My dad hates cuffing his jeans. Whenever I try to suggest he do so, he’d shrug it off and say, “‘Di ko style ‘yan.” Well, to each his own.
Being the macho man he was, he used to police me about how my hips would swerve whenever I’d walk. There were instances when I’d hurriedly change the channel on the TV since he was approaching and I was watching a “girly” show like Winx Club. There was a time he told me how jealous he was of his friends who would play practice games of basketball with their sons. As a pre-teen child, I didn’t know how to feel. Was I obligated to? I was only a kid.
We hit a really rough spot during my teenage years when I finally came out to him and my mom, which they didn’t take it so well. If you’d ask me to narrate how it went down, it would be reminiscent of those explosive confrontation scenes in teleseryes—lots of screaming, floods of tears, intense volume of emotions, and the works. We reached an open-ended conclusion, and since then my queerness has become this big elephant in the room that we just tried not to bring up at home.
But in November of 2021, my dad made me cry again. I was about one month in at my post here in Preview at the time. He called me to the dining table and asked if I wanted a drink. I politely declined (I don’t really drink at home) and immediately asked what was up. We didn’t normally have sit-downs like this anymore, so you could imagine how nervous I was.
Before I knew it, he broke into tears. My dad, the six-foot-tall basketball player who used to work as a security guard, tearfully started apologizing for all the hurt I experienced when he didn’t accept me for being gay. I couldn’t stop myself from breaking down either. It was full of catharsis.
He said sorry for all the times he dissuaded me from becoming who I was meant to be. He told me that no matter how many times I denied it to their face, he and my mom knew I was gay. They knew that there was no stopping me from living out the life I wanted to, even if I hid it whenever I was home. He apologized for ever making me feel like I had to be anything I wasn’t in order for him to accept and love me. He didn’t care what his friends would think knowing he had a gay son. He let me know that he was proud of me all this time.
At the end of the conversation, we hugged, and that was the closest I’ve ever felt to the guy.
You see, my dad wasn’t the most expressive person with his words. He’d express his care for us through other ways, like cooking or driving us to school. I also found it hard to express myself to him, too. Even after we patched things up, it was still a challenge for me to tell him “I love you.” Most days, an “ingat” would suffice for both of us.
Since then, both my parents would ask me for fashion advice every now and again, albeit my dad’s style has always been on the safe side. Usually reserved to his tailored button-downs and tapered jeans, he’s not quite fond of experimenting, say, with oversized shirts or baggy pants. But if you open my closet, these are what you'd primarily find in my wardrobe. It’s easier for me to “style” my mom since I have an inclination to women’s fashion, and it’s more fun to play around with the options that she owns. With my dad, it’s usually just an ordeal of which color shirt to wear.
And yet, those five-minute exchanges with him make me appreciate how far he’s come in our relationship. Putting together outfits, as most of us have been taught growing up, is usually looked at as a “girly” thing. Our patriarchal society dictates that “real” men are not supposed to have any interest in fashion, lest they’ll be viewed as people who’ve given in to their feminine sensibilities (See here: Kids like me weren't allowed to play dress-up with Barbie dolls growing up.)
Most times, my dad makes it look like he doesn’t care all that much about what he’s wearing, yet I just know he does. I feel it when he asks me if he should tuck in his shirt or not, or if he should go for the Nike Air Jordans or the Blazers—his love for basketball actually translates to him being a low-key sneakerhead, which I bet he doesn't even know himself.
We’d go shopping and he’d always look at the same sections. He’d pick out another button-down shirt but only in a different color. “Bagay ba sa’kin ‘to?” he’d direct at me. I’ll nod and suggest that he goes for a bigger size since it’s the silhouette du juor, but he’d contest that he likes the “body-fit” look. Occasionally, I’d give him a pair of pants I wouldn’t be wearing anymore and he’d tease me about needing to have them taken in first. But he still takes them. The next day, he’d walk out the door wearing the exact pair I just gave him. Recently, I was looking for this blue bomber jacket that I hadn’t gotten the chance to wear yet. One day, my dad picked me up from work and I saw it on a hanger in the back of his car. “So that’s where it’s been,” I whispered to myself.
It’s in these small moments where I feel like I’m rebuilding the tainted relationship I had with him. It’s been tough to get where we are, and it shouldn't have been. I’ll be the first to say that my dad (and mom) still have a lot of microaggressions to unlearn. One day, I hope they come around to understanding that clothes or cosmetics have no gender. It’s going to be tough, but I hope they’re willing to get to that point with me.
I may not have become the “mini-me” my dad wished for when I was born, but I’ve grown into a person that’s made him proud nonetheless. The simple questions he asks about his outfits shows me the vulnerability I didn’t catch a glimpse of growing up. They tell me that he values my opinions and thoughts. They tell me that he accepts me and my interests even though they differ from his. They tell me that he's slowly chipping away at himself, and little by little, I can finally see through him.
Something you should know about my dad is that he’s great at neckties. For him, tying one is like riding a bike. Until now, I still ask him to tie them for me. He’s been repeatedly teaching me how to do so since I was in high school and back when I attended proms. But to this day, I still approach him for the task so I could effortlessly simply slip them on the next day. I hope he doesn't catch on that I purposely undo them every time, just so I could go and ask him to tie them again.
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