My grandfather, Atty. Jesus V. Ayala, known best as the godfather of agri-business and development in the Mindanao region, passed away last Tuesday when he finally succumbed to multiple organ failure. He was 82.
Several regional dailies ran their respectable versions of his obituary two days later. Reporters referred to him as “Davao’s development guru” and “a political kingmaker,” backing up their statements with heartfelt quotes from many political luminaries, including President Aquino. To me, though, he was just “Lolo.”
I don’t feel the need to explain that my grandfather was a great man by recapping all his accolades nor recounting his achievements. I’m sure you’ll find all that information in the papers or on the Internet. Anyway, as is with most extraordinary people, Lolo was much more than that. As a businessman and political adviser, he was a tremendous force to be reckoned with. Beneath all that bad-ass, however, was the patriarch of our family, the man who forever changed my perception of unconditional love.
My lolo was not a frivolous man. He spared no expense, however, when it came to showing us how much he cared. Growing up, I got to see the world — through dim sum lunches and trips to Ocean Park in Hong Kong, cherry blossom afternoons and karaoke nights in Tokyo, and resort hopping and whitewater rafting in Bali — thanks to the frequent family vacations he organized. Once, when I was 13, we were vacationing in Hong Kong when my aunt, Ann Marie, got really sick. Lolo felt so bad about her being stuck in bed that he decided to go shopping for her so she could cheer up. Being the family’s resident “girlie girl,” constantly buried in issues of Seventeen magazine and completely obsessed with dressing like a pop star, I was recruited to help him choose what to buy. I mentioned that she liked nail polish, so we walked to the nearest beauty store. He bought two bottles of every imaginable color, one for my aunt, and the other as a “thank you” for my help. I don’t think I’ve ever owned as much nail polish in my life as I did when I was that age.
Lolo always knew the right thing to say. I loved listening to his speeches. The guy was an oratorical magician and could charm anyone’s socks off, even if he was asked to speak on the spot. It wasn’t just because he had this freakishly superhuman intellect, but also because he knew how to read people and responded from a very genuine place. Sometimes, it was what he didn’t say that moved you. I got in a lot of trouble once during a summer vacation in California. I have absolutely no recollection of what I did or who yelled at me, but I remember that I ran upstairs, crying, and refused to come back down. Looking back, the entire ordeal couldn’t have been such a big deal, which is probably why no one paid any heed to my hysterics. I was a sensitive child though, and did not like it when people yelled. Lolo understood this. My infantile sobs were quelled when he finally came upstairs to talk to me. He didn’t scold me. He didn’t hug me. He just placed one hand on my shoulder and said, “It might not always seem that way, but I will always love you all just the same.” Lolo didn’t say anything else. He just sat there with me and let me cry until I was ready to go back downstairs.
My lolo liked to make people feel appreciated. I remember the parties he threw at our compound, not just for the immediate family, but for distant relatives, close friends, colleagues and employees. New Year’s Eve was our casino night, complete with blackjack and roulette tables. Before the festivities would start, he would have everyone line up in front of him and he would hand us little envelopes of money. Being the savvy entrepreneur that he was, he knew he’d make all that money back by New Year’s Day, once casino night was done. What was important to him was that everyone had a good time. There was always a buffet, a live band, and lots of dancing. I loved watching him dance with my lola. When he led her out on the dance floor, they transformed from this shouting married couple to the newlyweds I recognized from their wedding photos. Lolo could make anyone fall in love with him, but my lola has always been the love of his life. During his final days in the hospital, he asked for her constantly, and they would talk on the phone. He asked for Lola until he could no longer speak.
By the time I reached my late teens, I was in the thick of my pissed-off, rebellious and self-absorbed phase and distanced myself as much as possible from my family. I didn’t understand the point Lolo was trying to make by having us eat every possible meal together and attend every single function together, as a family. It all felt like one massive chore to me, as I was far more concerned with going to parties and spending time with boyfriends. I was sick of everything being about “the family.” In my mind, I thought I was trying to be an individual.
When Lolo got sick in 2006, it put a lot of things in perspective for me. I resolved to spend more time with him and my family, which, unfortunately, was accomplished in one of the suites of Medical City hospital. He started to make regular trips from Davao to Manila for check ups and consultations. When I would visit him during those days, I never once heard him complain about being in pain. Instead, he would make time to sit me down and ask me about my plans and goals in life. He always smiled during our talks.
When he started to need daily dialysis for his kidneys, he still managed to have a sense of humor about it. I once showed up to visit him in Davao, sporting a huge bandage over my shoulder, courtesy of a skateboard injury. He pointed to the gauze covering the right side of his neck (an entry point for his dialysis treatment) and said he knew what I meant. The last time I was able to spend his birthday with him was before I moved to Los Angeles. It was also the last time I heard him make one of his bitingly clever, heartfelt and hilarious speeches.
“Standing in front of you tonight, I am still the same man I was many years ago,” he said. “Maybe with half a kidney, but still very handsome.”
When he finally left us, I flew home to Davao. For the first time in years, we were all together outside of having to celebrate Christmas or New Year’s Eve. This time around, we came together to mourn, except it hasn’t really felt like mourning to me. Yes, I’ve cried a lot this last week. People in my family have had trouble sleeping. Some of us have been unable to get any sleep and for others, it seems it’s all they can do. A lot of us have been ill as well. Despite all that, I’ve noticed that we are still cracking jokes, hanging out and eating all our meals together (and with serious gusto). I’ve realized that Lolo’s true legacy is the bond he forged in our family. He taught us how to be together, to have a ridiculously good time enjoying each other through the best moments and to support one another unconditionally through our darkest days. He made us laugh a lot. Sometimes, we didn’t understand him. But, he was always there for us. Likewise, our family is one massive fiesta of eating, laughing lunatics on our good days. Other times, we can’t stand one another and fight the urge to punch one another in the armpit. At the end of the day though, we are here for each other, and will be, forever. It’s what Lolo always wanted, because from the very beginning, he understood that this is what matters most.
I cannot say that I’ve inherited many of my lolo’s traits. I would like to say that I’ve gone on as many dates as he has, but I’d hate to underestimate his charm. I cannot play an instrument to save my life. I suck at poker. The only thing I know about farms has to do with a Facebook app, and I’m not even very good at playing it. I start to shake when I am asked to speak in public. I know nothing about politics and am pretty sure that the only president I will ever advise will be the president of my book club, when I am a twice-divorced spinster with nothing better to do than argue that Paulo Coelho is an overrated, pseudo-spiritual hack. None of that matters though. What’s important is that Lolo gave me this wonderful family. He will continue to keep us together, even if he’s passed on. I, for one, will always be grateful to him for helping me see what a gift family truly is, especially a crazy-ass one like mine.
I love you, Lolo. Wherever you are, I hope they’re throwing you one hell of a party. And when I get there too, I hope to finally dance with you.
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Email the author at Francesca.ayala@gmail.com.