Friday, December 13, 2002
I never sang for my father - THE COMMENTARY
By Joseph Planta
VANCOUVER – It's Christmas time once again. You can literally feel it in the air. For me, Christmas is always a strange time, because I grew up in house where it was a big thing. Family would come and I'd be pained by helping out my Dad prepare Christmas dinner for family that sometimes you'd only see once a year. This will be the second Christmas I'll spend without my Dad and without the family over at the house. In a way it's a relief, but in a way too, it is hard getting off of a habit that is part of ones consciousness for so long.
Being true to oneself and telling it like it is are two "rules" if you will, that I try to live up to as much as possible. One ought not to shy away from confronting problems or a fight, to do so would render oneself a coward. My Dad's always told me to avoid trouble and I suppose the sentiment is honourable. However, I don't usually mind getting into a scrap once in a while. I enjoy verbal jousts frankly.
My critics often decry the way this column has turned into a diary for me. I don't think it has become a diary, but I also make no apologies about the column being about me from time to time. The very nature of this column, is that it is an extension of one's self. Here and now, allow me some thoughts about my Dad. I happen to think about him this time of year more than any other. If I were to say my father wasn't an influence in my life, I'd be lying. He isn't a total influence, because that's not what an influence is supposed to be. There are things of his personality that don't rub off on me, as well as things that he does, that I invariably emulate.
Comparing me to another friend of ours, a friend noted that I don't try to separate my family life from that of the one I share with my friends. I tended to disagree, because naturally the self that we present in public is often a different version than the one we deal with in private. As we get older, the two tend to come together more and for that we have to blame age. The gilded cage gets narrower, I guess.
Last year, my Dad wasn't around for Christmas. He went ‘home' to The Phillippines. I put emphasis on home, because he's always considered The Phillippines his home, regardless of the fact he naturalised himself a Canadian and I was born here and consider Canada my home. I grew up knowing that one day, when my father retired he would go home. It doesn't break my heart but at face value it certainly is not a normal arrangement. Mind you, I wasn't too broken up when he left. I knew it would happen one day and it's not like he's dead. He's just living somewhere else. He and my Mum aren't divorced and both don't even consider themselves separated. He's just off on holidays and me and Mum are home pursuing our lives. I've got school, she's got work. Dad calls home regularly and that's that.
What is causing me some introspection and deep thought this last little while, is that I am in fact growing up. In a way, standing back and looking at it, it's all happening very fast. I don't dress like my father at all. Good God, no. His desired outfit was usually a white T-shirt and jeans. Gosh, I'd never wear anything without a collar for a shirt and my pants, I prefer pressed with neat creases. He'd shave once in a while, whilst I'd do it more regularly. I guess, my dander gets raised when people say, I'm just like my father. I guess I want to be my own person, rather than live with the shadow of someone else.
Do I resent him not being here? No. Absolutely not. He was not the world's easiest person to live with. He is irascible and not at all patient. He does cast a giant shadow and often for himself rather than the protection of others. But he did give me some wonderful lessons in how to be a better person. It is obvious though that those lessons are on how to be a better person than he was.
The house is often lonely. But it's better this way. It's better for him and it is better for me. I once overheard some stranger talking about their mother. It piqued my interest because the way he felt about her, was the way I felt about my Dad: It's easier to love him when he's far away. No matter what someone does to you, or what someone doesn't, when they're gone you miss them terribly. I guess more than I miss my Dad, I am lamenting my fleeting youth and overwhelmed by this long day's journey into adulthood.
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