I got a letter from Pong before he left for Bohol two days ago. One line stood out in my head, “You, Mimimi and Minimi, are my family.”
He has given me too many petnames. He likes calling our coming daughter Mini-Mi. Even if we have been together for a year and we have gone through so much together, I think this is the first time Pong explicitly pertained to me and us as family.
I have not been in touch with my family for some time. And growing up, my concept of family has always been too vague, too dispersed for me to make any sense of it at all.
As a teenager, my friends were my family. Then, we started growing apart. I made new friends and I lost some old friends. Then I reach another phase in my life, then I lose old friends again and make new ones.
So, my idea that my friends were my family has been invalidated.
There are family members and friends who are still around. They showed me what family really is. The following anecdotes demonstrated best the times I felt family:
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For some reason, I prefer my father’s approach to dealing with me compared to my mom’s. I remember getting an angry text from him almost a year ago asking me what it is that I want from them. I told him pointblank, I believe I have exercised good judgment all my life. I have delivered for you and our family day-in and day-out. I think you should just trust me on this.
His reply was typically succint, Okay, I trust you.
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My younger brother sent me a message a few months back. He told me how happy he was for me that I am having a baby.
This is the same kid I used to bully around when we were young. I think I pushed him off the stairs one time. Made him cry too many times. He also stole money from my wallet, went klepto on my things, hogged the phone, and other things.
He also always adored me. Even if my presence makes his faults seem worse. Even if his academic performance pales compared to mine. Even if he was constantly made to feel like a real loser for not being like me.
He did not care. He did not care about the fact that I am not married. He did not care that our parents do not approve of my boyfriend. He did not care that my plans for studying abroad and giving them more money were stalled.
Only one he cared about was me.
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I have a close friend. I informed her through text that I was pregnant. It was definitely a shocker since she has not even met Pong at the time.
They were a devoutly Catholic family and I was an unmarried pregnant woman. But I, including Pong, was welcomed in their house with open arms. No questions asked. No judgment as well.
They offered their cozy house, happy company, and delicious Italian dinner.
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The most insulting thing I was ever told regarding my pregnancy was ‘nandiyan na yan’ (It is there already).
As if my baby was some unbearable physical deformity that we will have no choice except to dress around in. As if it was an awful stain in an otherwise pristine dress.
I am thankful that for every idiot who uttered those words, many other people came up and simply said:
A baby is always a blessing. Congratulations.
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Saying I had a tough year is an understatement. In a lot of ways, my mom, my relatives, my friends were right to fret, to worry, to panic about me. It was every bit as hard as they could have imagined. Actually, it was harder.
Blaming did not help. Regret did not help. Asking ‘if only’ did not help. Crying for me did not help.
The only things those things succeeded in doing was to irritate me some more. As if they are the ones who are going through shit. As if they were asking me to make them feel better during the times when I was going through shit.
What did help are free chocolate sundaes, free baked zitis, a homecooked putanesca, company during lonely weekdays, an open and welcoming house for the weary and hungry, sincere hugs, hilarious sex stories, and other simple things.
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Two months ago, I had a fight with my friend J Slut.
It was nasty. I was really tired and he was bugging me non-stop. So we got into a fight. No kid gloves. We were hitting at each other with the ugliest dirt we had on each other.
It sucked for some time. But we took what was real from the fight and we shrugged it off a week after.
Not many can take that kind of venom and be completely cool after. He said he is still looking forward to taking my baby for a stroll in the park on a London autumn. We will escape to Scotland for a weekend to ogle Scots in kilts.
For that, my daughter will call him Uncle J.
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I think I was the first to treat Pong as my family. He may have said I love you first, but I was the one to prove it first.
All I know was that despite the odds, the ugliness, the pain, the hardships, I went through, I decided I am not the one who will let go. I was not the one who will break. It was okay if he decided to do so. I was ready if he made that choice. But the decision of whether we can work out rested on him.
I saw him at his worst. I endured his fears. I faced his worries and his baggages. I carried and pushed his problems with him. When there was nothing I can do about them, I had to continue urging him on even if it was hurting me.
No blaming, no regrets, no conditionalities. I did not think about myself or the fact that I was hurt, I was tired, or it was getting heavier.
Here is how I define family:
I will love you no matter what.
