Lolo Paco had a tremendous influence on me that few people probably know about. I don't talk about him or the way he has affected my life, because I've always considered my relationship with him to be too intimate, too profound. I don't know why I'm driven to write about him now, but I am. Perhaps, now, the time is right.
I didn't know Lolo Paco for very long. He passed away many years ago, when I was 11 or 12. We never lived with him, we never visited him more than once a week (at most), but I always felt drawn to him. As a child, although I didn't understand why, I always sought him out in my own timid way. I would look for him quietly whenever we were at the old house on Riviera St. in Merville and my eyes would not be content until they caught that glimpse of him in his old chaise, watching TV or reading the paper. And then he would give me a kind little smile. I still firmly believe that I am his favorite granddaughter and I don't care if it isn't true.
He was the first person who gave me a REAL book. Two, actually. They were both Children's Bibles, but one was in tagalog and the other was in english. I read them both, cover to cover, many many times. I couldn't have been more than 8 - and I felt honored that he thought I could read such "grownup" books.
I was always impressed by his vast (to my childish eyes) library. But what I liked most was that though his books were old and kept well-guarded behind a shiny glass case, he always willingly pulled one out of the shelf when I hinted any particular interest. The best books are the ones that are always read, he said.
I have always secretly credited him for my love of literature. He gave me books regularly - most of which were far beyond my juevenile comprehension - and had almost unfailing belief in my ability to read and understand. He gave me books by Allan Gurganus, John Locke, and F. Sionil Jose. He let me read tales of fiery pits and impassioned betrayals. And he told me stories about himself. How he was once a seminarian destined for the priesthood. How he lost a lung (or was it a liver?) in the war. How he gave up a child for adoption. How he's kept his secrets.
Lolo Paco was the first person (perhaps the only person) who has ever told me, point blank, that I could be great. (I probably owe much of my Napoleon complex to him as well.) He didn't say I could be rich or pretty or successful. He said I could be great. He was already sick and confined to the little room in the front of the house by then. He had been telling me about how, when I was a little older, he would give me Don Quixote to read. I must have asked him a question that impressed him, because suddenly he said something that I have never forgotten. "You know, I think you have the mind to be great."
And I, in my impressionable youth, believed him. That day, he openned up something in me that let me see what I could be capable of. He openned up something inside me that amazed me. In that moment, I felt like I could do anything, like I was the chosen one, that I was destined for greatness. My mind latched on to his words with a fierceness that sometimes still catches me offguard. I held on to his words for dear life. I still do.
There are many people without whom I would be nothing. Without Lolo Paco, I would not have been me.
