I thought I’m done with my grieving, short as it was. I thought your death didn’t affect me as much as it would to hear that a distant relative died from some distant continent. I thought all the hurt was long past healing but then today, I found out differently. My sister called me up on the phone to ask me if I could make a eulogy for you… to be read during your funeral. Nothing so big, really, just a short concise eulogy—when I found myself getting a little bit lightheaded and my chest tightening up with pressure. I don’t remember exactly what I told my sister, sufficed it to say it wasn’t nice and I wasn’t polite or respectful, then I started sobbing. I was crying so hard and I was mad, hurt and other emotions I cannot name filled me up. “Papa, I’m mad at you!” I wanted to shout it out loud. I thought the hurt was gone, I thought I got over you. But with you gone, suddenly they bombarded me. For the first time since I found out you died, my heart finally caught up with what my head knew.
A eulogy, they asked… what’s a eulogy, really? It’s a speech given during a funeral [mostly] about somebody who passed away; a speech full of praise and commendation of the deceased’s life. Usually, a eulogy is given by a close family member, or a dearest friend, who knew the person so well. Maybe, in some cases, they are subordinates in a company, commending and praising a boss they worked with for so long that they’ve gotten to know him personally too. But in our case, between you and me, what can I say? Even when we still lived under one house, I barely seen you or talked to you. You were the papa who was always out and would show up home only when you’re hungry, sleepy and broke. What I remember mostly, in association with you, is the feeling of dread when you were home. You and mom always seem to fight and so we were always scared and I remember us, my siblings and me, hiding under the dining table. And we would whisper amongst ourselves and wishing for you to leave again. Was there any sweet memories? There’s one that so prevalent, but what started out a sweet memory, ended up bitter. I remember you were hungry, so was I, and decided to prepare fried rice and invited me with you. I was so amazed that you were doing something I’ve never seen men do at our house—cook. And I was so thrilled at seeing this awesome event. I felt so special to be the one to witness it. You placed the food on the table and we proceeded to get into it when my sister came home from school… she saw that we were eating and came up to us and asked what we were doing. You told her that you made some fried rice for both of us, and then my sister asked if she could have some, which then you told her NO, for it was only enough for you and me. I was but 4 or 5 years old at that time, but I knew then that it was wrong. I knew how wrong it was for a father to deny his child anything, much less food. And since I’ve eaten some of the food, you also made me into your accomplice. You shared with me the guilt. This is my most vivid memory of you. Why did it have to be this one? Why couldn’t it be an unblemished happy memory? It would have been better to have no memory of you at all, than to have this.
Mom’s side of the family’s always been close, and all knew how much she had to put up with… and most of them weren’t shy to spread the tales of what they know, and were so generous also in sharing their not-so-high opinion of you. Growing up, I knew NO ONE that spoke well of you. Even neutral, random people who knew you didn’t speak well of you. Do you know how exhausting and demeaning it is for a kid to try to defend an indefensible father? My heart broke every time I tried. I remembered writing a letter to mom and asking her to forgive you coz despite everything you were still my father and have that same letter tossed back to my face, with my mom berating me for asking something that I really have no business asking—that I didn’t know what I was asking nor do I know what misery you’ve brought to her life. She did this with a few other family members present… I felt so small that my defense of you ended abruptly that night.
Should my eulogy be about you conning my mom money she saved for our food, shelter and educational expenses? Should I talk about you yelling at us, when we were loud [as kids normally are when they play]? Why didn’t you choose to love us instead? Why didn’t you like us? These are the questions I’ve always wanted to ask you but never had the courage to say then out loud; for fear that you answering, in itself, an acknowledgement of its validity.
But, under the anger… what’s more prevalent for me is the hurt. I hurt knowing that you lived such a life, when it could have been different. I hurt that you lived surrounded with ridicule and put-downs. I hurt that your name, when mentioned, did not inspire trust nor care—instead they inspired anger, disrespect and scorn. I hurt that you died without a single family member on your side. I hurt that you could have had daughters and a son to send you off when you breathed your last. I hurt that I have forgotten the love I have for you… because the truth of the matter is, despite our distance, despite my hurt, despite every negative things—I do love you, papa. I’m sorry that you’ve never heard me say it to you. And I’m sorry I’ve never heard those words from you. As I sobbed my grief, I pray you hear me say, “I love you, Papa… I may have forgotten that I did, but I’ve always have and that I never stopped and that I’ll always will.”
And even when you’ve never said it to me, not in words nor in deeds, now I have come to realize that you loved me in your own way—perhaps not in a conventional way, but loved me in whatever capacity you had. I’m just sad that it took me up until now to see it clearly. I promise that in your honor I will do everything in me not to commit the same mistakes you’ve done in your lifetime. I will strive to love the people I love the way you’ve never showed me, the way it should be. I will honor you by making you my example. I will honor you by never making you out to be more than you were. I love you, papa… as a child, with no conditions. And I love you, papa… as an adult, with unvarnished truth and understanding. You’ll always have a place in my heart and I promise not to ever forget again. Save a place for me… I’ll be there soon. Until we meet again
*** to my sister: Well, what do you know? I did it, after all… I made a not-so-conventional eulogy. This was cathartic… I think I’m really okay with everything now. I feel at peace… THANK YOU, LORD.
A eulogy, they asked… what’s a eulogy, really? It’s a speech given during a funeral [mostly] about somebody who passed away; a speech full of praise and commendation of the deceased’s life. Usually, a eulogy is given by a close family member, or a dearest friend, who knew the person so well. Maybe, in some cases, they are subordinates in a company, commending and praising a boss they worked with for so long that they’ve gotten to know him personally too. But in our case, between you and me, what can I say? Even when we still lived under one house, I barely seen you or talked to you. You were the papa who was always out and would show up home only when you’re hungry, sleepy and broke. What I remember mostly, in association with you, is the feeling of dread when you were home. You and mom always seem to fight and so we were always scared and I remember us, my siblings and me, hiding under the dining table. And we would whisper amongst ourselves and wishing for you to leave again. Was there any sweet memories? There’s one that so prevalent, but what started out a sweet memory, ended up bitter. I remember you were hungry, so was I, and decided to prepare fried rice and invited me with you. I was so amazed that you were doing something I’ve never seen men do at our house—cook. And I was so thrilled at seeing this awesome event. I felt so special to be the one to witness it. You placed the food on the table and we proceeded to get into it when my sister came home from school… she saw that we were eating and came up to us and asked what we were doing. You told her that you made some fried rice for both of us, and then my sister asked if she could have some, which then you told her NO, for it was only enough for you and me. I was but 4 or 5 years old at that time, but I knew then that it was wrong. I knew how wrong it was for a father to deny his child anything, much less food. And since I’ve eaten some of the food, you also made me into your accomplice. You shared with me the guilt. This is my most vivid memory of you. Why did it have to be this one? Why couldn’t it be an unblemished happy memory? It would have been better to have no memory of you at all, than to have this.
Mom’s side of the family’s always been close, and all knew how much she had to put up with… and most of them weren’t shy to spread the tales of what they know, and were so generous also in sharing their not-so-high opinion of you. Growing up, I knew NO ONE that spoke well of you. Even neutral, random people who knew you didn’t speak well of you. Do you know how exhausting and demeaning it is for a kid to try to defend an indefensible father? My heart broke every time I tried. I remembered writing a letter to mom and asking her to forgive you coz despite everything you were still my father and have that same letter tossed back to my face, with my mom berating me for asking something that I really have no business asking—that I didn’t know what I was asking nor do I know what misery you’ve brought to her life. She did this with a few other family members present… I felt so small that my defense of you ended abruptly that night.
Should my eulogy be about you conning my mom money she saved for our food, shelter and educational expenses? Should I talk about you yelling at us, when we were loud [as kids normally are when they play]? Why didn’t you choose to love us instead? Why didn’t you like us? These are the questions I’ve always wanted to ask you but never had the courage to say then out loud; for fear that you answering, in itself, an acknowledgement of its validity.
But, under the anger… what’s more prevalent for me is the hurt. I hurt knowing that you lived such a life, when it could have been different. I hurt that you lived surrounded with ridicule and put-downs. I hurt that your name, when mentioned, did not inspire trust nor care—instead they inspired anger, disrespect and scorn. I hurt that you died without a single family member on your side. I hurt that you could have had daughters and a son to send you off when you breathed your last. I hurt that I have forgotten the love I have for you… because the truth of the matter is, despite our distance, despite my hurt, despite every negative things—I do love you, papa. I’m sorry that you’ve never heard me say it to you. And I’m sorry I’ve never heard those words from you. As I sobbed my grief, I pray you hear me say, “I love you, Papa… I may have forgotten that I did, but I’ve always have and that I never stopped and that I’ll always will.”
And even when you’ve never said it to me, not in words nor in deeds, now I have come to realize that you loved me in your own way—perhaps not in a conventional way, but loved me in whatever capacity you had. I’m just sad that it took me up until now to see it clearly. I promise that in your honor I will do everything in me not to commit the same mistakes you’ve done in your lifetime. I will strive to love the people I love the way you’ve never showed me, the way it should be. I will honor you by making you my example. I will honor you by never making you out to be more than you were. I love you, papa… as a child, with no conditions. And I love you, papa… as an adult, with unvarnished truth and understanding. You’ll always have a place in my heart and I promise not to ever forget again. Save a place for me… I’ll be there soon. Until we meet again
*** to my sister: Well, what do you know? I did it, after all… I made a not-so-conventional eulogy. This was cathartic… I think I’m really okay with everything now. I feel at peace… THANK YOU, LORD.
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