A Man in No Hurry
I scoured my digital photo files for pictures of my brother, Etik (Restituto Jose), hoping to create a video tribute for his 67th birthday. I counted only sixteen—far too few to recount a full life. But my memory of him spans much further than a photo album ever could.
I remember his easy gait, as if he knew the world would always wait for him. Etik didn’t walk; he glided casually. He would sip his morning coffee with a cigarette balanced between his fingers and a folded newspaper tucked under his arm, strolling about nonchalantly. To anyone in the room, he’d cast a quick glance or toss out a witty phrase, always with a comedic edge.
He loved playing tricks on me when we were kids. One memory I’ve never forgotten involved a piece of doily I had painstakingly crocheted. Our rented house back then had two rooms upstairs. One was large enough for eight children and teens to sleep side-by-side on a straw mat beneath an oversized gauze mosquito net. The other was a small mudroom where odds and ends were stored. I did my crochet projects in that dimly lit room to keep Etik from messing with them. I remember wedging one exquisite piece tightly under my armpit, where his hands couldn't reach. Yet he still managed to sneak up behind me and tug on the dangling tail of yarn, unraveling all my hard work in a single pull. My gasp of indignation caused me to swallow a few stray mosquitoes—which is how I know exactly what a mosquito tastes like.
I was the eighth of eleven Jose children, born two years apart. The four of us closest in age were treated by our parents and older siblings not as individuals, but as a collective block. My older sister, Lili, and I were outfitted in matching, two-of-a-kind dresses, while Etik and Bing, who came right after me, shared the same sets of shirts and pants. We attended the same school, were enrolled together in private piano lessons, and shared the same circle of friends. The primary goal of this structure, I later realized, was the convenience of disciplining us all at once.
We were placed under the watchful eye of our eldest sister, Norma, a strict disciplinarian whose word was law. She routinely gave us a good drubbing with a broomstick handle when we misbehaved. Etik bore the brunt of Ate Norma's wrath, being the most daring of the four of us. To keep him from staying out in the streets until nightfall, Ate Norma would strip him of his pants and lock them in the closet. Public humiliation was a remarkably effective tool for making us toe the line.
Punishments related to our music lessons were meted out by our father. When our piano teacher arrived for weekly lessons and Etik was nowhere to be found, Tatay would make us lie face down in a row on the floor to whack our behinds with his belt. Because of Etik’s disappearances—and perhaps because none of us practiced enough—we were disciplined severely.
Yet despite the corporal punishment, music became an anchor in our lives. Lili, Etik, and Bing were naturally gifted with beautiful singing voices, though they lacked the patience I had for formal music education. Unable to read sheet music, they played entirely by ear—oido. While I played classical pieces in solitude, the three of them played pop music and jammed with friends. Etik even formed a singing group with three buddies, booking gigs in restaurants and on television. None of us became musical icons, but music gave our lives meaning, balance, and joy. Etik’s charismatic stage presence was later inherited by his first grandchild, Geri, who began doing voice-over work for TV commercials at a very young age.
Despite all the discipline, personal responsibility eluded Etik for a long time. People gravitated toward him like moths to a flame; he was naturally gregarious. He spent his teenage years crooning popular hits on his guitar on our front steps, shooting hoops at the town plaza, and waging street battles with paper projectiles fired from rubber bands on his fingers. Hanging out on the streets made falling into bad company almost inevitable. Soon he was cutting classes and frequenting gambling dens, leading to even fiercer clashes with our father. A college degree and a formal career were abandoned, and his smoking habit grew worse.
In rapid succession, Etik married and had three exquisite little girls. He soon realized that working odd jobs with no clear career path could not sustain a growing family. Ironically, during this period, he had to share our ancestral home with his childhood nemesis, Ate Norma, who continued to intrude into his life in hopes of setting him straight. It was a difficult dynamic for his young family, but it forced Etik into maturity. He devoted himself entirely to his daughters, forging a deeply affectionate bond, especially with his two older girls. He walked them to school, helped with their homework, and left them sweet notes. To this day, his middle daughter keeps a letter from him tucked inside her wallet—a long note addressing her poor grades, filled with loving reassurances of his unwavering faith in her potential.
When I helped secure a position for Etik at the cultural theme park where I worked, it was the breakthrough he needed. The job brought out his finest qualities—and perhaps all the latent discipline Tatay and Ate Norma had tried to instill. Almost overnight, he transformed into the picture of professionalism: a poised marketing officer sitting behind an antique desk in black trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a tie. Articulate and personable, he was quickly recognized as a reliable, highly talented communicator. He hosted marketing events, emceed stage performances, and caught the attention of the executive team, who began planning for him to represent the organization at international symposia. Those were the big opportunities lining his horizon when I left for the United States. In fact, an urgent work event was the very reason he couldn't see me off at the airport.
Growing up together and later working in the same organization created a deep bond between us. Whenever possible, Etik drove me to my provincial appointments and local meetings. He was an expert driver, navigating effortlessly while we chatted incessantly. It annoyed Ate Norma to no end whenever she saw us locked in animated conversation. Etik was easy to talk to—informed, witty, and deeply humorous. Whenever he visited my home, he would head straight to the piano to play his favorite tune before sitting down to catch up.
Two months after moving to San Francisco, I received the news of his sudden passing in my office. He had suffered a massive cardiac arrest while playing with his one-year-old daughter early in the morning. A colleague later told me that I let out a mournful scream that reverberated across the entire floor. It was the dreariest day of my life, knowing his bright future had been cut short so unexpectedly. I grieved the fact that he hadn't been able to see me off at the airport for what would have been our final goodbye.
What Etik may have lacked in financial wealth, he more than made up for in the immense goodwill he cultivated among friends, neighbors, colleagues, and his civic community. After his passing, everyone rallied to support the family he left behind. Led by his resilient wife, his daughters achieved what Etik had only glimpsed briefly: a strong education and flourishing careers. All three graduated from top universities, building successful paths in banking, social work, and sales.
It took two full years before I was able to truly grieve my brother. During a shopping trip to Macy's, the song he always played on my piano—“As Time Goes By”—began piping through the store's speakers. It was a poignant, bitter reminder that a man who was never in a rush had been taken away far too quickly. Standing there tearfully amidst the music, I knew it was finally time to let him go.
