E·N·Q·U·I·R·Y
DEMAREE J.B. RAVAL
DEMAREE J.B. RAVAL
...and I am well pleased
Sunday, 03 30, 2003
He burst into this world by natural method, at 1515 hours on Aug. 9, 1989, as an 8.7-pound bundle of joy, and as I gazed at him immediately after birth at the nursery of the Capitol Medical Center. I could almost swear he was beckoning to me, as if to say, “Here I am; and whether you like it or not, I will grow up to be like you.” Almost 14 years later, my son, thankfully, has not been a spitting image of his father, but has turned out to be young boy who, for all his faults and juvenile quirks, is:
Prolific. Oftentimes simply an average pupil, he could, when the spirits move him, be also the best that his class at Claret can offer. His final grades make me smile with paternal pride. He is proficient at computers; serenades me and his mama with the flute; sings along with his sister Kristin to my favorite Frank Sinatra ditties; and deluges me with incessant questions on Bush’s war in Iraq for his class debate on this topic. He devours books that his mama had thoughtfully amassed through the years, and shares my passion for John Grisham’s legal thrillers.
Temperamental. That is how his teachers describe him. The perennial captain ball of his class’ basketball team, he would often come home with a hoarse voice, and regales us with tales of how he kept on screaming at his teammates to follow his instructions on the hardcourt. He fancies himself as the second coming of Allen Iverson, and as such has decided he would not ever want to grow taller than six feet; though I project that at his current height of 5’6”, he could very well shoot passed six feet by the time he turns 17.
Dreamy eyed. Asked once what he would want to be when he grew up, he answered without batting an eyelash, “Pulis”, apparently idolizing Corporal Tique of the UP Police, who had served as security aide to his sister Kristin. As he grew up past the impressionable stage, he cast his eyes on the NBA, and until today that is his obsession: The first Filipino player in the NBA. He never misses a 76ers game on ESPN or a game of Ateneo. Look him up at the Ateneo Web site – his mug is right there, just beyond the Ateneo goal during the last UAAP championship game, together with his sister Kathryn, a diehard Atenean.
Impish. He has a quick wit, and is good at repartee. His class section happens to have the same name as that of the overpriced boulevard by the Bay, so he prefers to write down his class as VII-DM, for seven duwendes and magnanakaws. He can mimic anyone, deftly sings Jaya’s notes, and gyrate to Ricky Martin’s Latino beat. A UP music professor once noted in awe that he has a uniquely wide-ranged voice.
Obsessed. I look at his shoe rack and his collection of Air Jordans, T-Macs and A-Is which never fails to amaze – and amuse – me. How he adores his white pairs, keeping them always immaculately white despite constant wear! His shoe collection must have cost me a fortune, and not a twinge of guilt on his part for having prevailed upon me to buy them. It had to take his elder brother Kenneth to put some sense into his head by telling him he could end up like Imelda with a museum for his shoes. He could not accept being likened to Imelda, although he shares my feelings of endearment for Ferdinand, my fellow Ilocano. Next to his signature shoes, he has a collection of Benettons, Lacostes and Esprits, and has steadfastly clung to Levi’s in his choice of pants. He experimented with elephant pants once – and only once. He said he looked jologs in that baggy outfit and he has never donned it again.
Handsome. In his blue shirt, black pants and red tie, he cut quite a dashing figure when he attended last Friday’s soiree. I asked him how many dances he had, and he nonchalantly said not many, then proceeded to count all his fingers and his toes. An irresistible hunk in his own right, my son, to his mama’s delight, prefers to be known as somebody unique and not the dead ringer of Aga Muhlach.
In my son we once thought we had a budding priest – he does not miss his prayers – but he came home once and confronted me with the article about the bishop of Antipolo City. He has since changed his choice of vocation, and told me: “Madre na lang, Papa!” We both had a good laugh over that, as we recalled the travails of his aunt who had been a nun for several years only to leave the convent, to get married and beget children in quick succession.
Although the youngest in the brood, he feels he could do his siblings one better – and right now he is proving that he can hack it.
My son is graduating this April 1 – but an April Fool he definitely is not. As he ascends the stage nothing will swell my chest with pride more than to see him strut onstage, get his parchment paper, wave it to the crowd, and acknowledge his coming-of-age.
Sons are never to be babied. They are God’s gifts to fathers, to cherish, to hug, to befriend, to mold, and then, with great reluctance and pain, to send out into the world so that they could chart their own destiny and make a mark of their own.
My son will soon cross the threshold to manhood, and become a Sigma Rhoan. In a few more years, he will no longer be my baby, but somebody who will stand tall, an achiever. Still, he will remain to be my lovable son – Kevin Michael Rañeses Raval.
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