Leap of faith
We always poke fun at my Tatay’s English. The words come out a little bit rougher when he speaks the language, mainly because he grew up in Abuyog, Leyte. Whenever we visit the province, my father brings home the pride that his children are fluent English speakers who dream to become architects, lawyers, and chefs someday. He would introduce us to his childhood friends with delight in his eyes. I never understood this extravagant excitement of his, not until I was older anyway.
I think it’s safe to say that of all my grandparents’ children, my father was the most fortunate and well-off. He left Abuyog when he was in junior year in college in hopes of sustaining his education. During that time, he sought income in the city, looking for jobs that would support his schooling.
I will never fully understand my Tatay’s struggles in order to give us the life we have now. His story about taking the ferry instead of the bus home to the province is a far cry from our comfy plane rides. That he had to share rooms with strangersturned-friends in a boarding house to save money is a laughingstock as we lay on our plush beds. His constant reminder of “S’werte
kayo dahil ganito buhay niyo (You are lucky with the life you have)” never made sense to me when I was a child. Everyone else in school lived the way I did, so what made me any different from them?
The truth was: Tatay was never like the fathers of my classmates. He wasn’t born into a rich, industrious family. He grew up not with a silver spoon in his mouth, but with soil in his hands. He didn’t have any company or business to inherit. All he had was a piece of land to tend as a source of livelihood.
And you know what? He accepted his lot. He didn’t pretend to be anything more than he was, and took the hardship the world brought upon him and made it his own. It makes me proud that despite his growth, Tatay continues to be a strongly rooted Bisaya. He would bring home friends he’d de- scribe as ‘taga-samin’, or coming from the same place he was from. They would share stories of the life they’ve left but always return to.
I realized that indeed I am lucky – for the life I have, for the life that my parents designed for me. I never experienced, and probably never will, the pain of leaving the only home I had just so I could succeed. I will never be called a promdi nor be discriminated against for being a probinsyana for I lived in the city. I will never feel the pain of seeing my family being financially unstable. I grew up in a concrete jungle that bloomed with flowers of privilege, and in a way, it was more of a loss than a gain.
I salute my dad for bearing this unique resilience. To leave in hopes of finding comfort and having the initiative to come back is a different kind of strength altogether. I know that he is just one among thousands of Filipinos who have their own journeys to tell, and I write his in the spirit of hearing theirs as well.
Ysa Sofia Robin is a student at the Seed Montessori School. Her piece won second runner-up at the recently-concluded YouThink Journalism Competition organized by the UP Guilder Institute and The Philippine STAR.