One story I don't often get to tell people when I talk about my dad, but I'm proud to tell nonetheless, is that my dad gave me a copy of his ATM card.
What's the big deal? It didn't come to me at first, back then, what was important was that I had access to cash when given permission to withdraw.
"Dad, I'm going out on a date, can I have some cash?"
"Sure"
Ka-ching!
It only dawned on me later, especially when things became even more serious, why my dad gave me so much trust at such a young age.
I must have been only 15 or 16 when he started handing me his ATM. Often it would barely have enough for his daily trips to Batangas (and my usual parasitic withdrawals). I didn't see the value in seeing what he had, besides the usual calculation to see if I could get more.
You see, for my dad, it was important for him to show me what he had. He was a heinous crimes judge fighting the worst drug lords society had to offer. They were known to lie, cheat and kill, just so that they could get their way. If you refused their pecuniary offers, they tried to ruin your reputation so that you would never get ahead in government, never get high enough to be in their way again.
My dad knew this, and he would tell me that most people would not care for his reputation. Once they started the smear campaign, there would be little my dad could do besides maintain his integrity to ward of the lies. The public would not know better than what was paid to be written on media to besmirch him.
What was important to him was that his son believed him. He used to tell me that I was the only person that mattered to him when it came to all this dirt. Having often gone with him to his court, I got to see how he conducted himself, and he was proud to see his son believe in him.
When the smear campaign by his detractors would start, and it often did when he refused to accept bribes from very influential criminals, the whole world would fall on him, that's when he would tell me that we only have each other.
Just like he said it would happen, when he was murdered, the drug lords tried to spread news that my dad had accepted a bribe, double crossed and sent them to jail still. They tried to paint my dad as a corrupt judge that just didn't know how to follow the criminal code of honour. It was an insult to an already very painful injury. Although the lie they tried to paint did not last long.
The police initially tried that angle, they rushed to my dad's chambers where they supposedly said my dad put the cash, they even searched his trash can. It was behind his table in his chambers.
All they found was a plastic bag from Jolibee containing his usual meal he would buy from the Tanauan, Batangas Jolibee near his court. The same Jolibee he would have me buy food from when I would accompany him to work. To save on the heavy expenses he had to incur traveling from Makati to Batangas everyday, my dad ate simple meals. He joked that if he brought the steaks mom would buy from S&R he'd probably have to share it with everyone.
Til the very end, my father's simplicity had a way of protecting him. I can still remember how his old-smelling office wreaked of dried up flood water. Trying to make his rickety office a bit more lively, he brought some of our old sofas and an Air Conditioning unit to the office to make it more livable.
Sometimes when I type all this, it makes me wonder why all these things had to happen. A sequence of events that tie up for a purpose. I understand that if my father never exposed me to the real world at such a young age, I wouldn't have been able to testify to the courage and hope he professed in his daily struggle. If it did not happen, I would have been able to live a more "normal" life free from the stress of these intense circumstances. It gets very tiring after awhile.
Some would argue that being able to speak of a man who was able to stand when most others would fall should be more than enough.
But as a son who misses his father, its painful to let go, because in the end, we only had each other.
