever we were sick (there was a famous action movie star who cried like a baby in our living room while my father set his broken bones; dad gently chastised him saying his own children never cried when they were massaged). One who never spanked me even when I was being naughty. One who always made me feel secure and loved whenever he was around.
Truth is, no matter how famous or accomplished one’s father is, what a child treasures are the special moments spent together. Oh, how I wish we had more time together! I love you, Daddy!