At my sister-in-law’s exhibit a few years back, my friends kept gushing that my parents were so cool. My folks? Cool? They were a lot of things but “cool” wasn’t a word that I associated with them.

Then I thought about it some more.

My parents were antique dealers in the early 70s and used to drive around in a Volkswagen beetle. I thought they made a handsome couple.

We always had music in the house. My mom had a mad crush on Elvis when she was a teenager and loved to sing along to The Carpenters, and my dad played a lot of Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. To this day, they both dance a mean boogie at parties.

My dad had his own record label, aptly called Discorporation. He brought Donna Summer to Manila, my first concert ever. He was also the President of the KISS Army in the Philippines and my brothers and I were card-carrying members.

I first worked for my dad at his record store. I was only 15 but I did such a good job that he promoted me to manager. Later on, when he became head of the recording industry, I also worked with him, doing odd jobs for the Awit Awards (the Philippine equivalent of the Grammy’s). I even became the trophy girl at one point. (The one who hands out trophies to the winners on stage.) When I was living in Hong Kong with a boyfriend, I went to MIDEM Asia with him.

We had all the best vinyl at home which, unfortunately, my mom threw out when we moved houses.

My dad led the charge against music piracy so, for a while, he was getting death threats and had to have bodyguards.

At the same time, my dad was also managing director of a memorial park in Cagayan de Oro. He often bought second-hand Mercedes Benzes to be converted into hearses, and these would be parked outside our house. It was very Six Feet Under.

My dad is funny. He and his brothers and sisters are constantly cracking jokes and making each other laugh, but – without bias – I think that, among all of them, he is the funniest. Thanks to him, the family has its own special catch phrases like “Strong your balls!”, “It’s in the carrier” (a literal translation of the Tagalog, “Na sa nagdadala”), and “Slow by slow.” I definitely got my “keen sense of the ridiculous” from him. To this day, even through his disability after so many strokes, he still makes my mom and us and the hospital personnel laugh.

My mom is everything that I am not. She is a perfectionist and excels at everything she does. She’s an amazing cook. She taught herself how to make her own jewelry and mosaics. She’s written a law book, even though she isn’t a lawyer, and the book is now being used by law students.

My mom has always loved the arts. She used to paint, and enrolled us all in painting lessons. (One of my brothers is now an artist, and the other one draws very well. I remember doing pretty well during those painting classes and I’m sure that if I applied myself, I could draw but, yeah, I don’t.)

She ran the Thomas Jefferson Cultural Center, the cultural arm of the American Embassy. We were exposed to local productions of “Love Letters” and “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” and “Tell Me on a Sunday”. She and my dad had season tickets to Repertory Philippines and often brought us along to watch plays with them. Eventually, they bought me my own season passes since I learned to love the theater as much as they did.

My mom organized exhibits and brought us to all of her openings. She developed strong ties with the Philippine art community and was later asked to head the Presidential Commission on Culture and Arts (now the National Commission on Culture and Arts). Alas, my mom turned out to have a weak stomach for the inner workings of government.

My parents were activists. During Martial Law, they used to bring us to meetings with their friends, where we had to stay overnight because of the curfew. They got the whole family involved in Namfrel to guard the sanctity of the ballot. My dad recorded Cory Aquino’s speeches on tape and we used to go to bus stations and hand them out to passengers so that her voice could be heard in the provinces. We went out and begged for “Piso for Cory” to help fund her campaign. We picketed outside Supreme Court Justice’s houses. We drove early to out of town sorties to drum up interest for rallies before they arrived.

During the EDSA Revolution, my parents were in Cebu campaigning with Cory for the boycott of Marcos crony establishments. An aunt picked us up and brought us to the safety of her home, which we later escaped. I made my way back to our house after a few days and found that it had been turned into my uncle (a newly defected general from Marcos’ army) central command. I bumped into my father later on in the street. He smiled, took my photo and then went on his way. I loved the way that they trusted us to be okay. There were things going on that were larger and more important than ourselves and we all had to get by without each other for a while, and we were all okay with that.

Even after his stroke, my dad still went to rallies. If he weren’t sick today, he’d be out on the streets. In his old age, he continues to rage and raise his fists against injustice.

My parents are good people. They’re always helping those less fortunate than themselves. My dad and his batch mates from the Ateneo are always raising money, whether it’s for victims of a calamity or a fellow schoolmate who has fallen on hard times. After Yolanda, my dad and his friends went to Cebu to distribute relief goods. He also went to Roxas to donate boats to fishermen. My mom is constantly bringing home beggars that she meets on the street. She gives them clothes, money, water, and food. They’re both active in couple’s counseling.

When I was growing up, I thought my parents were super heroes. Between the two of them, there wasn’t anything they couldn’t do. I kinds still believe that so, now, I’m a bit lost now that my dad is sick and can no longer fix things.

In their old age, my parents have become extremely practical. They no longer care for antiques. They go for anything utilitarian. In between my dad’s strokes, I asked him to fix one of my evening bags that had lost a screw. When he gave it back to me, I found that he had attached a massive rubber screw on to this extremely feminine bag. I thought it was hilarious and loved using it.

My parents were married at 21. They had an imperfect marriage and raised a dysfunctional family and, for a while there, they almost didn’t make it. We almost didn’t make it. But they were best friends and couldn’t live without each other. So they stuck it out and made it work – through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, for better or worse – and they made it through to forever and brought us along with them.

So, yes, now that I think about it, my parents are cool.