By Rex Catubig

 

HE only finished grade 6. Because they were poor. Life was hard and a constant struggle. He did all kinds of odd jobs—pushcart mover, barker, househelp–he had done it all.

“Mairap so manbilay na siamiran anak” (It’s difficult to raise nine children), he sighed, though without a sign of reproach on his pleasant face.

When his body would yield to fatigue, he would tuck himself into a corner of the old Cathedral, lay flat scraps of box boards on the concrete pavement, and there rest his back and sleep–with no dreams to visit him, just a restful respite from the day’s toil.

His break came when he became a “Kristo”, a surrogate bettor in cockfights. Not exactly an honorable job, but it fed his family.

Bagging ample earnings enabled him to send a daughter to a private high school and enroll her in a reputable university where, he boasted, she finished her accounting degree Summa Cum Laude.

In a streak of good luck, he was able to secure an immigrant visa to the US  that paved the reversal of fortune. It had seemed that the worst days were over. He and his family embarked on a fantasy journey to the land of milk and honey. Payback happened fast: a son became an attorney and landed a job in the White House. They were a poster family of the American dream.  The future couldn’t be brighter.

All this pointed to a success story. But his life was not favored with a fairy-tale ending.

Tearing up, he confided that his children, having imbibed a foreign culture and married different nationalities, grew progressively impervious to his role as father to them. In fact, he felt disowned.

When he would visit, he had to check into a hotel and make do with the hotel’s free breakfast. With his voice breaking with a tinge of hurt, he intimated this was because none of his nine children would accommodate him in their big houses. “Siamira ra, angkakabaleg so abong da, balet ta anggapo ni sakey so mangawat ed siak” (There are nine of them, all with big houses, but not one would take me in). In one heartbreaking instance, he had barely come in and put his bags down when told curtly by a son’s wife to take his luggage out.

Ironically, he fought tooth and nail working 17-hour combined shifts. He hardly saw daylight because he was always indoor working. One of a lesser character would have caved in to the stress and gnawing loneliness. But he was unrelenting. He hung on to the thought that he had a family to raise. In a way he succeeded—but lost at the same time. In the end, hard work did not earn him a happy family.

Moving on from all the heartbreak, he had since retired.

His travails had stoked the wish to come back and renew ties with the home he left for a greener pasture—to build a life anew and recover the happiness that he lost along the way.

If it takes a village to raise a child, our balikbayan is the epitome of the sterling son—who was pushed under the pit and pressure of life, but fortified by strength of character, has emerged a rare jewel and shines bright like a Diamond.

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