Communication in English II | Required Blog Entry
Ateneo De Manila University
2nd Semester, S.Y. 2010-2011
My deepest thanks to Mr. Ryan Recabar for giving us this assignment.
I’ve always been fascinated by guns and the epic awesomeness boost it gives to a person. Look at those Hollywood stars, local actors and even comic book icons for example. How would Bruce Willis look like without a caliber-45 pistol in Die Hard? What would happen to the late Fernando Poe, Jr. in Iyo ang Tondo, Kanya ang Cavite without carrying a handgun? And how would the Punisher punish those unrighteous men without his famous rifles and machine guns?
This interest with guns led me to appreciate a lot of macho and cool fictional characters. Yet, the one whom I admire most in terms of guns is a nonfiction character who isn’t any Sylvester Stallone or Tom Hanks but has always influenced me in this gun addiction – my dad.
My dad has almost all types, forms, variations (you name it) of guns. There are handguns, that I prefer to call mini-guns, rifles, machine guns, everything. I have no idea how on earth he had managed to collect those firearms all throughout these years. Maybe he working at the National Bureau of Investigation influenced him in his gun-mania. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just really him fulfilling his dreams of carrying the iconic weapon to serve the country and protect his family.
Everywhere, well at least the “everywhere” that I see, my dad goes, he carries a gun. When someone has a gun, no one messes with him. My dad has gun, no one dares to even say a joke.
It would certainly appeal to you by now that my dad is really scary (but he isn’t, he’s a funny man). I can’t blame you. I feel the same way sometimes too. One day, he was carrying a handgun on his left hand and what he calls baby armalite on the right while roaming around our house as if wanting to kill the Joker in his superhero life. I went out to the garage to see and ask him what’s going on. He sort of looked like Jason Statham in Transporter except for that bulging stomach. Suddenly, he raised the handgun and pointed it towards my left foot. I can’t help but close my eyes and have sweat pouring from head to toe. He fired.
I opened my eyes and I saw the puffy clouds and heavenly skies. Oh, am I dead? Wait! I’m still alive. I’m so sure that I’m still alive. I looked towards my left foot and saw a huge bloody rat lying beside the rear tire of our car. It was the rat that had been crawling at the ceiling and disturbing us every night for the past week. I looked at my dad and he just smiled at me, as if saying that I’m stupid. Great.
My dad was also responsible for me learning how to handle guns and use them. I remember that we used to practice shooting when I was in elementary and high school outside our house. He used to line-up cans from a distance and ask me to hit them. It makes him proud when I hit every target successfully and thus ask me to hit some more to improve and become better. However, he would tease me when I missed more than hit. There were times that I join him in firing events with his NBI colleagues to watch and even try shooting.
That was before.
Today, I only see him every weekend since I stay in Ateneo dormitories during weekdays. I barely have time to even chat and speak to him during those days because I use most of the time to study and do papers. How I wish I can do the funny shoot-the-rat moment to him and see what his reaction would be. How I wish I could challenge him to shoot 15 empty cans in 10 seconds at our backyard. How I wish.
It is sad that the distance between me and my father is expanding. I could only wish that one day we could do what we used to do again. And this time I’ll make sure to hit every target and make him prouder. When that time happens, I can even hit the moon and not miss. It would be a shot to the stars.