My mother, queen of tolerance herself, surprised me one day I was to
have a beach outing with my staff—a jeepney load of male and female 20-somethings. With us was a priest, our
moderator. She said, almost shyly,
“Pag maliligo kayo kasama ng pari,
magsosoot kayo ng shorts.”
Shorts, over our swimsuits?
“Yes.” But what for? “Huwag
ninyong ipapakita mga singit ninyo sa mga pari; hindi maganda iyon,” she
continued. I didn’t get her drift,
but I did honor my mother’s concern by telling the girls about her
reminder.
On the way home from the same outing, during a “CR” stop at a gasoline
station, I caught two of the boys snickering as they came out of the
toilet. “What’s so funny,” I
asked. “Si Father, naglagay ng tuwalya sa kandungan niya, me tinatakpan! (Father
put a towel across his lap, covering something).” I shrugged, “He’s just being modest, he’s in shorts.” They laughed aloud and snickered some
more, exchanging knowing glances.
For my quizzical look, they returned a comment that went over my head: “Siyempre, lalaki kami eh! (Of course, we are
male!)” I dismissed the incident,
but back in the jeepney, I did notice a towel across Father’s lap; it reminded
me of jeepney-riding girls in mini-skirts who tug at their hemlines and cover
their laps with their handbags.
Back in Manila with the staff, preparing to go our separate ways, Father
discreetly whispered to me: “Turuan mo ngang maupo yang mga anak mo. (Teach your children to sit properly)”
referring to the girls with us. I
was perplexed by his sudden concern but I didn’t need him to say anything more. I got it: two plus two equals
four. In the jeepney, Father was
sitting across from the girls, and the one directly opposite him was in
shorts. Ah so… it dawned on me:
that’s why the giggly boys were saying “Siyempre,
lalaki kami eh!”
Men are men—that was the unspoken dictum behind my mother’s reminder
about wearing shorts over our swimsuits.
That was the memory that smoldered on in the back of my head as I beheld
the bikini parade while trying to enjoy the priests’ singing.
What impressed me about Fr. Rector’s reply to my query then (about the
videoke session’s regularity) was the tone of paternal indulgence in his
voice. He sounded as though he
were a father with a dozen sons to feed, clothe, shelter, and love, no matter
what. Even if his sons were to
resemble in misdemeanor the Dirty Dozen—drawing on the walls, messing up the
bathroom, spilling milk on the carpet, throwing pies at one another’s face,
knocking down furniture while playing war games, never giving him a quiet
moment—still they were his sons, and he will give them anything they want,
anything, just to keep them all gathered in his house.
(To be continued)
