My Tatay Nemie was a man of few words. He was not expressive, and words of affirmation were never his strong suit. In the odd …
My Tatay Nemie was a man of few words. He was not expressive, and words of affirmation were never his strong suit. In the odd times, he blurted out a joke or two. He rarely talked about his emotions, and he always avoided serious conversations. In fact, he would much rather poke fun at us, his family, than give compliments or share his feelings even when apt. But that was just how he was. And we loved him for who he was. We loved how he never ceased to make those around him laugh. We loved how he could be the life of the party when the occasion called for it. We loved his appetite—for both food and life. We loved his tenacity. What Tatay Nemie lacked in expression, he made up for in action. He was one of the most hardworking people I knew. He was never late nor absent from work, and he received awards for his exemplary performance. He didn’t finish his studies, but that didn’t stop him from leading an inspiring life. For the longest time, he was our family’s breadwinner and, according to my Nanay Tessie, he was such a reliable partner and provider. He dedicated his life to making sure all four of us siblings earned a college degree—something both he and Nanay failed to attain due to systemic barriers of poverty—in order to increase our chances for a better future. Our life together was simple yet complete and happy. Tatay seldom said he loved us, but we didn’t need to hear him say it. We felt it. His acts of service said it all. In the summer of 2006, Nanay asked me if I was gay. I said I was, and she cried out of frustration, fear and sadness. We both did. Tatay was at work at the time, so Nanay told him about our conversation when he arrived home. She told me how Tatay reacted.
