Family

To my mother

/ iamsupercarla / Leave a comment

Cliches of all cliches, of course I just had to make a mothers’ day post.  Hahaha.

A lot of people repeatedly say that I look like my mother.  But that’s probably the only thing we have in common.  She’s a math person, I am not.  She’s neat and tidy, I am not.  She does not trust cabs, I can practically run a franchise.  We have almost absolutely nothing in common.

I take a lot after my dad, from the positives to the negatives.  I think that’s why my mother and I are pretty close.  It was because of my dad.  Much like a thief hating the existence of another thief, she makes sure that my father and I understand each other, at the risk of me misunderstanding her.  Which is often the case.  It’s not ideal, but I think she knew that being the only daughter, my relationship with my father has to be built on rock solid foundation.

And that is her.  I don’t think I would have appreciated my father if it weren’t for her constant reminder that it was the both of them that constantly brag about me and my achievements, from the most minute to the biggest.  If it weren’t for her, I would have rebelled so much in my youth (but this is not a complete admission that I am fucking old) to the point of self-destruction.  I got that from my father; we both have the ability to self-detonate.

But my mother held us together.  That one is for sure.

She still hates that I swear.  And that my skirts are too short.  And my dresses are too frilly.  My pants too tight.  That I color my hair in the most outrageous shades by her standards (red, copper, blonde).  That I shop too much.  That I eat out too much.

But if I want a night of pure talking — both gossip and fact — about the future, about the news, basically about anything under the sun, without judgment or prejudice or bias, over a good meal and maybe a movie — definitely over dessert after whatever we do — my default companion will always be my mother.

Nanay

Happy Mothers’ Day.

Getting inked

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I have always wanted to get a tattoo. The art embedded right under the skin entices me, with the body looking like a walking canvass.  Most of my family will not agree with me; they will always see these things as dirty and inappropriate.  But I’m happy to not agree with them.  I find tattooing painfully beautiful.

I didn’t think that my first one would be in memory of my father.  I never really thought I would ever admit to getting one, given that opinion my family has when it comes to skin art, so I got the tattoo in secret.  It wasn’t until three or four months in did I let my mother see it.  (Yes, it freaked her out.)

I am not here to change their opinion on things.  Some things don’t change and it’s easier to accept that instead of forcing your views.  But I do want a more factual approach to tattooing.  Thankfully, someone from the National Post already did that.

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For me, it will always be emotional.  I will always look for the next image or phrase to be on me and I’ll carry it all my life and I would be proud because to me, it will always mean something.  And that doesn’t necessarily have to mean the same thing to other people.

I’ve had looks thrown at me in the office when the swallow peeks slightly above my collar.  I get it; you don’t understand why.  And I respect that you don’t understand as much as I do.  But that is not a cue for you to expect that I need to explain myself to you.

Because, in my opinion, those who ask for an explanation do not deserve it and those who do won’t demand for it.

And I’m blessed because now, my family, though they staunchly disagree, no longer need any explaining from me.

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First of eternity

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I have avoided writing about that day like the plague.  I would like to think that in the year that has passed, I have mourned my father silently.  People who are very close to me have handled that topic with a certain kind of delicateness and to be honest, I am yet to decide whether I should be thankful for the sensitivity or scornful that I am treated with so much vulnerability.

I cannot blame them though.  Each time the topic of my father’s passing comes to mind, I am confronted with my inadequacies, every single one of which slapped across my face on that day — my disobedience as a daughter, my insufficiency as a sister, my lack of self-awareness.  And I say these not to demean my person; my father had taught me long and good to never do that.  I say these as a matter of fact because on the day he passed, I was all these.

There should be some sort of progress though.  It has been a year.  There has to be some form or semblance of forgiveness, for the instance, for the misfortune, for the people.  But I will not act as if I’ve reached that level of self-actualization.  Today, even after a year, I am still unforgiving.

But is that something bad though?  I don’t think so.  And I’ve said this a little too often, these things never get easier.  Every day is still hard.  Every day we are still fatherless.  Every day we are still lacking.  Every day we walk the floors and the walls of avenues and still have that nagging feeling of never being whole again.  These things never get easier.  You just get used to it.

I still sleep with the lights on.  In France, there was an attempt to be in the dark again, but it pulled me deeper than it should have.  The darkness never used to scare me, but now it does.  I wish I can say I’ll be over it soon, but I can’t.  I miss my father and in the dark, I am reminded of how little I gave to him on the days building up to his passing.

And that is one demon I can’t seem to outrun.

There will be no father-daughter dance at my wedding, and I will be attending so many more unions with the bride crying silently on her dad’s shoulder as he slowly lets her go.  I will never be able to reconcile with that fact.  But I will try.  That’s the best we can all do anyway.  

Try.

Sir Boy

Holiday engagements

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I have managed to keep a secret.  That has to be the ultimate goal I achieved this year.

For a little over a month, my brother Ted has been running around and scouring for the perfect engagement ring for the love of his life, Aidel.  They’ve only been dating for a little under a year and well, what can I say?  The heart wants what it wants and it wanted a good woman.

So we scoured at Etsy, at Instagram, our local jewelers, and finally, with the help of Brother 1 Paolo (who would’ve thought?!) we managed to find the perfect ring for her.

Le ring

I remember the night before he popped the question.  He said he was nervous, what if she says no.  My mother and I scoured for every single encouraging word that would lift his spirits but in the end, he only needed to hear one thing:

Tatay would want you to be brave.

And he was.

So atop the Prism Plaza beside the SM Mall of Asia, inside the House of Wagyu Smokeless Grill, he popped the question.

And she hasn’t stopped crying since.  Well, she has but you know what I mean. :)

Le cry

Let’s get ready for a December wedding, shall we? :)

Oh Sir Boy, we miss you oh so achingly.