As a queer son, I chased my policeman dad everyday just to kiss him goodbye

Behind the rigid uniform of a traditional policeman was a father who gave the ultimate gift.

Every morning before school, I would run after my father for a kiss.

He hated it.

Or at least, he pretended to.

My Papa was a policeman. He belonged to a generation of Filipino men who were taught that affection should be felt but rarely shown. The kind of men who worked hard, paid the bills, protected their families, and considered that expression enough.

So every time I caught him before he left or before I walked out the door, I would plant a kiss on his cheek and say, “I love you.”

His reaction never changed.

He would smile awkwardly, try to pull away, and mutter under his breath, “Babakla-bakla.”

Even then, I knew what he meant.

It wasn’t condemnation. It wasn’t ridicule. It was acceptance wrapped in the language of a generation that didn’t always know how to say what it felt.

And so I kept doing it.

I never realized those small moments would become some of my most treasured memories.

My Papa died in May 2001. Today, he rests in Libingan ng mga Bayani.

As Father’s Day comes around each year, I often think about how fortunate I was.

Because for many queer Filipinos, a father’s love is not something they experience easily.

Many grow up hearing that they are wrong. Too soft. Too feminine. Too different. Some are punished for it. Others are tolerated but never fully embraced. Many spend years trying to earn acceptance from the very people whose approval matters most.

I was lucky.

My father came from a conservative world. He was a policeman. He was raised in a culture where masculinity was rigid and unquestioned.

Yet somehow, he never made me feel like I was a disappointment.

The older I get, the more extraordinary that feels.

My favorite memories of him are not dramatic ones. They are ordinary moments that I only learned to appreciate later.

My room was directly across our dining area. Whenever relatives, friends, or guests came over, I could hear the conversations without being seen.

That was how I discovered my father was one of my biggest fans.

He would pull out copies of The Varsitarian from my days in UST. He would tell visitors that I was an editor and later managing editor. He would proudly explain that I inherited my writing skills from him because he had also worked on the campus paper when he was a student at Jose Rizal College.

“Mana sa akin ’yan,” he would say.

The funny thing was that he rarely said these things directly to me.

Like many fathers of his generation, praise was something he expressed sideways.

But I heard him.

And hearing your father speak proudly about you when he doesn’t know you’re listening is one of the most affirming experiences a child can have.

Looking back, I realize that my father gave me something more valuable than money, education, or advice.

He gave me certainty.

The certainty that I was loved.

The certainty that I belonged.

The certainty that being queer did not make me less deserving of affection, pride, or acceptance.

People often talk about confidence as though it is something you build alone. But confidence usually begins somewhere. It begins with someone who makes you feel safe enough to become yourself.

For me, that person was my father.

Behind the uniform, behind the stoicism, behind the awkward smile and the whispered “Babakla-bakla,” was a man who loved his son exactly as he was.

That knowledge became the foundation upon which I built my life.

When the world felt hostile, I had something many people never get.

I never had to wonder whether my father loved me.

I knew.

I knew every time he bragged about me to a visitor.

I knew every time he smiled after one of my ambush kisses.

And I knew every time he pretended to be embarrassed while secretly allowing me to love him loudly.

The older I get, the more I realize how rare that gift is.

And how much of the person I became started with a queer son chasing after his policeman father for one last kiss before school.

READ: