Father, Mother & Son… for just seven days (1st of 7 parts)
DAY 1 (Tuesday)
Yes, an angel came from heaven, transmogrified himself into a baby boy, and presented himself to someone I would refer to as ate (a-te) Baby. Ate is how we call in Filipino a sibling (or any woman) older than us.
That Tuesday morning, while I was preparing for work, ate Baby came. Even without me seeing the one calling out my name from outside of our house, I was pretty sure it was her. That bass-booming voice was so familiar.
As I opened the front door leading to our terrace, what greeted me was like a scene from a movie – an old frowzy woman standing cleaving to a newborn infant slovenly swathed in an old blanket. She inquired if I still wanted to adopt a child and entreated me to get the baby she was clutching.
Of course, my wife and I wanted so badly to have a son or a daughter. We have yet to have one at that time. We wanted so badly to hear in that house the reverberating cries and the timorous laughter of an infant. But that notwithstanding, I could not grab that lovely angel from the hands of ate Baby. I wanted to make sure that there was no monkey business involved. I needed to do some investigation. Besides, I wanted to discuss it seriously first with my wife.
I then told ate Baby that we would inform her later in the day about our decision regarding the infant.
My wife was still in bed, probably half asleep, when I re-entered our room. Before leaving, I informed her about the baby. I saw her eyes sparkle in excitement, and told me I should have woken her up when Baby came.
I told her not to make any decision without us talking about it. Besides, at that time, I was talking to another party regarding a 7-month-old baby named Niña, whom I saw when I brought my students to an orphanage. Then I left hurriedly, for I did not want to be late for my work.
But as I was having a meeting with my colleagues in the college where I was working, it was almost noontime when I received a call from my wife. She told me that another party was interested in taking the baby, thus I had to make up my mind. I told her to give me until evening to decide. But she was adamant, demanding that I had to decide as soon as possible.
That’s her, what she wants, she should get immediately. It has always been like that. She told me a mouthful – about being indecisive and the likes.
I tried to figure out how to best navigate around her pressuring me. I called her back and told her that, personally, I had second thoughts. So, I would leave the decision to her. But, I assured her of my support for whatever she wanted to do. I ended the call telling her that it was my turn to report in the meeting we were having. The truth is I was already done reporting. Had I not done that, she might have continued talking, and we would be coming full circle.
As far as I could recall, she had never made a major decision. I doubted if she would do so that time. She never made a big decision for our family. It has always been me making decisions.
After a few hours, I called my sister-in-law and asked about my wife’s decision on the baby. Surprisingly, she told me my wife had already brought the baby home.
It was a mixture of emotions that I felt. I was WORRIED but EXCITED!
Worried because she made a major decision without us seriously conferring with one another. That wasn’t me. It would normally take time before I make a decision. But I was excited too. I felt an inexplicable excitement. There was seemingly a magnet pulling me home. Indeed, it was different because, in the past, I wished that I could just stay in the office and work a little longer. But at that time, I knew that there was an angel at home, and I would like to be acquainted with him as soon as possible.
I have not clutched a baby I could call my own for a long time. The last time was when my girlfriend, when I was in college, gave birth to my first son two months before I earned my undergrad degree. We eventually decided to live separate lives and took our 2-year-old son with her.
Anyway… on my way home, I whispered a prayer that He may make me and my wife ready for whatever responsibilities and challenges we were about to face.
When I got home, the baby was sleeping under the staircase – in the daybed where I would be lazing off while watching TV in our living room. Seated beside him was my wife, all smiles and enthusiastic, essaying her newfound role as a mother.
I approached them, knelt, and gazed at the baby. He had fair skin, softer than cotton. I kissed those rosy cheeks. He reacted, and what a wonderful sight I beheld – his skin turned crimson, and let out a short shriek, probably feeling delighted by what I did.
I visited ate Baby in their house after dinner. It was an angel she brought to our doorsteps, and words are not sufficient to express my gratitude for such. However, I had to tell her about my reservations. Firstly, I clarified that I don’t like that the baby’s parents live nearby. It would make our situation, and most especially that of the baby, so complicated if the real parents were just around. Lastly, I don’t like that anyone, not even her, would take advantage of our situation – childless for a long time – and play with our emotions. As it is, the long wait for a child of our own is already emotionally distressing, and if the one given to us is taken away for whatever reasons there may be, the pain will be much greater.
I told her that I could rebound easily from emotional distress, stressing that I am a tough hombre. But it may be different on the part of my wife.
For all those, ate Baby said the magic words – “Trust me.” Then she told me that I needed to accompany her the following day to the midwife who attended to the baby’s mother. After that, I went home happily armed with an assurance of someone saying I should TRUST HER.
Many “firsts” happened that evening. There were no disagreements that transpired between me and my wife. We ate happily together. We talked. We planned together. We woke up together to attend to whatever our baby needed. I would say it was a miracle – a miracle that happened because of the presence of an angel. And that was only the baby’s first night with us. We also had a lengthy discussion about how we should call him. We decided to name him MARC ANDREI and his nickname Santino.
I slept approximately a couple of hours. I could have gone sleepless, and I would not complain.
WHAT’S IN A NAME? WHAT’S IN MY NAME?
Much as people, unbeknownst to me or otherwise, whenever they would hear my name, or read it, would slightly frown (as if they heard a gobbledygook)… or scratch their head (as if they were asked a difficult question in a quiz bee) … or would asked me to say it again (playing deaf ha, or poking fun?), I was inspired to vigorously pounce on the keyboard and come out with this piece.
But why the big fuzz over my name? Why would it always draw, if not attention, giggles? What’s in a name anyway? And yeah, what’s in my name anyway?
A LOT!!!
I was baptized Massuline Antonio Dupaya Ligaya. There have been many who said that my given name is a little odd. Actually, that Massuline should have been Mussolini (yeah… from the Fascist dictator of Italy, Benito Mussolini) only that the midwife who had me registered in the civil registry of Lal-lo, Cagayan where I was born, misspelled the name. My parents told me that it was my grandma (father side) who picked the name. Of all names, I really wondered during my younger years why my Lola Basilisa would pick such a name… the name of an infamous dictator who, at the end of the 2nd World war would be hanged upside down by the angry Italians. However, there is also Antonio in my name. Lola Victoria, my grandma (mother side) insisted the inclusion of the name because I was born June 13 (1967), the feast day of St. Anthony De Padua of Spain.
At least I could heave a sigh of relief that my other name is Antonio, not Adolf. Just imagine if I would have been named MUSSOLINI ADOLF. My gosh, I would have had the names of two of the most infamous figures (Benito Mussolini and Adolf Hitler) of the WORLD WAR II. I may have been an abomination to those who suffered from their atrocities.
Anyway, it would be the Massuline that people would notice, and not the Antonio. There were those who said that my name is just a letter away from “masculine.” Jokingly they would add that perhaps I am not “ciento porciento” a masculine. Why? Because my name is that… one letter short of masculine. Then I would jestingly retort, “Tssee! Want me to hit you with my shoulder bag!”
There were those who would ask if I am a follower of the Islamic faith. They would reason out that my name sounds Arabic. I would retort that it is not Arabic but essentially Latin. Then I would ask if they know Mussolini of Italy from where my name was taken from.
Actually, in my family, we all thought that what is in my birth certificate was Mussolini. That’s why in all my official documents and IDs, it was Mussolini then that was reflected. Then, in 1990, when I applied for a passport, I discovered in my birth records from Lal-lo that instead of M-U-S-S-O-L-I-N-I the spelling of my first name is M-A-S-S-U-L-I-N-E. It was only in during the 2000s that I decided to follow the spelling as reflected in my birth certificate. It was when I took the Licensure Examination for Teachers that I started using Massuline. Thereafter, I underwent the tedious and expensive process of changing the spelling of my name in all my records…. in all the schools where I studied, SSS, PAG-IBIG, PHILHEALTH, etc.
It is only in the records related to my marriage that I have not changed my name yet. Meaning, I was married as MUSSOLINI but still single as MASSULINE… hehe. (Just joking…. seriously joking… or jokingly serious.)
In so many instances that my name would be misspelled and mispronounced Thus, when attending official gatherings, meetings and seminars I would always present my I.D. (with a with a pronunciation guide) to ensure that my name wont be murdered. In one of my poems I jokingly explained how my name should be read. The following are excerpts in my aforementioned poem. Below the excerpts are the English translations.
– – – – – – – – – –
Into four syllables, MASSULINE should be divided
write this way… MAS-SU-LI-NE, so you could get
MASSU in MASSULINE should be carefully read
following the pronunciation key at the end… (mäsū)
The “LI” should not be read as li as in Bruce Lee
but as lī as in lie, that’s when you fabricate a story
the “NE” let’s make it simple and your task easy
just follow the sound of “ni” in the word bikini
– – – – – – – – – –
And what about my nickname (or shall I say nicknames)? I have in the following excerpts from my poem mentioned above some explanation about my nicknames.
– – – – – – – – – –
With different nicknames I was identified,
from my initials, some have called me MAD,
from Antonio, with TONY, I was also tagged,
believe me, even with MUSSI, I was identified.
At work, Sir Mad and Dr. Ligaya are my epithets,
oh my, with too many nicknames, I am perplexed,
back in childhood my playmates even had me labeled,
they would call me DADDU, and I’l be angered.
But of all those monickers I got called with,
there’s only one I would consider so sweet,
I would feel so delighted whenever I hear it.
That is CHING, music to my ears indeed.
– – – – – – – – – –
Tony, Mussi (make it Massu if you wish to), Mad, Dr. Ligaya (sometimes Sir Joy), Daddu…. whatever… it’s fine with me. But I’d rather be called CHING… it makes me feel at home… for that’s how my beloved mother, father, siblings, relatives and the love of my life call me.
But please don’t combine MAD and CHING. If so that would be MADCHING. Ouch… that would be a “t” sound short of “MATSING” (a Filipino term for monkey.)
MASSULINE ANTONIO DUPAYA LIGAYA… that’s my full name. CHING… my nickname…HARDPEN my nom de plume.
M.A.D. LIGAYA
M.A.D. L I G A Y A 