Saturday afternoons in the Tuazon household were a lazy affair for most, but the scene of a years-long ritual for its patriarch.
“Jaaaaaaaahn!” he bellowed in order to reach my attention from any part of the house. Papa always used my middle name whenever he was making a request. I reciprocated accordingly.
“What?”
“Ice Water!”
Almost always it was ice water. In later years we thought we solved the problem by stocking a mini-fridge in his room to hold bottles of water and other snacks; even then he’d call me over to hand him a bottle, rather than get out of bed to get one himself.
A tall, cool glass in hand, I went to his room to drop off his order, right on the ironing board, which was Valentino’s workspace for the entire Saturday afternoon. At his feet were hampers of laundry from the dryer, on the ottoman were crisply folded tees, and from the shutters, bedposts, and anywhere he could manage hung freshly pressed polos and dress shirts. My dad would grab his glass of ice water, whose condensation formed a fat ring on the ironing board, took a sip, and went back to work like a machine. Grab a shirt. Ring it out. Sweep it flat. Smooth out folds. Make passes of the iron. Flip the shirt around. Make passes again. Iron hissing with steam. Fold it if it’s a T-shirt. Hang it if it’s nicer. Grab another shirt.
Papa’s setup faced the TV so he could finish his chore while enjoying Charles Bronson exact revenge in Death Wish 3, or Fernando Poe, Jr. infinitely punch villains in the gut in one of his 80s Filipino action films. I’ve tried to do this myself, but either I miss most of the plot trying to press out a crease, or I half-ass the collar during a pivotal scene. Never distracted, Papa was turning over shirts like he was paid to do it.
These days, my dad has regular habit of dressing way too casually. Most recently, he showed up to my sister’s wedding shower in a purple Nike shirt with bold neon lettering that spelled “HIGH & TIGHT.” His current preference for baseball caps and athletic wear is what we’ve gotten used to, but it wasn’t always this way.
Family albums indicate that Valentino Tuazon dressed like an indisputable badass. Maybe it came from his college days sneaking my mom out of her nun-run nursing school with his Harley. Or perhaps it was from his two years living in Rome, toting handguns in beige suits and aviator sunglasses. Either way, Papa liked clothes and he looked like a hit man wearing them.
Like most teenage boys, I had to fish through Papa’s closet to borrow a tie and a pair of shoes for a random function that required formal attire. At this time in his life, he ditched most of his sharp wardrobe with stacks of tees, polos, and Dockers. But the vestiges of his old style remained. An Italian silk tie. Two-toned penny loafers. There was no way I was going to wear those to my confirmation. I couldn’t pull them off half as well as dad.
I wonder if this will happen to me when fatherhood arrives. Moving to America, Papa had to pull twelve-hour shifts at his engineering plant, and even took a second job across the county for some extra cash. Out the door well before school started, we rarely saw him before his shift ended around bedtime. I guess the grind of providing for your family makes you a little less excited for dressing sharp so that you could put on whatever can hang on for hours on end.
But that’s my dad. The man who sacrificed plenty, including his killer duds, so his family could live happily. He often gets a bad rap for being lazy, but I’ve never seen a person more dedicated to the art of pressing the family’s shirts more than Papa.
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