Son of a Janitor written in 2010 read/analyzed by Aldriene Ladlad by Tony Robles/Growing UP Filipino II: More Stories for Young Adults Lyrics
The house of a janitor is supposed to be clean. One
would assume this to be true because the janitor
performs his duties with the sacred mop, broom
and toilet brush. My father was a janitor for some 20 odd
years at the San Francisco Opera House. It would be l0
years before hed realize his dream and start the "Filipino
Building Maintenance Company" and go into business on
his own. At the dinner table he'd ask me questions such as,
"What did you learn in school today?" I've always been
somewhat of a bad listener. "Nothing" I'd reply-I always
replied nothing-not that I was indifferent to school-even
at a very young age. Yes, I was very aware of the things they
were doing to me in school and after the bell rang I'd let it
fall from my mind like some brown, withered old leaf falling
off a tree-destined to be stepped on by some kid on their
way home. I always liked the sounds those leaves made. My
father always told me if I didn't do well in school, I'd end up
cleaning toilets all my life. My father didn't graduate from
high school and I guess he carried that with him. Somehow he felt that the high school diploma was a key-some kind
of rocket fuel which would kick start you into the realm
of possibilities. Somehow that slice of paper with whatever
burned into it would bring you closer to your dream. It was
an access pass of sorts.
"Do you know how to clean?" Dad would, on occasion,
talk shop with me--an I I or 12-year-old kid with no work
experience.
"Yeah, I know how to clean," I d reply.
"Ok he'd say, "how do you remove chewing gum from a
carpet?" Dad would slip in the hypothetical in this manner.
I was supposed to use logic and deduction in finding the
correct answer.
"I would take a pair of scissors and cut the gum off..."
At this point my father would belch or fart, or perform
both simultaneously.
Shaking his head he'd say, "It's very apparent and
clearly evident that you don't know anything about
cleaning. The way to remove gum from a carpet is to take
an ice cube and place it on the gum. Wait 'til it hardens,
then remove it with a putty knife." I never asked him
what to do if you didn't have an ice cube-perhaps I
should have. My father would proudly demonstrate his
expertise-explaining how to remove wine stains from
a carpet or the correct way to vacuum a rug. "You have
to use nice long strokes in the direction of the nap of the
carpet. Nice long strokes until it makes you feel good..."
By the end of his speech, my food would be cold but my
father would urge me to "eat all that food on your plate or
I'm gonna knock you upside your head." He had a great sense of humor.
The one thing I was fairly proficient at was cleaning the
toilet. It was one of a couple of chores assigned to me. The
other chores were drying the dishes and vacuuming. My
father didn't clean at home-he left that duty to my step
mom and me. Why would he want to bring his business
home? I remember once during the Christmas season my
father worked during the showing of the Nutcracker. This
meant lots of kids. Dad not only had to mop floors and
empty trashcans, but he had to get on his hands and knees
and pick up hundreds, perhaps thousands of sunflower
seed shells. He came home exhausted, complaining that
those kids made him "sweat his butt off" that day. At home,
my father took to gardening, which proved therapeutic. He
would take a spray bottle and sprinkle water on his plants large
and unique cacti, whose spines climbed the walls.
He'd sometimes shoot me in the head or ass with a narrow
stream, intended for nobody but me. I'd hide behind a
cactus or palm plant but he had good aim.
Toilet duty, for me, a peaceful duty. It was a
simple thing-take some cleaning solution, pour it in the
bowl, take your toilet brush and start scrubbing. I had a
certain finesse or technique to my bowl cleaning system.
Depending on my mood, Id employ several different
methods. There was the 'Around the world in a day"
method, in which I'd use wide, circular motions with my
toilet brush in order to bring out the luster and shine of the
pot. It was almost like stirring a bowl of soup. I also called
this method, "Stirring a bowl of soup." I also employed
the "splish splash" method, in which I'd very rigorously
scrub the toilet all over, creating a small puddle at the base
of the bowl. Again, it was a good system-although a bit
messy. I was a quick learner. My father only had to show
me how to clean toilets once-after that, I was on my
own. My favorite method was "The Beethoven." I coined
this particular method, "The Beethoven" because it could
be both graceful and rigorous, depending on my state of
mind. I would use the toilet brush like the conductor of an
orchestra; slow and graceful with a calm rippling effect_
etching an invisible melody which seemed to outshine
the other porcelain in the bathroom. Then I'd get more
rigorous, splashing and creating waves-a crescendo and
the finale-the flush. Those remain to this day some of
the most creative moments of my life.
My father continued after me about things over the
years. I can't blame him really. I wasn't particularly talented
but I managed to get out of high school and out of college.
The getting out was the most rewarding part. When we eat
dinner these days, he doesn't ask me about what I learned
in school, which is good because I remember nothing. But
the one thing I do remember was cleaning those toilets.
And believe me, it's helped me a lot more. !-!
Short Story Analysis
The short story that I chose to analyze is Tony Robles’s Son of a Janitor. As I read the short story, I came to the conclusion, that the role of a father within the framework of a Filipino family is set /centralized to serve as the emotional component of how a man/provider can instill the values of experience/knowledge in the young mind of children to often make them a better person. As stated by wikipedia.org, the term “father” can be described as the male parent of a child. As a person born of Filipino descent, one conversation that I had with my father in which helped shaped my cognitive thinking towards the aspect of “education” was knowing that it would serve as my own roadmap to the facts of life where only the notions of experience, failure, and the paths of success can be found. No words can suffice how thankful I truly am to have been blessed/influenced by such a wonderful human-being like my own father.
would assume this to be true because the janitor
performs his duties with the sacred mop, broom
and toilet brush. My father was a janitor for some 20 odd
years at the San Francisco Opera House. It would be l0
years before hed realize his dream and start the "Filipino
Building Maintenance Company" and go into business on
his own. At the dinner table he'd ask me questions such as,
"What did you learn in school today?" I've always been
somewhat of a bad listener. "Nothing" I'd reply-I always
replied nothing-not that I was indifferent to school-even
at a very young age. Yes, I was very aware of the things they
were doing to me in school and after the bell rang I'd let it
fall from my mind like some brown, withered old leaf falling
off a tree-destined to be stepped on by some kid on their
way home. I always liked the sounds those leaves made. My
father always told me if I didn't do well in school, I'd end up
cleaning toilets all my life. My father didn't graduate from
high school and I guess he carried that with him. Somehow he felt that the high school diploma was a key-some kind
of rocket fuel which would kick start you into the realm
of possibilities. Somehow that slice of paper with whatever
burned into it would bring you closer to your dream. It was
an access pass of sorts.
"Do you know how to clean?" Dad would, on occasion,
talk shop with me--an I I or 12-year-old kid with no work
experience.
"Yeah, I know how to clean," I d reply.
"Ok he'd say, "how do you remove chewing gum from a
carpet?" Dad would slip in the hypothetical in this manner.
I was supposed to use logic and deduction in finding the
correct answer.
"I would take a pair of scissors and cut the gum off..."
At this point my father would belch or fart, or perform
both simultaneously.
Shaking his head he'd say, "It's very apparent and
clearly evident that you don't know anything about
cleaning. The way to remove gum from a carpet is to take
an ice cube and place it on the gum. Wait 'til it hardens,
then remove it with a putty knife." I never asked him
what to do if you didn't have an ice cube-perhaps I
should have. My father would proudly demonstrate his
expertise-explaining how to remove wine stains from
a carpet or the correct way to vacuum a rug. "You have
to use nice long strokes in the direction of the nap of the
carpet. Nice long strokes until it makes you feel good..."
By the end of his speech, my food would be cold but my
father would urge me to "eat all that food on your plate or
I'm gonna knock you upside your head." He had a great sense of humor.
The one thing I was fairly proficient at was cleaning the
toilet. It was one of a couple of chores assigned to me. The
other chores were drying the dishes and vacuuming. My
father didn't clean at home-he left that duty to my step
mom and me. Why would he want to bring his business
home? I remember once during the Christmas season my
father worked during the showing of the Nutcracker. This
meant lots of kids. Dad not only had to mop floors and
empty trashcans, but he had to get on his hands and knees
and pick up hundreds, perhaps thousands of sunflower
seed shells. He came home exhausted, complaining that
those kids made him "sweat his butt off" that day. At home,
my father took to gardening, which proved therapeutic. He
would take a spray bottle and sprinkle water on his plants large
and unique cacti, whose spines climbed the walls.
He'd sometimes shoot me in the head or ass with a narrow
stream, intended for nobody but me. I'd hide behind a
cactus or palm plant but he had good aim.
Toilet duty, for me, a peaceful duty. It was a
simple thing-take some cleaning solution, pour it in the
bowl, take your toilet brush and start scrubbing. I had a
certain finesse or technique to my bowl cleaning system.
Depending on my mood, Id employ several different
methods. There was the 'Around the world in a day"
method, in which I'd use wide, circular motions with my
toilet brush in order to bring out the luster and shine of the
pot. It was almost like stirring a bowl of soup. I also called
this method, "Stirring a bowl of soup." I also employed
the "splish splash" method, in which I'd very rigorously
scrub the toilet all over, creating a small puddle at the base
of the bowl. Again, it was a good system-although a bit
messy. I was a quick learner. My father only had to show
me how to clean toilets once-after that, I was on my
own. My favorite method was "The Beethoven." I coined
this particular method, "The Beethoven" because it could
be both graceful and rigorous, depending on my state of
mind. I would use the toilet brush like the conductor of an
orchestra; slow and graceful with a calm rippling effect_
etching an invisible melody which seemed to outshine
the other porcelain in the bathroom. Then I'd get more
rigorous, splashing and creating waves-a crescendo and
the finale-the flush. Those remain to this day some of
the most creative moments of my life.
My father continued after me about things over the
years. I can't blame him really. I wasn't particularly talented
but I managed to get out of high school and out of college.
The getting out was the most rewarding part. When we eat
dinner these days, he doesn't ask me about what I learned
in school, which is good because I remember nothing. But
the one thing I do remember was cleaning those toilets.
And believe me, it's helped me a lot more. !-!
Short Story Analysis
The short story that I chose to analyze is Tony Robles’s Son of a Janitor. As I read the short story, I came to the conclusion, that the role of a father within the framework of a Filipino family is set /centralized to serve as the emotional component of how a man/provider can instill the values of experience/knowledge in the young mind of children to often make them a better person. As stated by wikipedia.org, the term “father” can be described as the male parent of a child. As a person born of Filipino descent, one conversation that I had with my father in which helped shaped my cognitive thinking towards the aspect of “education” was knowing that it would serve as my own roadmap to the facts of life where only the notions of experience, failure, and the paths of success can be found. No words can suffice how thankful I truly am to have been blessed/influenced by such a wonderful human-being like my own father.