It is a rare privilege to have warm,
caring and talented parents. There was nothing they would not do to help
you become the best that you can
be.
My father, who I call Papa, was known to friends, relatives and the general
public as “Yowing.” Riding through town in his jeep, waves of spontaneous
cheers from children and grown up’s could be heard saying “Yowing.” The
surprising thing about this is that even after 17 years of absence from the
native land while he resided in America, the greetings from children were just
as fresh as before. These children could not have been born when we left
the country.
A natural born statesman, he had a slogan printed across his campaign picture
which said, “Ang matuod nga ulipon sa lungsod.” (The true servant of the
town.) He was elected congressman of the first district of Bohol in 1946.
He was re-elected in 1950. He served his people well. Streams of people
came to the house for private audiences seeking help through my
father. The same was true in Manila where people lined up to see my
father at his office.
He was a great orator. When he speaks during the ‘Seven Last Words’
service at church, he builds up the passion of Christ to a climactic height
effectively moving people to tears. He enhances his speech with sound
effects produced with the simple technological advances of the time. He
uses the same skill in winning votes for his candidacy.
He was an operatic singer, a tenor, an actor, a musician playing the guitar,
banjo and banduria. A well-read person, he can explain concepts using sharp
analogies to tie down the abstract to something concrete. He was an
excellent teacher, injecting humor and brief lessons on human understanding in
his classes.
I wanted to study ballet and that could only be done in Manila. We were
then residing in Bohol and vacationed in Manila in the summer. As we went
from one studio to another to register, my father received one rejection after
another. He did not give up, he knew the reason for the rejection.
We would be tying up a spot only for the summer which would otherwise have been
filled by a year round student. With that knowledge, my father computed the
hours for a year round student taking two or three times a week lesson.
He then asked my older sister, Nany, to take group lessons three times a week,
my brother and I would take three group lessons a week and two private
lessons a week. With the combined hours we got in.
I went to the same college where Papa was teaching. I successfully passed
Trigonometry during the first semester. When summer came, he asked me to
attend his class for review and mastery. I went. Indeed it was a
fresh approach and I learned trigonometry anew plus the joy of teaching.
As a bonus we enjoyed a piece of cake and a cold barley drink together during
the break. In return for this treat, I graded his students’
quizzes. I also joined my father’s field trips to the planetarium as part
of his astronomy class.
Without my knowledge, Papa had my first year college quizzes and other test
papers book bound. It looked so professional. (I later learned that Dr.
Maria Montessori’s father did the same thing to his daughter’s news clippings.)
When faced with difficulty in some chemistry subjects, he bought the textbooks
from Adamson University (a different perspective might help) and he somehow
found a set of problems solved in quantitative and physical chemistry.
His advice was for me to solve every problem in the book, not just the one
assigned. He showed me some memory aids using the Roth memory
course. To this day, I continually make little outlandish
connections to make new learning stick.
At first he was disappointed that I switched from chemistry to education but
later on acknowledged that education is my path to do the work of the
master. He likewise supported me in this endeavor.
Papa was a healer. He first healed through magnetic healing then
augmented this task with homeopathy and radionics. People from far and
near traveled to see him and were cured.
Papa was a writer. He wrote declamatory pieces for me and my sister. He
was also a composer and with Regino Dano, a lifetime friend, he composed Ave
Maria, Romance and other pieces. On his 37th birthday, he wrote a poetic
prose about his romance with my mother entitled, “A Butterfly to a Wild
Rose.” Upon his death at the age of 74, I wrote a sequel, “Butterfly,
Good-bye.” My mother made a fabric picture with a butterfly figure
bearing my father’s photo and a large rose, bearing my mother’s photo.
Three little rose buds completed the scene with each of our pictures – Nany,
Vril and mine.
A renaissance man, a loving father, a faithful husband, a leader, a role model,
a strong believer in the Divine Plan - Oh my Papa, to me you are so
wonderful. Thank you for giving me the vehicle for this life on earth and
for pointing me in the path of righteousness.
Happy Father’s Day, wherever you are!
