I could hear the snapping of his belt as he'd raise it high up to give it enough force to hit my back. I will never forget that sound nor will I forget the terrible anxiety it caused from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Then the sharp, biting sting of the leather belt as it curled around my small body. I was just a little girl!!! The number of times he hit me with that belt depended on his rage. But it was never just once. Often, he was great at hitting my bottom. But sometimes, he'd miss and he'd hit my back. I'd grit my teeth and take it...praying to God that He would give me strength; that He would embrace me. He would cuss at me and call me names--demeaning names I dare not translate. Then, after asking me questions that I could not answer about some offense I could not remember nor understand, he'd stop and walk away. I was not allowed to go to my room to find comfort in the darkness and safety in aloneness. He'd only let me sit on a chair so I can be belittled over and over as my mother would say "kundangan kasi" which basically translates contextually to "you deserve it because it was YOUR doing." My brain would freeze into darkness and that's when I learned a new skill: detachment. Disassociation. My mind would grow a pair of eyes and wings that could fly. I would fly to the highest, furthest mountain. I would imagine a grove of trees that would protect me. I'd imagine a soft breeze that would caress me. Then I'd imagine myself embracing the little girl who is also me...whispering "it's going to be alright". That coping skill is still my best tool when I am hurt. Detachment. Disassociation. Imagination. Self-soothing. It would seem that time stretched it's seconds and minutes before I can safely go to my room. Funny thing is, I don't remember anything significant after the beating. Only that it was finally over...until the next time.
In a couple of days, or sometimes, several, my father would become that loving and affectionate father again. Sometimes, he'd buy me ice cream. Sometimes he'd bring home some Chinese food for a nice dinner. Sometimes he'd play board games with us. Sometimes he'd sit and play beautiful music on the piano. And my spirits would soar with gladness because he was the best father during those times. We would laugh. He'd tell funny jokes that only he could come up with. He'd school us about music and about life. And my happiness would seem overflowing. And I'd wish it would always be like that. But it wouldn't be.
My father died the year I gave birth to my fourth and last child. She was about nine months old. We were all there playing on the floor, oblivious to what was about to happen. I could hear him breathing. I could hear the tell-tale death rattle as he took in a breath and as he let the air out. He waited until we turned our backs and we were in the middle of playing as a family. Then he slipped away. My father was gone. He was only 59 years old. Cancer took him past the veil.
For several years, he would come to me in my dreams and give me messages. As I worked through the pain of losing my father and the bitter memories of his rage and abuse, I always did what I was wont to do whenever my father became that angry and violent man: I've always chosen to love him, to forgive him, to find a way to understand his demons and to respect the man who was my father. I am his child and I carry pieces of him in my person. His blood courses through my veins. I choose to forgive him and for every memory of the times he hurt me, I also remembered the times when he loved me, his sacrifices, his genius, his music, his talents, his charms. I remember the times when he was generous, when we had talks about life and the many wonderful things he taught me. He is my father and I know he loves me. I know that he had many demons, many reasons for his bad choices and comportment. And above all his imperfections, serious criminal offenses against other women including my mother and his mother, there were also mitigating variables that contributed to the limitations of his understanding which led to his many bad choices. Most of all, though it would seem that he had so many failures, I do know that he did his best. That is all he can do because I know that he loves me. I choose to believe that and the peace I feel inside me confirms it is true. He did his very best. And though it may not be enough for those he hurt and violated, it is enough for me because he is my father and I am his child. That is my choice. And I stand by it until the day I die. For I know that God is a just and merciful God. And His love and compassion are unfathomable by a mere earthling like me.
I am pretty sure my father was a genius. Because as much as he made horrible choices, he was a brilliant man. It seemed like he could do anything. He even helped me with my math!
Papa still visits me occasionally in my dreams. He is always young and handsome...and finally happy. My mother is now with him. I've seen them together in my dreams. And every night I pray that our Heavenly Father will forgive him and I list his wonderful qualities so He will know that I love him. Because he is my father.
I have lived a good life. I am very grateful for everything that I have. And I feel so much at peace about my father.
Papa still visits me occasionally in my dreams. He is always young and handsome...and finally happy. My mother is now with him. I've seen them together in my dreams. And every night I pray that our Heavenly Father will forgive him and I list his wonderful qualities so He will know that I love him. Because he is my father.
I have lived a good life. I am very grateful for everything that I have. And I feel so much at peace about my father.
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