what if...

Two days ago, i came across this t.v. show called "Who Do You Think You Are?" and I was instantly obsessed with it. The show is like a trip back in time featuring celebrities and their ancestral roots. The facts they discovered were really fascinating and interesting. Like who would have thought that Sarah Jessica Parker is a direct descendant of an accused witch during the Salem Witch Trials in the 1600's (well that explains the witchy nose) and Gwyneth Paltrow's great grandmother was a housemaid from Barbados (but of course she was Caucasian)?

Makes me wonder what happened to my grandpa on my dad's side. I never saw him. He left long before I was born. He left his family when my dad was just a little boy. He was pure Chinese who fled the country during World War II for reasons I don't know. He took my dad's elder brother with him to Macau and the family never heard from him since then. My grandma remarried and my dad had a gazillion stepbrothers and stepsisters. And based on stories I've heard, he hated his stepfather. He didn't even go to his funeral. My dad grew up with his relatives, jumping from one house to another - earning money for himself - which is far from what he was used to when his real father was still with them. His father was a wealthy man and they were living a comfortable life until he left. I don't even know his name. All I know is that his surname was Teng. My grandma changed the family name to Pantillo, her maiden name, so my dad and his siblings could get a scholarship from a local Catholic school (people in those days assumed that you're rich if you had a Chinese surname).

My dad would never talk about his real father - and we never asked. It was already difficult to talk to my dad about this kind of stuff before he had a stroke which affected his speech - what more now. And we kind of sensed that he didn't want to talk about this at all. Like my mom knew about this from my dad's relatives after they even got married. My dad is a man of few words... and of few emotions. It's hard to get through him. My mom would tell us hundreds of stories about her childhood over and over again but I never heard a single story from my dad.

I've always wondered what it's like to have a real dad. A dad who hugs, who tells you a story, and who tucks you in bed and plants a kiss on your forehead before you go to sleep. My brother and I were not raised in a mushy, Brady-bunch household. My dad had a peculiar way of showing his love. He would buy us stuff enough to spoil us and to make us think that we were lucky compared to the other kids in the neighborhood. He would keep pictures of us in his office. I went to his office one day and found some of my missing toys inside his drawer. I got mad at him for stealing my toys. But perhaps I just didn't understand why he did that. I wonder if he hugged them when he missed me. He would play a game with me when I was young, though - t.v. commercials guessing game. Haha, that was fun, but he would always cheat and I would just end up being mad at him. He would plan family outings at the beach or at the farm - but he would never play with us in the sand or teach us how to swim or climb trees (I haven't climbed a tree in my life, no kidding). While the rest of the family and friends were having fun at the beach, he would stay in the cottage with his crew drinking or gambling. I honestly think his fighting cocks got more hugs and caresses from him than me and my brother combined. Haha, no kidding.

I grew up not loving my dad as much as I loved my mom. My mom was all I ever needed. I never wanted to go with him to anywhere at all. My mom had to bribe and literally drag me to the jeep whenever my dad wanted me to go with him to his office. I saw in him a father but not someone I could run to when I'm sad and lonely. However, he was the first person I ran to when naughty boys bothered me because they surely ran for their lives, if not peed their pants, as soon as they heard my dad's Hitler-ish voice. Oh wait, I think that was still my mom! :) But my dad was really protective as well.

My brother told me that my dad was like that because he never knew what it was like to have a father. He had no role model. He was not raised in a perfect home. He couldn't give what he didn't have. Which makes perfect sense.

I pity my dad. But more so, I pity myself for not giving him a chance. If there's one regret I have in my life, it's not spending more time with him when he was still my strong and Hitler-ish dad... when he could still "understand" what I'm saying and vice versa. :(

I just wonder what if...

What if my grandpa was present in his life... and in ours, would things have been different?




P.S.
I didn't expect this post to be this dramatic. Seriously. I just wanted to share with you what happened to my lolo. But the minute I talked about my dad, it just went on and on. *tears*