Amador T.

Daguio, Filipino poet & short story writer in English

Amador T. Daguio Life after Marriage

Much has been said about my fathers beginnings, from his birth on the 8th January
1912 in Laoag, Ilocos Norte, his growing up in the Mountain Province, now Kalinga,
through to his high school days at Rizal High School and then his UP university days
where he finished a Bachelors degree in Philosophy, even his time at Stanford
University where he completed his Master of Arts in English as a government
scholar. But nothing has been written about my fathers immediate family, his direct
descendants.

My father and my mother, Estela Fermin, met at the Zamboanga Normal School and
got married in December 1939. Both my parents were then assigned to teach at the
Leyte Normal School in Tacloban City, where the war and the Japanese occupation
overtook them. It was not until June 1950 that I came into this world, the eldest of
their 4 children, after 10 years in their married life. This is particularly significant to
his short story, Wedding Dance.

Shortly after my birth, my father won his scholarship to Stanford University in

California where he studied, for 2 years. It was, though rewarding, a difficult time for
him. After many years of waiting for a child, my father had to endure being away
from his wife and first born son. In his Foreword to his thesis, Hudhud Hi Aliguyon,
the Ifugao Harvest Song which he translated into English, my father wrote:
"To Estela, my wife and star, I owe a special debt. When I won the Philippine
Government scholarship in English which was my opportunity to study in America,
she willingly let me go, breaking the smoothness of twelve years of happy
comradeship, with a son for her to support while I was eight thousand miles away.
Only the knowledge of her sacrifice made light the burden of our temporary
separation, and if for this alone I vowed that I would succeed in America, to be more
worthy of her. To her I offer this fruit of hard and lonely labor.
It was about this time that he wrote Wedding Dance.

Immediately after completing his Masters degree, my father returned home to

Leyte. Later in the year November 1953, my father and mother had their second
child, a daughter who they named Jenny Rose. In early 1955, the family moved to
Quezon City in Cubao, after my mother got a position with the Department of
Education, renting the lower ground floor of a house in Driod Street.

In 1956, the family again moved house, renting another smaller home in Kamuning,
also in Quezon City. It was here that my father and mother had their 3rd child,
Francis Rey, who was born at the Delgado Clinic in Kamuning on October 1956.

By this time, my father was working with the press. This enabled him to bid for a
house at the so-called Newspapermens Row in Project 6, Quezon City and, in 1957,
the family took possession of my father's first home in Road 7. Two and a half years
later, on October 1959, the youngest child of my father and mother was born. She
was christened Malinda Brigitte, a name I took from a book we read in school. I was
9 years old then.

Our house in Road 7, Project 6 played a significant role in my upbringing and

perhaps those of my brother and sisters. I still recall the day in March 1957, when
my father came home from a trip as a member of the press, telling my mother how
he was on a different plane from that of the President and they learned on touching
down that the Presidents plane had reportedly crashed. We all now know that
President Magsaysay died in that plane crash, together with all but one lone
survivor, my fathers friend and colleague, Nestor Mata.

Being the eldest son of Sixto Daguio and Magdalena Taguinod, and as a pioneer
among his and my mothers relatives from the provinces in having their own place
in Quezon City, my father and mother played a big part, and so the house in Road 7,
in the life of those who wanted to study or look for work in Manila. My parents so
willingly opened their hearts and they made sure that, those who wanted work
would be able to secure one, while those who needed to study accomplished what
they set out to do. This situation continued even after the untimely death of my
father on 26th April 1966.

To make ends meet, my father took to being a jack of all trades. Between 1957
and 1966, not only was he writing poetry, he practiced his law, the degree he
earned in 1954 from the Romualdez Law School in Leyte. He taught English to
university students at the University of the Philippines in Padre Faura, University of
the East, and the Philippine Womens University. He was a speechwriter to the then
Speaker of the House of Representatives, the late Daniel (Danieling) Z. Romualdez.
He was also an active member of The National Press Club.

My father tried his hand in politics. As a member of the Nacionalista Party, in 1961,
he ran for a seat in Congress under the banner of then President Carlos P. Garcia,
who was ably defeated by Diosdado Macapagal in that election. My father lost to,
from my recollection, Alfredo Lamen in the 1st District of Mountain Province. On
hindsight, while my father had all the virtues to be a good public servant

considering his love for country and its people, he would not have survived long in
the political arena. He was an artist by heart and mind, and a truly national artist, at
that!

English was the medium of instruction in all schools during my elementary and high
school days. Of course, Pilipino was also an important subject in schools. At home,
my father talked to me in English and so did my mother. His belief was that I could
learn Tagalog so easily outside of the home, from classmates and friends. But using
English at home would help me a lot with my studies and in my everyday life. It was
an advantage that held true. In most English-based subjects, like Reading,
Language and Spelling during primary school days, and English/Literature in the
later years, I was almost always at the top of my class.

After the Presidential elections in 1965, my father started to complain about

stomach aches and, at times, gas pains. Alka Seltzer became a common drink and
the pains were simply blamed on possible ulcers that could be fixed by making sure
there was no absence of food. He was not a smoker nor was he an alcoholic drinker.
If he ever tried a cigarette, he never took to the habit and, if he ever took a sip, it
would have been at a social scene and possibly would have been no more than a
bottle of beer. But he loved peanuts. On his way home from teaching at the PWU, he
would never go past a peanut vendor, as he walks to the bus stop, without buying a
small pack.

My father continued his normal work routine and even his day out with his friends
on weekends and, at times when their schedule permits, on weekdays. Rodrigo
Feria, also a writer, was his very good friend and company most of the time. One
day in April, my father was brought home, by a couple of his friends, after he
complained of an excruciating pain in the front and back of his abdominal area.
They thought, as it always did, that the pain would go. But this time, the pain lasted
even after the usual self remedies were administered. My mother called the local
doctor and he arrived as darkness set in. I was there that night but was not allowed
to go inside the bedroom. My mother tells me her story months later, that, after the
doctor administered pain killers by injection, he wrote on the table, after she asked
what he suspected it was, the word CANCER. I had no idea it was that serious as
my mother did not want to alarm me.

He was brought to the Philippine General Hospital the very next day and, after
preparation or examination, was wheeled into the operating room for immediate
surgery. I wrote my recollection of those last few days in a blog I did a number of
years ago.
That Fateful Day in 1966

Dad went into a coma after surgery, the doctors knew it was only a matter of time.
It was going to be soon if the bleeding wouldn't stop. I was a young lad of 15, about
to graduate from high school, the eldest child in a brood of 4. At the hospital, they
didn't tell me what exactly was wrong. I had the feeling something was not right. I
tried to elicit more information from my cousins but everyone was trying to pretend
everything was going to be alright. I could sense it was more than what I was being
told. I went to Mom and asked if it was true Dad had cancer, I said Sonny Boy, my
cousin, told me. It was a deliberate lie to get to the truth. Mom hesitating
somewhat...she told me everything. That was the hardest part of all, the realization
that I was going to lose my Dad. I cried like never before, though somewhat
subdued like a man would.

On the Tuesday early morning, he suddenly spoke, "Open the windows, I can hear
the birds chirping, it is a beautiful morning". Mom was so happy, it seemed he was
going to pull through.

I was at home, still sleeping after staying awake, tossing in bed and not being able
to sleep. By the time I awoke, it was past my usual waking time. I tried to rush, to
get ready for school. Took the bus from Project 6 to Claro M Recto, then walked to
San Sebastian College. I didn't make it on time. The school guards closed the front
gate and would not let me, and some others, in. I decided right there and then, to
go to the PGH where Dad was. It was a blessing as it allowed me to see him in his
lucid moments. I can't forget the face of my Mom, she was running towards me as
soon as she saw me coming. Your Dad is awake...oh, such wonderful words.

It was mid-morning and Dad, while having ice cream, requested that I be given ice
cream, too. My recollection was he was being given ice cream to help ease the pain
but I am not sure if this was fact as, now that I think of it, it seemed not plausible
given he had all those tubes in him. Nevertheless, I remember him doing a burp and
he tells me, "My son that is called a burp. The one below is called fart but I don't
want to demonstrate it to you now as there is a beautiful nurse beside me". When
his best friend, Rod Feria, came to visit, he said "Don't give Rod ice cream, this is
only for me and my son." He had that sense of humor with him that day...that was
despite everything.

Later in the afternoon, my youngest sis, Malinda, was taken to him from her school
at St Mary's in QC. I still can see his face, the happiness in seeing his 6 year old
daughter, yet the sadness in his eyes as he says," How could a man die?" He knew
it was going to be his last.

That evening, 26th of April 1966, my Dad passed away.

I took it hard. I was the eldest of the four of us siblings. I was 15 and it was 10 days
before my graduation from high school. Never did I have an inkling I was going to
lose my father at so young an age. Fortunately, I had a mother who was true to her
family. By her lone self, she took to getting us through our education, the four of us.
Mommy Estela never re-married until she joined our Creator at the age of 94 on the
10th December 2012. On their wedding anniversary, interment took place at the
Manila Memorial Park and they were together again, forever.