'Scarred Father': A Tribute To My Loving Father (2003)

Jose Vilog Manzano (March 18, 1949-April 11, 2004)

E

arly in the morning, I was awakened by the loud crowing and cackling of the Texas chickens in our backyard. My father had just finished feeding them with his special hodgepodge of rice sprinkled with feeds and vitamins. Many mornings, he would bring out his treasured fighting cocks from their cages into the early sunlight, stroking their shiny plumage with quiet pride.

That particular morning, I watched him slowly hobble toward the porch of our house—his right hand gripping a cane and his left holding an aluminum crutch. When he reached the porch, he carefully set the crutch in its corner and gently lowered himself onto the bench where he usually spent the day reading newspapers and magazines. He sat in silence, gazing out the window as he observed our neighbors going about their usual routines.

“Has your Uncle Doming passed by yet?” he asked in his familiar hortatory voice. “Yes, he just came to deliver the newspaper.” I leaned forward to hand him the papers along with his thick glasses. Despite his age and his ailments, he had not abandoned his habit of reading the paper from cover to cover—from the headlines down to the ads and crossword puzzles. He always kept himself updated on the newest products in town, even though he knew he would never buy them.

Three years ago, I entered the religious life. Now I can visit my family only occasionally, whenever my schedule permits. I was home for a week, and I had been thinking a lot about my father—how he managed to survive the treadmill of life he had been placed on. A phantasmagoria of his life flashed before me, as though I were walking through a hero’s portico lined with scenes of his struggles and triumphs.

Coming from a small village of farmers, he never allowed poverty to crush his hopes. At an early age, he learned to till the soil and sold fruits and vegetables to earn pocket money for school. When most parents in the neighborhood had stopped encouraging their children to dream of higher education, he pushed himself to go to the metropolis to study.

He entered college and finished a degree in agriculture. I remember how he used to lecture us, always recounting how he painstakingly managed his studies while working part-time as a taxi driver. There were times when he had to stop schooling just to earn enough money for tuition. At first, we thought he exaggerated these stories. But our grandmother confirmed them—and added her own memories of laboring in the fields to help finance his education.

After graduating, he was hired by the newly founded Department of Agrarian Reform during the Marcos years. He served nearly twenty years as one of its pioneers, helping farmers secure their long-neglected rights and privileges regarding land. By then, he had started a family, which pushed him to work even harder. He rose to a high position not because of elite credentials, but because of sheer diligence.

His work, however, exposed him to many dangers. In those years, he survived three motorcycle accidents. Despite the severity of the crashes, he always walked away without serious injury. Perhaps because of this, he became increasingly fearless. He did not mind being assigned to remote areas—places often infiltrated by armed insurgents.

Clockwise: Lola Antonia+, her aunt Perfecta+, Jacqueline, Leticia (my Mom), Jocelyn, Jollie-Ann, Jeofrey, and JM (me). Undated photo taken at my father's ancestral house in Palali Norte, Sta Lucia Ilocos Sur.

Being the breadwinner of a large family was no small task. He raised and supported all seven of us, especially in our schooling. Given what he had gone through, education became absolutely non-negotiable in our home. When we were young, he tutored us diligently. Despite long days solving farmers’ land problems, he always made time to check on our studies. I will never forget the nights when he refused to let me sleep until I could read correctly. Sometimes, our mother secretly helped us answer difficult assignments just so we could go to bed—and spare our buttocks from our father’s “disciplinary” palms.

When we reached high school and college, he was once again forced to find additional work to meet our growing needs. He raised livestock and poultry, and even tried working illegally in Japan as a migrant laborer. After eight months, the authorities discovered his status. If not for a few kind people who intervened, he would have ended up in jail.

Then catastrophe struck. My father fell from a horseradish tree and nearly lost the use of his legs. After surviving three motorcycle accidents, it was this simple fall—while gathering leaves and fruits for viand—that crippled him. I was there that morning. I saw him climb the old tree. And from that day on, I never saw him walk freely again. He lost his job, and we all had to tighten our belts to survive on my mother’s modest income.

For years, we thought his legs were permanently paralyzed. But miracle of miracles—he fought back. Every morning, my mother accompanied him to the seaside where he buried his legs in the sand. He realized he had to relearn everything, as though he were a child taking his first steps again. His determination to recover helped him overcome what seemed like a hopeless condition. As he regained some strength, he started small ventures—making hollow blocks, delivering sand and gravel, trading fruits and vegetables. Even now, with no sensation on either side of his thinning legs, he still hobbles around supported by his cane and crutch. Yet his spirit to work and provide has never dimmed.

One hot Sunday afternoon during my recent visit, I helped him change his sweat-soaked shirt. I saw a long scar on his back with several stitch marks—remnants of his first major spinal operation. Another scar ran across his abdomen from a second surgery done two years later due to further complications.

As I looked closely at him—older now, with salt-and-pepper hair and a body marked by scars—I saw a man who, in his own way, had learned what it meant to be a father. What struck me the most was something I had only recently discovered from my grandmother: my father never knew his own biological father. He grew up without ever seeing him.

And yet, despite surviving life at such a terrible cost, he became the father he never had—family-oriented, courageous, hardworking, and willing to give everything for the future of his children. That, I believe, is the wonder of it all. Fr JM Manzano SJ