Funerals, Books, and Grieving for My Father
My views on death (and life) have slowly been shaped by the many wakes and funerals I’ve been in, the deaths I’ve encountered (human/non-human, directly/indirectly), and the conversations I’ve had with people. Death is the end of life, and that’s it. Life is finite because it ends, and that limit can give life meaning and purpose. But no matter how many times you’ve read, talked, and thought about death, nothing really prepares you when someone you love dies.
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I left these three books on my father’s grave: The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, and Desaparesidos by Lualhati Bautista.
My father was a marxist and communist by heart. He believed in people, the power of the working class and their part in the continuing struggle for progress, the continuous and neverending change in society, each person’s roles to play in that flux. I remember he’d send me walls of text regarding his thoughts on contemporary social and political issues. I’d proudly show them to people I know, and they’d say they’d probably enjoy talking to my father. In hindsight I should have left him a copy of Maikling Kurso sa Lipunan at Rebolusyong Pilipino instead.
I love Kurt Vonnegut’s writing. Slaughterhouse Five and Cat’s Cradle are my favorite novels: the dark humor, the very silly but very human characters, the absurd narrative. I’ve never shared that with my father. Perhaps leaving this book with him was a little too late, but it certainly helped with my grief.
Desaparesidos was the only novel my father has shared with me. He’s shared a lot of books with me, but most were non-fiction. This book was different. He was an activist and was a political prisoner early on Cory’s regime and this novel deeply resonated with his experiences, thoughts, and ideals. I remember crying when I read this, I’d imagine my father did, too.
The books we consume affect how we think, and may eventually define who we are. I’ll always thank my parents for instilling the value (and joy) of reading to me. I regret not sharing more books with my father, but we can only share what we can with the life we have. So many books, so little time.
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For most of my life, my father wasn’t with me. His work has kept him away from his family, the very family he is earning a living for. But I’ve never really felt his absence — he was always there with the letters, the international calls, the skype chats, the videos shared on messenger. He was always there when needed, now suddenly he’s not.
The last thing I shared with him was “My Dead Dad’s Porno Tapes” directed by Charlie Tyrell. It’s a film about a son remembering his dead dad through the things he left. As I shared it, I told him that I was lucky he was my father. That would be the last message he read from me.
Nobody tells you what happens to you when you lose a parent. One of the people who’s always been there since you were born, now gone. I wouldn’t be who I am right now if it wasn’t for my father.
Rest in power, Pa. Thank you for the life you’ve given me.