I had to tell dad one day, and it was that weekend. Driving from Berkeley to be with him on his Fresno farm, I was slightly nervous, but was not afraid. He never gave me a sense he’d react violently.
He was a strict father when we were younger, but the intent was to make us morally upright. Everybody was equal and no one was to be mistreated, something he learned as a young field worker in California farms and later as a soldier in the US Army. We were to eat all the food on our plate, something from his poor peasant days in Pangasinan.
When I was around four years old, he taught me how to walk erect like a soldier. I failed miserably. I walked with a sway and softness, despite many attempts on the living room floor. His face turned very stern and I softly begged, “Please, dad, no more…” and I let loose the tears.
Grimace
My yaya (nanny), at a distance, rushed to me and whisked me away. I noticed that dad’s face went into a grimace, realizing he had hurt me. We never had those walking lessons again.
It was a red setting sun, outlining the grapevines and the plum trees on his farm. We had walked that whole afternoon and were now headed home. Dad, I hesitantly said, I have something to tell you.
He slowly came to a halt, and surveyed the length of his farm bordered by a long road, with a lone car sputtering in the distance.
When there was no other sound except a few birds singing and a gentle evening wind, he slowly looked at me, his face having remembered that certain pitch in my voice, the one that begged him long ago.
He said, “I know, son. I know.” We gazed at each other in the dimming light, the tears glimmering from the dying red rays.
My dad’s embrace was always warm and caressing, with his Old Spice wafting about. It was the embrace of peasants, holding aloft their children full of light squeezes and excessive kisses, preceded by their noses touching faces and inhaling deeply to intensify affection.
We walked home, arms on each other’s shoulders. I whispered, “Thank you,” and my lips neared his neck. I inhaled deeply, very deeply, before I kissed it.
Happy Father’s Day. Happy Gay Pride, dad.
With the author’s permission, we run this essay posted on his Facebook account.
