You know Richard Pilar as your Statistics or Operations Management teacher, the one whose number-riddled lectures you did not fall asleep in or curse after a three-hour departmental exam. One of his students said that he was like Yoda, very wise and adorable—minus the pointy green ears. He is a Math genius, a charming comedian, and according to him, a clone image of Christopher de Leon because of the moustache.
And you probably know me through his stories. He would share bits and pieces of my life along with lessons on permutations and linear programming. Having my father teach in the same school I studied in meant a little less privacy, although it also made academic life a little more fun.
One of my earliest memories of my father is of him singing the national anthem so I could sleep. The stubborn baby that I was, he and my mother had run out of songs and so they sang the “Lupang Hinirang”. A few years later, in a similar endeavor, he drove our car around and around our tiny compound because I would not sleep without air conditioning. Even before, my dad was patient and persevering, and always, he applied a clever touch of humor to everything.
Many do not know that my dad used to be a CAT officer in high school and he takes pride in having survived the then brutal training required to rise the ranks. This brief military background enflamed in him a desire to don camouflage, read Tom Clancy novels and watch war movies with the volume set to an ear-shattering loudness. Deprived of a son to bring with him, my dad took me to war games on the weekends where we would be dressed in full gear—Kevlar and all—and make believe we were in real battlefields though our guns fired only pellets.
And of course, my dad is very smart. On our Jeopardy nights, he would sweep the Math and World Wars 1 and 2 categories, while Geography was my mom’s specialty, and Literature and Philosophy usually belonged to me.
I have more interesting stories about my father—his Sudoku addiction, his failed attempts to sing like Freddie Mercury—and I recall them all with a clarity colored by amusement and admiration. From that first driving lesson in the bright pink Barbie car to conquering fears in life’s many battlefields, my father has always been my most important teacher.
As I begin working this month, I know that I am about to cross what could possibly be the hardest battlefield of all. I am not a child anymore. Growing up to be an adult meant finally living a life of your own. So I think about all the fond memories I have of my father and wonder what new memories I will have of him in the future. He joked about following me around on my first day at work, and while I do hope that remains a joke, I know that he implied what he was too frightened to say. That as my independence grows in the months after, he is scared of losing his daughter.
And so, to him I say: Do not be silly, Papa. My training does not end here. Without Yoda, Anakin would have been forever lost to the Dark Side. Without you, how will I learn how to drive a real car, start a business and file my taxes? You see, there is no way for me to stop being your little girl. There is zero probability, not a chance at all that you will lose me.
Camille Pilar has a degree in Communication and a minor in Literature, which she received from the Ateneo last March 2008. Like her father, she graduated Magna cum laude.
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