This is my biological dad. It's his birthday today. This is his only formal photo where he's actually smiling. He never smiles in pictures. As soon as he sees a camera pointing at him, his face turns deadpan.
Tito Marcy (as I sometimes call him) is half Chinese, half perfect diplomatic diction. He's quite a strict but he's as calm as a tribal chieftain.
I am the son that Tito Marcy never had. He taught me lots of shit about cars, carpentry, plumbing, The Beatles, climbing trees, buko opening, wines, basketball and how to drive. Now I drive better than him. Hehe. We're still dreaming of owning an amphibious German battle tank.
My old man is very supportive of my assorted endeavors--from pep squad to dragon boat; Taiwan to Abu Dhabi. He always says, "Go!" because he says he wants me to grab all the opportunities that he never got when he was younger. And he says he doesn't have much material shiz to pass on to me so he worked his gall bladder off to send me to the best schools. (Let's go UP! Wooooo!!!)
When I entered UP, he gave me his UP ID (his student number was 69-something) and his library card. I still have them.
It feels strange training with the boat almost everyday and hanging out with Bryan because he looks like my dad when my dad was in his twenties. It's like a time machine gift.
I'm losing my (runaway) train of thought.
I love Dad.
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