Growing Up

I am never speaking to my father again, ever.

            Don’t get me wrong; I love my father and will love him always, but once I told him the truth I couldn’t face him anymore.  I was so ashamed, that on the note where I spilled the truth, I told him to forget he had a daughter, to consider me dead, gone forever.

            This has been haunting me since I was twelve, when I first got my period and began growing breasts and armpit hair.  It was a horrible summer, made extra horrible by those five days out of each of those two months where I felt sick from dysmenorrhea, faint and nauseated, suffering from excruciating stomach and back pain. 

            I didn’t have a mother to confide to, and was afraid to tell my grandmother.  My grandmother, who we called Nanay (the Tagalog word for “mother”), was an old-fashioned lady, and we did not speak about menstruation, which she believed was the filthiest thing that could happen to a woman.  “Make sure you wrap those napkins in newspaper,” she commanded once she found out.  “Use two pages if you have to.  If someone sees your blood, it will be as though you had shown them your peepee.  And don’t ever use tampons,” she said in a menacing tone that told me not to dare ask why.

            Naturally, I turned to my peers for expert advice.  My best friend said authoritatively, “Duh! Because you’re not a virgin anymore once you put it up there!”

           

 

            I remember the first time I got it.  I don’t remember the exact date or time, but I do remember what I did.  I showed it to my brother, Sam. Poor thing, he looked disgusted but struggled to keep a straight face.  “I’m not sure if I am bleeding from my kidneys,” I said, panicked.  I thought it might be it, but I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to look like. 

            “I think I know what that is,” Sam said. And then he told me.

            I didn’t want anyone to know.  We studied about it in health, but I had hoped I would  be a late bloomer, that I would get it when I was almost done with high school, when  I could be away from my grandparents’ house. 

            But I was cursed.  I got it around the time everyone else did.

 

            After my brother went to the sari-sari store (it’s like a liquor/drug/candy store all rolled into one, and you can buy just one piece of anything instead of a whole bag—for instance, one roll of toilet paper instead of a whole bag) and bought me a couple of napkins, he told Tita Jen, one of my aunts.  Now I recall that I first got my period on a Sunday, because every Sunday, all my aunts, uncles, and cousins within a ten-mile radius gathered at the ancestral house where we lived.

            I resented the way Tita Jen looked at me with pity, as if to say, “Oh, poor motherless girl!” I think I was more ashamed that once again I was being reminded that I was motherless, because on most days I liked Tita Jen.  In fact, Tita Jen was my favorite aunt, and her daughter was my favorite cousin.  We were born seven months apart, but she was allowed to attend school a year earlier than me, because my birthday missed the cut-off date.  My cousin got her period first, too, because I remember Tita Su telling me when it happened, and she told me to tell her when I got it, too.

            “Do you have any questions?” she asked apprehensively.  Was she wondering why I told my brother and not her when I told her I would her first?

            I shook my head mutely.

            She gave me her recommended brand of napkins and reminded me to wash frequently.  “If you have questions later on, you can call me—you know that, right?  You should have told me first, not your brother.  He’s a boy!”  She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned.

            Another silent nod.

            “And if Nanay says you can’t take a shower when you have your period, just ignore her.  She’s very old-fashioned,” Tita Jen said.

 

            I wish I could tell you that was the most embarrassing moment of my childhood, but I’m sorry to say it wasn’t.  In fact, what followed months later was a series of more embarrassing moments.

            My grandfather, who we called Tatay (the Tagalog word for “father”), was a formidable man.  He wasn’t big or tall, but he had the temper of a hibernating grizzly awakened out of schedule.  He was very unpredictable, like an earthquake, or a tsunami.  One moment he was calm, and the next moment he was throwing a fit, taking everyone by surprise.  When he got upset he would shout very, very loudly, and did not care who was present to witness his wrath.  In fact, I think he was proud of his tantrums, and always looked around threateningly, daring anyone to contradict him.  If you were particularly bad, he would make you like on your stomach so he could whip you with his belt.  But if he couldn’t wait, he would just throw an ashtray at you.  By the time my brother was sixteen, all the ashtrays were gone, each one of them shattered by the wall behind him when Tatay missed.  You can tell that Tatay was no baseball player.

            I was never whipped, since I lived in terror of him and generally behaved well.  But sometimes even the best behavior did not go unpunished.

            A neighbor had just moved in a few doors away, in a house rumored to be haunted because people were killed in it.  His name was Gerald, and he was around my age, too.  I was sitting on our porch, reading a book when he stopped his bike in front of our house to introduce himself.

            He was a nice kid, very friendly.  I remember he asked me which school I went to, what grade I was, if there were other kids in our neighborhood, or if I would like to borrow his bike sometime. 

            “I have a bike,” I said.  “But I’m usually not allowed outside, unless someone can watch me.”

            “Seriously?” he asked incredulously.  “Not even with friends?”

            “Not even with friends,” I said. “My grandfather is very strict.”

            As if on cue, Tatay opened the aluminum door with a bang and shouted, “Who are you talking to?”

            “It’s our new neighbor—“

            “Gerald,” Gerald said.  “Good afternoon, Sir.”

            “Why are you courting out in the streets?” Tatay raged.  “I did not raise you to be courted on the sidewalk!”

            I felt myself flush bright red.  “No, he is not—we’re not—”  I was so flustered, so nervous, I could not find my words. 

            But Tatay still had his. “You’d better leave!” he boomed at Gerald.  “And you—get inside the house!” he said to me.

            I was not whipped, and no ashtrays were flung at me.  But I do remember wishing that the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

 

            Where I grew up we barely had running water.  I say this because we did have pipes, drains, and indoor plumbing, but our water was rationed in strange schedules determined by an unknown, moody utility worker. Sometimes it came in the morning, sometimes at night, and often at two in the morning.  The schedule was not published anywhere, and was disseminated through hearsay and gossip. Anyone who’s ever played Telephone knows how disastrous this can be, which is why we have tons of gigantic pails and basins to collect water until we got some again.  So when I say “take a shower” it means I poured water over my head from a pail using a dipper. 

            One day I was taking a shower when the door opened.  It was Tatay.  I expected him to immediately close the door but he didn’t; not until he was inside.

            I felt uneasy as looked at my naked body, and I was tempted to crouch behind one of the giant pails.  I remember thinking later on that only a few years ago Nanay still bathed me, but there was something about Tatay’s sinister look that made me wish I was either clothed or completely covered in bubbles.

            “I’m going to help you wash your back,” he said, then he picked up a soapy face towel and scrubbed my back.

            A minute later, he left, closing the door behind him.

            This happened two more times, and then I decided to lock the door.

            I took my shower anxiously, praying the Shower Stalker would stop barging in, not knowing if the lock would even work. 

            Then I saw the doorknob wiggle.  Then came another tentative jiggle, and then an insistent shaking, followed by rapid knocking on the wood.  “Who’s in there?” Tatay demanded, feigning ignorance.

            “It’s me,” I replied.

            “We do not lock doors in this house!”

            “I’m almost done,” I called out.

            “What about your back?”

            You never scrubbed my back until recently, I wanted to shriek, but instead I replied, “I did it myself.  I don’t need help.”

            “Well, next time call me before you go in there.”

            I felt sick to my stomach and was almost in tears, crouching behind a giant pail.  I kept the door locked from thereon, saying the same excuse everytime he knocked.  A week later, I began taking showers in the hallway bathroom even though there were roaches in there.  I figured he would be less likely to make a racket out there.

            And it worked.

 

            One day, for no particular reason, Tatay said I was allowed to stay up an extra hour on Fridays.  I was so excited!  Finally, I could watch the scary series they aired after bedtime on Fridays!

            It was difficult for me to stay up. Sometimes I’d fall asleep, and someone would tell me to move, and I would have to ask Sam the outcome of the show the following day.

            One Friday night Nanay went to bed early, and Sam was sleeping over at a friend’s house.  It was one of those rare events when I actually stayed awake through an entire episode and was pretty proud of myself.  “I’m going to bed,” I said as the credits rolled.

            “Okay, give me a good night kiss,” Tatay said.

            I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek but he turned and kissed me right on the lips.

            My family does not kiss on the lips, except maybe for babies who have never heard of cooties.  Not even married adults did.

            I tried not to let it bother me.  I wasn’t even sure if it was really bad.  What would God think?  I wasn’t sure, since we didn’t discuss these things in Catholic school.  Maybe it was a one-time affectionate thing, as fleeting as Tatay’s good mood. 

            The following week it happened again, only I felt a tongue force its way into my closed mouth.  I pulled away, disgusted, and decided I never wanted to watch that stupid scary series again. I went to bed as soon as Nanay did, and made sure I was never alone with Tatay again, ever.  It was very stressful trailing Nanay everywhere.  I became the Nanay Stalker.

            I don’t know why I never told anyone.  I was terrified but could not confide in anyone, not even Nanay, not even my panel of peer experts.  Even I knew this was anomalous behavior, and I was ashamed. I didn’t want to be a statistic, to be fussed with and once again, be pitied.  I figured I could outsmart him and stay out of his way all the time, and make sure someone else was always with me.

            Also, I didn’t want it to me my word against his.  I knew he would never admit what he did, and I thought he would accuse me of being malicious.  I’d heard him say it to Nanay when one of the maids complained that Tatay had tried to grope her one night.  He has said he was just being friendly, and it was not his fault the maid put malice into his actions.

            I’m sure you’re wondering where my father was, and why I didn’t tell him, or why he never found out.

            My father used to visit us every week.  He said he had to live somewhere else for work, and I didn’t realize he lived a mere hour away.  That’s like traveling from the Valley to West Los Angeles, a commute thousands of people do daily.  At that time I truly believed he lived someplace else for work, and not because he would rather spend all his spare time with his girlfriend who lived with him.  That girlfriend was not my mother.

            My Pa idolized his father. To him there was none better, and no one worked harder or was more admirable.  It seemed to me that the meaner or more insulting Tatay was, the more my Pa tried to seek his fickle approval.  He even said that one day he hoped to be just like Tatay, which made me shudder.

            I loved my Pa and sought his approval as much as I could.  Oblivious to his true motives for dumping me and my brother at our grandparents’ house, I proudly told all my friends that my Pa worked hard and had very important responsibilities at work.  I looked forward to his weekly—sometimes bimonthly—visits and suffered from heartache every Monday morning when he left.

            There’s no way I could break my Pa’s heart by tarnishing Tatay’s platinum image, so I never told him. 

            I could not wait to grow up.  I couldn’t wait to be old enough to be allowed to leave, to make decisions that would save me from embarrassing moments.

            And I thought that’s where I am now at 25.  A few weeks ago I was on vacation back home, and my Pa got home drunk at three in the morning.  Sam was there, and they had an argument that woke me up, and he told me that I wasn’t welcome at his house, that he resented having me there.  I wasn’t sure exactly why, since I had only been there for three days. But I was sure that I was old enough to not have to stay where I was not welcome, so I left and stayed at a hotel instead.  How awesome it was to actually afford things!

            But I didn’t leave without leaving a note telling my Pa the ordeal I went through in Tatay’s care.  I thought it was justified that I stop protecting Tatay’s sparkling image, since my Pa didn’t care how I felt, anyway.  I had loved my Pa with a fierce, blind loyalty for almost three decades, and to realize that my love was no longer reciprocated, cherished, or even acknowledged, made me think, Screw it.  It’s about time he knew what his father really was, that the person he aspired to become was actually a monster—a Shower Stalker!

            I was so ashamed to tell him—or anyone else, for that matter.  I shouldn’t be, since I’m a victim, not the criminal.  But I didn’t want pity, and didn’t want people to judge my behavior based on those embarrassing moments.  I told myself I would not let that house destroy me, that I would not turn out like one of my cousins who dropped out of school, ran away, and lived an impoverished life.  I tried to convince myself that bad things happen to innocent people all the time, but those things shouldn’t bring out the monsters in us.  That’s why I strove to be editor of the school paper and graduate at the top of my class.  There was no way I would let others think I was nothing more than an unwanted, abused child.

            I wanted to stop the cycle of undeserved love and admiration in my family, but in doing so, I had to reveal that I was damaged.  It’s one thing to know within yourself that these things happened, but it’s worse to know that other people know.

            My brother got back from the Philippines yesterday and told me our Pa wanted me to know that he was very sorry, that he only said those things because he was three sheets to the wind.

            “Maybe he shouldn’t drink,” I quipped. “So he won’t have these things happen again.”

            I love my Pa and will love him always, but I can’t face him again.  Because the truth is, I told him because I wanted him to feel as bad as I did when he left me in that hell of a house, and if I see him again, that’s all I will be able to think about. 

            And that’s why I am never speaking to my father again, ever.  Not because I don’t love him, but because I love myself.

by astaclara@yahoo.com

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