THERE’s a very touching song by the late, brilliant singer Luther Vandross, Dance With My Father, written by Vandross and Richard Marx, and released in 2003, with a melody and lyrics that always bring me to tears:
Back when I was a child
Before life removed all the innocence
My father would lift me up
And dance with my mother and me and then
Spin me around ’til I fell asleep
Then up the stairs he would carry me
And I knew for sure
I was loved
If I could get another chance
Another walk
Another dance with him
I’d play a song that would never ever end
How I’d love, love, love
To dance with my father again
It always hits me hard, because I always associate dancing with my father, a funny, larger-than-life man who was a mesmerizing public speaker, a great dancer, and the spark of every party. The best part was, I was (and still am, and always will be) a Daddy’s Girl, so as a child, I would feel my chest burst with pride when he made people laugh, say wonderful things, and be the well-loved center of attention. People somehow always rolled out the red carpet for him—probably because he was also a good, honest man.
Born in the sleepy fishing town of Bulan, Sorsogon, Romeo Gillego Honasan entered the Philippine Military Academy, where his class, Batch 1943, was graduated early to join the war; he was only 19 when he went on the Bataan Death March, surviving by his wits. He had also been a guerilla fighter, which made him a legend of sorts among his provincemates; he has a street named after him in Bulan. By the time his class reunited in the 1960s to officially receive their diplomas, a number of them had already perished in the war.
My father retired early from the military, but everybody knew him as Col. Honasan. He worked in private companies, and later in public-private enterprises, but my earliest memories of him were of a tall, ruddy, handsome man in a polo barong, with a perpetual crew cut and sparkling eyes, despite the seriousness of his job. Of course, he was always just Daddy, in a t-shirt and shorts, giving me huge, tight hugs, asking for a head massage, and joking that he would never allow his only daughter to leave him and get married.
Come nighttime, however, when there were parties at home or in friends’ homes, Dad and Mama would cut the rug with such ease and beauty, guests were enthralled. It was even more of a surprise because my mother was exceedingly shy, yet I still remember her quietly sliding into Daddy’s arms like it was the most natural thing to do, and letting him lead her in fancy footwork and delightful rolls.
Before he retired from the military, Daddy had served in the diplomatic corps as probably one of the last Philippine military attachés to Taipei, Taiwan, when the Philippines still had diplomatic ties with the country. I have lovely pictures of my parents in formal wear, my dad in his military uniform, including a short white jacket with a bow-tie, and my mom in a terno by designer Bert Hernandez, a low-profile contemporary of Ramon Valera in the ’60s. As my mom would recount, part of their preparation for the diplomatic life, aside from table etiquette, protocol when meeting heads of state, and rules of dressing, was taking dancing lessons for the parties.
The author’s father shows off some moves.
As it turns out, Daddy was already a good dancer, so he spent the lessons guiding Mama. Years later, there would be wonderful afternoons in our sala, with cousins and aunts and uncles, when, prevailed upon by my mother’s sisters, Daddy and Mama would dance to a seamless tango, a joyful rhumba, a naughty little samba, and a buoyant cha-cha. Even their boogie was a little different, smooth and not at all jarring despite the fast beat. They were never out of time, always perfectly matched, without even needing to look at each other. In Daddy’s last job, as manager of a huge industrial estate in Misamis Oriental, his staff and the estate community liked to dance, too, and it was not uncommon for them to chant “EM! EM!” (estate manager) to push my parents to get the festivities rolling.
It was never the flamboyant, competitive ballroom dancing of more recent memory, with half-dressed women and men with even more fluid hips than their partners. It was old school, but so wonderfully elegant, my female cousins and I begged to be taught how to do it. And it was not easy to learn. I remember once, when I was already a teener exposed to discos and parties with boys, Daddy took me in his arms for a rhumba lesson and asked me not to fight the rhythm, even as he made me clutch his thumb, not all of his opposite hand, which was apparently a more preferred handhold in those days. Being completely unused to the experience of being led, I was a klutz. Practice, Daddy said with a laugh. “We’ll practice so you can dance like your mama.” The rest of the afternoon would be spent with us cousins dancing the hustle or 12-steps in line as the elders laughed.
The year I turned 18, I passed on the big, frilly white debutante gown and opted for something shorter and sleeker (albeit still in pink, haha), which made it easier to walk and even run around during my birthday party at the multi-purpose hall of Camp Crame—military family, you know. Naturally, for my first dance, Daddy swung me across the floor, and I was a lot more confident this time. One of my favorite pictures is of him leading me across the floor, perfectly captured so my shoulder-length hair is flying back, my body leaning into his as his leg extends out. Daddy’s face is slightly concealed by his arm, but you get a glimpse of a big smile and sparkling eyes behind his glasses. Daddy promised we would keep practicing so I would get better.
Seven months later, there would be no more practicing, as my father died of a cerebral aneurysm at age 61 in 1983—the age I will be this year.
Any dancing I did after that would be in discos and clubs, for the short time I frequented them. Then the ballroom craze hit Manila, and I remember being whisked off for dance nights with other media newswomen, like my boss and friend Thelma and the late Ethel Timbol, by our ballroom-crazy “sponsor,” beauty guru Ricky Reyes. It was fun, fast, and a fabulous workout, especially when we did the swing, which did not exist in Daddy’s time.
It’s been a while since then, and life has happened. I usually end up dancing in concerts or live shows now, when the band is particularly good, or get into the familiar ’80s dance music from our high school and college years. I still love to dance, but I guess with age, you learn to look for a little more quiet time—a long walk, or time spent underwater, as scuba-diving is my drug of choice now. I wonder what Daddy would have thought if he knew I’d be plumbing the ocean’s depths. I figure he would have been delighted, though, since he never really believed in stereotypes or limitations.
Romy and Alice Honasan dancing at a party in Tarakan, Indonesia, 1970s
But I still imagine him dancing, whether seriously or in jest—and it still makes me happy. Then one day—probably a bad day, if I can remember right—as I rifled through old pictures, I found a picture of his that made me gasp with delight, one I had never seen before, a love letter from my guardian angel. It’s a black-and-white photo, from his days as an executive, twirling around as his suit jacket flew open, the people behind him laughing at the sight.
It’s everything in one picture—happiness, fun, celebration, and precious memories of a father who made life one big twirl on the dance floor. It’s now stuck on the cabinet in front of my work desk, a constant reminder that even when things feel so heavy on my shoulders, a quick wiggle and a vibe can shake off the blues, even for just a moment.
How I’d love, love, love to dance with my father again. Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.
