A tale of four fathers

Father’s Day is always a sensitive time of the year for me. This is the first year that both my sons, Vincent and Daniel are in college, and I feel the challenge and impending transition even more sharply.

In a few more years they will be on their own, and so shall I. And for a single parent, the thought of an empty nest can be quite unsettling.

We can’t stop Father Time from making them grow and moving on with their lives, but the sense of loss can be very powerful. In many ways, uncertainty can be more frightening that challenges staring you in the face.

I always say I was blessed, because I had four men who played the different roles of father in my life. Each one helped shape who I am today, and inextricably a part of me. We became parents not by birth, but by virtue of whom we choose to love in our lifetime, and I learned many lessons from a life in sports and from being their son.

Sports, as life always is, can sometimes be harsh, but always fair. It is people who change the rules and unmake it.

I met my biological father, John Schoen when I was 23. Without going into oft-repeated details, an uncle of mine in the US was able to trace him through a miraculous set of circumstances, enabling me to establish contact with him. Finally, in July of 1988, I was able to meet him face to face. It was both enlightening and emotional, and provided great closure.

John was a 6-1 heavyweight boxer in college at Loyola University in Chicago, the youngest child of a German grandfather and Irish mother who migrated to the US. He had a huge upper body and was ruggedly good-looking in an Aryan way. He looked like a cross between Tom Selleck and James Caan in their prime, which explained my mother’s infatuation with the TV series Magnum, P.I. when I was in grade school. My meeting him was jarring on several levels, and renewed my respect for the Almighty’s creative powers. To be brief about it, we walked the same way and talked the same way. We stroked our chin while in deep thought. We both threw up our hands and said “Whatever” when discussions came to a stalemate. Despite my having grown up 23 years and 10,000 miles away from him, he was undeniably my father.

John provided the raw material for the man I am today, the stone from which I became an athlete and sportsman. In many ways, he was an undiluted version of me then, but his temper was hard to control. He had a loud laugh that went unchecked, and was occasionally irresponsible, dished it out but couldn’t take it. I had a younger half-brother named Andrew who was born with a spinal disability (he walked with his neck bent and his chin perched on his right shoulder.

Once, after we watched a San Diego Padres game (his home team), they were teasing each other when John flared up and punched Andrew in the stomach. This led to shouting and arguing, an ugly sight. It was a lesson I would carry with me until today. I could never hit my sons.

I haven’t seen John in 21 years. Why, I still cannot fathom. It is more than a cultural difference, it was a certain indifference that leaves a hollow echo inside of me.

When I was in second grade, my mother married my stepfather. He was a distinguished-looking fellow who was an asset manager for a government institution. He gave me my last name through legal recourse, and little else. At the risk of hurting the feelings of the rest of my family, I’ll just say we never did anything together, and to this day, he remains quietly hostile to me for some unseen reasons, and snipes against me through other people, blaming me for some of his personal failures. The fact of the matter is, I am not his son, so he doesn’t treat me like one. It has caused much pain to my mother Lirio, but all that is over. He can’t hurt any of us anymore, because we won’t allow it. From him, I learned that the world can be harsh and cruel to an innocent child, and that sometimes, the people we imprint on and hope to protect us are the very ones to cause us harm. He taught me how to steel myself and not allow anyone to start a fight they aren’t ready to finish. Ready or not, I became tough, at the expense of a large part of my youth, and many tears which I no longer shed.

This was greatly offset, thankfully, by my grandfather, Jose Unson. He was a lawyer who was in the Marcos government, and the most generous man I had ever met. He was a gruff man with a great sense of humor, and learned in many of the ways of the world. When my mother brought me back from the US, he loved me like a son, and in return, I never gave him problems. Though he kept his emotions in check because that was how he was brought up, his actions always revealed how much he cared for me. Because my mother’s brothers were teens or older, it was no longer “cool” to be around their parents. But I didn’t mind hanging out with him. Materially, he gave me everything, even without my asking, and this caused some jealousy with my stepfather. I learned to appreciate music beyond my generation: Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., Billie Holiday, and so on. I was able to pursue many of my passions, particularly sports, thank to his support and my mother’s unwavering faith in me. I became a competitive athlete, writer, stage actor, and gradually matured because he was there for me.

Even when I couldn’t use the family car, I didn’t miss a thing. Daddy Peping provided tickets to all the concerts, sporting events and transportation. When I was on my way to meet my biological father, he made sure I would want for nothing. He used all the resources at his disposal to always ensure my comfort. It lifted a great burden from me. And through all his travels, he remembered me. I learned that the world was an abundant, colorful place, where I could dream and be anything I wanted. Because of him, I do everything I can to help my sons fly and reach their own dreams. Thanks to him, I found out the world will reward those who work hard, and give selflessly.

From those three fathers, I learned how to develop my physical strength, emotional fibre and faith that the world would provide. But it was Onofre Pagsanghan who helped my spirit bloom. Because of my problems at home, I was ill-tempered and sometimes difficult to be around. He saw through that to the hurt, troubled young man with a muddled identity, and gave me shelter through his Dulaang Sibol, the Ateneo high school theatre group that has been around far more than half a century. In the refuge of the stage, the person I am came to being in its nascent form. I found my soul in the pubescent creations we wrote, acted and sang and danced in. I found people I could get along with on the basketball court. I found acceptance.

As the saying goes, the child is the father to the man. These four fathers helped me head in the directions I have taken in my life, and be able to create something out of nothing. We are what we are because of our fathers, who taught us what to do or what not to do. Today, my sons give me precious feedback from their young, sunrise lives. They are living their dreams, including some that I had to abandon because of other urgent personal matters. We are friends and brothers to one another, and they know that Dad will never abandon them, even in the coming days when they won’t really need me. We mirror each other, and for that, we are fathers to each other. I couldn’t be prouder of how Vincent and Daniel have turned out. And as they seek their own lives and I gradually start to become part of their background, I am grateful for all the experiences that made me the father I am.

Nothing is lost. It only changes form.