A touching personal story of an OFW's daughter whose life evolved around her father's thoughts as evidenced by her choices in life and the way she sees men being fathers. Rowena lives a wonderful and exciting life with her mother and two brothers in Alitagtag, Batangas while she teaches in STI and Faith. She hopes that children of other OFW's and migrants can relate to her story and find their relationships with their parents more valuable while it still lasts.
“You’re getting old and you’re still single.” A usual line punched to me almost everyday of my life. I’d always answer back: “Give me a guy like Romeo and I’d gladly make myself doubled.”   Romeo is my father: patient, kind, understanding. Add to these are some pogi-points: non-smoker, artistic hands, poetic words, great bowler and lastly, with hypnotic, charming smile. He’s not a perfect dad, nor an ideal husband though. He knew that very well, I’m sure. But bread lovers fancied him from Cabanatuan City to Olongapo down to Cavite, where he baked for our small bakery. He was adored by our customers and even the lovely waitresses when we opened a restaurant in Manila. Life was so light and easy for him then. But when both of my brothers were already pulling his pockets down because of high tuition fees, he left the hot oven and headed west to Saudi Arabia. I was only five then. Asthmatic and very weak, I was just beginning to understand the world. But I remembered him very clearly in my young mind. He used to carry me when I was sick and sway me like a dangling partner while dancing his rumba. He taught me my first prayer -- not memorized, but uttered out of my heartfelt wishes (inside the CR).  And while he was driving his ten-wheeler truck in the deserts of Tabuk, Saudi Arabia, my first lessons didn’t end. He taught me how to write my first letter. How to mail an envelope and compute for the carriage fee. Unknown to him, he taught me how to document the simplest life experiences and put them into writing. My diaries were the living witnesses of my communicative skills even when I was a kid. Those were all because I knew my father would be happy to know how I was growing up, even if he’s away. Through letters, he visualized how well I was doing in school, how bad my asthma attacks were and how President Cory Aquino was leading the country then. During his short vacations, he maximized his time for his family and friends. In between morning hang-overs and midnight gimmicks, he taught me my first charcoal strokes for my art class. He gave me my first guitar and voice lessons. Lastly and our most common bonding, he introduced me to the world of wrestling entertainment. Silly and non-sense for some, but while watching Hulk Hogan and Undertaker wrestling against each other, our family was so content, we couldn’t do any activity anymore. At school, I was always a popular kid. As a child of 1980’s, having a father working abroad meant bourgeois-status, a rather stable financial footing. My brothers were able to finish their respective engineering courses because of the ten-wheeler trucks my dad drove in the arid Arabian deserts. That alone…was already a great achievement for my father. Then he got sick. I was only in high school then. Frequent chest pains disabled him to continue driving. He went home for a vacation but he didn’t manage to go back. Medical certificates barred him to work abroad. Luckily, both of my brothers were almost graduating. My mom was able to save enough to continue a small business. Years passed by and we noticed that staying at home – jobless -- didn’t do any good for him. He became alcoholic and he was consumed with Alzheimer’s disease, a mental condition he got from my Lolo. But he managed to keep a special bonding with me. As the youngest and only daughter, I felt blessed that he’s my dad. He’d drive me to school and pick me up after late-night activities. Always cool and patient, he would always wait for me and my friends to finish our school projects and even drove us to places we needed to go. When I finished my MassCom degree, I chose him to climb upstage to pin my award as Best Writer. I got it because of Romeo…so I gave it back to him. Dusk. Laguna BelAir. February 12, 2003. A couple of days before my 24th birthday, a phone call from a cousin staggered my ears. I was teaching my Korean students then. A spelling test, if I remember it right. Your dad was rushed to the hospital…heart attack. I tried to calm down for I had actually prepared myself for that kind of call. My student HeeSoo was stunned, too. Since his dad was then working back in Korea, and he’s studying in the Philippines, somehow despite his young age, he was able to understand. I managed to finish my class before another phone call. And then numbness. Total darkness.  He was only 60, but for him, it was already a good age. He was already in his coffin when I came home. I requested my brothers to open the lid for me, so I can kiss him one last time. I’d be honest. That night when I kissed him -- was the only time I mentioned the lines "I love you Tatay". I knew he heard me…and I knew that he replied. Among his children, I was the closest to him, yet…I failed to open up my feelings when I grew up. I was still detached of verbal skills to express my gratitude for all his kindness. Maybe it’s the years that he was away from me when I was growing. But I’m sure he felt it from me -- together or apart. I’m sure. My pen still insists to scribble more…for there’s more to tell about my dad’s little (but great) achievements. He’s got good memories when he was in Saudi…written in his diaries. But I chose to scribble mine. My memories, which could probably inspire more OFW children to write their own memoirs. Memories – which our parents might not know…only in our heads, but we must really let go.  Ms. Sua 10-27-06. | 
