When the defense ended, Professor Santos came to shake hands with me and my family. When it was Tatay Ben’s turn, he paused, studied him carefully, and then his expression softened.
I was born into an incomplete family. As soon as I could walk, my parents divorced. Nanay Lorna took me back to Nueva Ecija, a poor countryside of rice fields, sun, wind, and gossip. I don’t clearly remember my biological father’s face, but I knew that my early years were short on both material and emotional support.
When I was four, my mother remarried. The man she married was a construction worker. He came with nothing: no house, no money—just a thin back, tanned skin, and hands hardened by cement.
At first, I didn’t like him: he was unfamiliar, left early, came home late, and always smelled of sweat and dust. But he was the first to fix my old bicycle, to quietly sew my broken sandals. When I made a mess, he never scolded me—he just cleaned it up. When I was bullied at school, he didn’t lecture me like my mother; he simply rode his old bicycle to pick me up. On the way, he said only one sentence:
— “Tatay doesn’t force you to call me dad, but Tatay will always be behind you if you need him.”
I was silent. But from that day, I began calling him Tatay.
Throughout my childhood, memories of Tatay Ben were an old bicycle, a dusty construction uniform, and evenings when he came home late, dark circles under his eyes, hands still coated in lime and mortar. No matter how tired, he always asked:
— “How was school today?”
He was not educated in books, couldn’t explain complex equations or passages, but he always said:
— “You may not be the best in class, but you must study properly. Wherever you go, people will respect your knowledge.”
My mother was a farmer; Tatay was a construction worker. We lived on a meager income. I was a good student but knew our limits, didn’t dare dream too big. When I passed the university entrance exam in Manila, my mother cried. Tatay simply sat on the porch, smoking a cheap cigarette. The next day, he sold his only motorbike, used my mother’s savings, and sent me to school.
The day he brought me to the city, Tatay wore an old baseball cap, a wrinkled shirt, sweat soaking his back, yet he still carried a box of “hometown gifts”: a few kilos of rice, a jar of tuyo and tinapa, some roasted peanuts. Before leaving my dormitory, he looked at me:
— “Try your best, son. Study properly.”
I didn’t cry. But when I opened the lunch box my mother packed in banana leaves, there was a folded piece of paper inside, with scribbled words:
— “Tatay doesn’t know what you’re studying, but whatever you study, Tatay will do. Don’t worry.”
I spent four years in college and then in graduate school. Tatay still went to work. His hands grew rougher, his back more hunched. When I returned home, I saw him sitting at the foot of the scaffolding, panting from a day’s labor, and my heart sank. I told him to rest, but he waved me off:
— “Tatay can still do it. When I’m tired, I think: I’m raising a PhD—and I feel proud.”
I smiled, not daring to tell him that a PhD requires even more work. But he was the reason I never gave up.
On the day of my PhD thesis defense at UP Diliman, I begged Tatay for hours before he agreed to come. He borrowed a suit from his cousin, wore shoes one size too small, and bought a new hat at the local market. He sat in the back row, trying to sit straight, eyes never leaving me.
After the defense, Professor Santos shook hands with me and my family. When he came to Tatay, he paused, looked closely, and smiled:
— “You are Mang Ben, right? When I was young, my house was near a construction site you worked on in Quezon City. I remember when you carried an injured worker down the scaffolding, even though you were hurt yourself.”
Before Tatay could respond, the professor added:
— “I didn’t expect to see you here today, as the father of a new PhD. It’s truly an honor.”
I turned to see Tatay Ben smile—a gentle smile, eyes glistening red. At that moment, I understood: in all his life, he had never asked me to repay him. Today, he was recognized—not because of me, but for what he had quietly built over 25 years.
Now, I am a university lecturer in Manila, with a small family. Tatay no longer builds; he grows vegetables, raises chickens, reads the newspaper, and rides his bicycle around the barangay. Occasionally, he calls to show off his vegetable beds, telling me to get chickens and eggs for my grandson. I ask:
— “Does Tatay regret working so hard all his life for his son?”
He laughs:
— “No regrets. Tatay has worked all his life—but the thing he’s most proud of is building a son like you.”
I don’t answer. I just watch his hands on the screen—the hands that shaped my future.
I am a PhD. Tatay Ben is a construction worker. He didn’t build a house for me—he “built” a person.
