My Cherished Treasures: Conversations with Dad

MARICEL BARREIRO VILLANUEVA

Was it one afternoon in 1985? Students and employees were dismissed early as Metro Manila braced for a typhoon. Daddy sent his driver home, and picked me up from work himself. With winds howling and heavy rain pouring, traffic along Buendia was almost at astandstill. As the radio played, I stared out the window at everyone being drenched Daddy interrupted with a question.

Dad: Hindi ka ba nahihiya? (Aren’t you embarrassed?)

Me: Kanino, Dad? Bakit? (Who, Dad, why?)

Dad: Sa kanila. Basang basa sila. Nagsisiksikan. Tayo tuyo, naka aircon, dadalawa lang sa maluwag na kotse. Magyaya ka ng sasakay, kahit sino. (About them. They’re soaked, packed like sardines. And here we are, dry, with air conditioning, just the two of us in a spacious car.  Invite someone in –anyone.)

Me: Dad? No – hindi natin sila kilala! (Dad? No – we don’t even know them!)

Dad: Look for a familiar face from work. Sigurado meron. (Look for someone from work.  I’m sure you’ll spot someone.)

Now, that was a fair compromise. I saw two co-workers sharing an umbrella and motioned for them to hop in the car. They were headed to Guadalupe, and Daddy insisted on dropping them off at their homes. Protesting that the alleys where they lived were too narrow, they got off at a corner, but only after thanking us so profusely that it was almost embarrassing to listen.

Me: Grabe, Dad, sobra namang pasasalamat at tuwa nila. (Wow, Dad. They were so thankful and happy.)

Dad: Bago sila matulog ngayong gabi, sa Diyos sila magpapasalamat. (Before they go to sleep tonight, they’ll thank God.)

This conversation – like so many others – crystallized Daddy’s rootedness in love of God and all that Jesus asks of us. His life was anchored in that “connection” with our Heavenly Father.  It defined him as a husband, a father, and a man. It’s also what continues to anchor our family – in strength, in unity, and in grace – long after he has gone.

There are moments I still unearth from our time together, especially when I face trials or simply long for his wisdom and love.

When I was younger (and, occasionally, even now,) I cared too much about gaining others’ approval. When my self-esteem is shredded to bits by someone, amid my tears, Dad would firmly but gently say: “Remember, there is only one God. At hindi siya (name of person) yon.” (“And it isn’t that person you’re crying over.”) It gave me comfort, but more importantly, clarity. I am valued in God’s eyes. It was an absolute truth no one could take away.

As an only daughter, and without a doubt, my Daddy’s favorite (a fact lovingly accepted by all my 7 brothers), there was an unmistakably special bond between us. The thought of losing him paralyzed me. So, my faith was put to a severe test when he was diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer. He had traveled to the USA to accept a Peabody Award for GMA Channel 7, when symptoms appeared. He initially refused surgery, but relented after much begging on my part, and only on one condition: my brothers (the 4 older ones) would fly in from Manila, so he could talk to all of us before he underwent the knife. That afternoon, I was astounded by his understanding of all our strengths and weaknesses, especially because it was Mommy who spent all her life with us. Some things he told me and my brothers:

1) You married a good man. Take care of him. Make him happy and you will be, too.

2) A wife needs to know and feel she is loved. Demonstrate that love.

3) You are young, with success within your reach. Power, prestige and material riches can be intoxicating. Watch out for the temptation to lose sight of what truly matters.

4) Julia (our deaf niece) is your collective concern, not only Jun’s and Mau’s.

5) Look after each other. Be sensitive to another’s needs, so that the one in need would not even have to ask.

6) Promise me that your mom will never be alone (a promise fulfilled).

Dad’s sense of humor surfaced even the day before his surgery. After his pre-op consultation with the nuerosurgeon, he shared the discussion with me and my siblings: what to expect. detailing the procedure, the risks involved, etc. Everyone was quiet, but me. Answering my questions, he said: “They will section off a part of my skull” What else did he say, Dad? “I could lose my speech, my sight, etc.” Okay, and what else? “There could be excessive blood loss. I could die on the operating table.” Feigning courage, I mumbled, “Okay, what else?” He replied with a straight face: “Hindi pa ba sapat para sa iyo yon? Puede daw ako mamatay?” Laughter relieved us of our tension.

Daddy reminded us often to love each other.  While many of his instructions centered around family, after he passed, countless others – co-workers, drivers, security guards, vendors — came forward to tell us how he touched their lives.  Not just with generosity, but with genuine concern for their families and their futures.

My Dad’s secretary once advised me: Tell your Dad not to let others take advantage of his kindness. I asked why. She reported that a security guard borrowed money to go home to Bicol. His wife was to give birth via C-section for which he was financially unprepared. The secretary checked the envelope from Daddy, and went back to my dad asking: “Why is this over the loan amount he needed?” Daddy reasoned that the guard would need extra money for the bus ride home and back.

My father once left a Christmas party hosted at our home briefly to spend time at the TV station. He had ordered food for those who skipped their own family celebrations to work the holiday shift to share a meal with them. These people never forgot that gesture, saying Daddy’s presence meant so much to them.

Was it by God’s design, too, that even before Julia was born deaf, my father headed a Foundation for the Disabled. All this, he did without trumpets blaring. Now, our niece, Julia, honors him by being a voice for the hearing impaired.

Last year, he was honored by St Theresa’s College for his role in establishing the Sambayan Educational Fund Inc (SEFI) in the 1970s, so young girls from families who could not afford a Theresian education, may have a chance. My husband Benjo and my brothers were teary eyed listening to the ladies share how the scholarships changed their lives. Today, SEFI continues to pursue its mission.

Our conversations and his letters, generously sprinkled with words of affection, humor and wisdom, are treasures I hold dearly. I still listen to Daddy’s words. I still read his letters. I still imagine myself watching him. And these memories, and you, Daddy, live in my heart.

We lost Antonio C Barreiro 32 years ago when he was 59, but he still shows up in the everyday decisions I make, in how I view the world and try to relate to others the way he did.

My earthly father’s love continues to be a gleam of His Love, the Greatest Treasure.