Friday, October 17, 2014
As a Filipino and an Asian, it had been one of my aspirations to promote the race where I belong as the best specie of human being in the world.
As a journalism student, it had been one of my advocacies to promulgate by means of my capability of juggling with words, the fact that Asia, being the richest in human resources, is also enriched with essential values progressively imbibed in an evolutionary revolution over the colors of its glorious history.
As a speck of dust in this highly- complex galaxy, I recognize my role as an individual organism to offer some strands of my ganglia to make this place, specifically Asia and the Philippines, a better place to live in.
I am residing on one of the Philippines vibrant cities situated on its infamous Manila. Valenzuela City has on its way to being one of the most industrialized cities in the country. But along with the fast- pace progress it undertakes is a burden of its history that never fades, as much as its folks want. It is a depleted city and it’s not an understatement when I state that just a little downpour of rain may transform this prosperous green city to an ocean- wide water world.
If there would be an estimate of 20 super typhoons to cross the Pacific, in addition to heavy monsoon rains and ITCZs, storms are just an ordinary scenario and the water world- kind- of- thing is already our life.
We are already used on occasional lifting up and tying up our house stuffs under our weak ceiling whenever water rushes inside our bungalow, which through the years had undergone annual upholstery but yet can’t escape to the usual calvary. We are used on soaking our feet under still flood until we got some fungi infecting us. We are used on eating fresh tilapia wandering beneath muddy and filthy waters due to scarcity of food. We are used to sleeping without the electric fan on. We are used on sleeping on hanging beds with waters and rubbish freely- flowing beside us. This is the life I’d been used to during the 18 years of my existence.
However how harsh the storm may be, however how strong the wind slaps on our rusty roof, however how powerful it uproot the trees, how it made us wet and weary, how it killed one of our neighbors, how it whispers scream of hopelessness in our hearts; it had been our life and we had been used to smile on every storm.
Through the years, we might not survive without resilience.
Resilience for me is not just as simple as one’s capability to stand up after being struck but rather and more appropriately, learning the reason why we are struck and why we need to stand up.
After all the disasters I had been into, I believe that it is not just a short disturbance to the continuity of my daily chores or a break to worrisome school works. I know that every rain drops not just to challenge or endanger us. I believe that every whipping rain was not just scolding us to make us feel bad or forlorn for some number of days. And I believe that every rage of flood was not just ravaging just to wipe out everything we plan, we gain, we prepare, and we store.
First, there’s a reason for being struck. And this is to teach us a lesson for a lifetime. For years, it had taught me to attach myself more to my family in the worst of times, to cooperate with my community, to pray and dwell to God in times of adversities and above all, to keep on hoping for a bright and sunny morning after a heavy torrent night.
And last, there is a reason why we need to stand up. A disaster may hurt, may destroy, may kill, may bring shattered dreams, may bring sorrow and grief, may bring lasting scar on our hearts, but it then again teaches us that every aftermath of a disaster is an opportunity to restart a new and better life, a life full of hope and is stronger to beat all incoming odds.
Every catastrophic event ends a chapter of our life, a hint for a new chapter to interweave. It put a dark past into closure and opens up a brighter new. And the new thing is something for us to excite for!
Disasters are indeed learning experiences and every lump of lessons from these professors are the true spirit of resilience Asian exhibits.And as an Asian, I am proud to live in a disaster- prone area for I know that I earn myriads of experiences, thus earning wisdom that no other place in this world could ever find its equal.I’ll never frown at the storm for I love its strict instructions training me to smile and embrace the education it offers for free (much lower to the tuition fee of our state- owned university).
There is actually no more need for us to teach resilience to everyone, it’s an innate value within the Asian people, we are naturally- born resilient!
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Finally, the last communication journal to scribble!
Though I know that I’m well capable enough to write whenever I need or whenever my demon whispers behind my inner god of doing so, writing is still a boring activity and writers are naturally born lazy. So, what a perfect combination!
10: 30 a.m.
Everyone seems so busy, trying to be part of those blessed person that could have this special privilege to present their work before the LCD projector.They queue up for their turn. In the back of my mind, I’m lucky that I had already presented my work, that all I need to do right now is just to relax and lounge, feed my eyes with everything that will be served to us.
One by one, like any other days with our visual journalism class, presenters made it impressing as they introduce the product of their own hardships before protruding their finger to start their own show.
12: 00 p.m.
Another session ended. I’m searching for my thoughts as I walk out of room MC203. Thinking of what had sunk in to my ganglias for today’s continuous bombardment of myriads of information. Yes, I think I’m battered.
But after a blink of my eye, I’m quite enlightened. There’s a swift flash of memory that reinvigorates my heart beat. There is a flash of hope, thank God! I have something to share for my last communication journal.
The Power of the People
In the beginning, God had already ordered humanity to supervise among all things that He had created. Together with this responsibility is a privilege that every human share and this is the superiority and power that is exclusive only to the mighty race of the thinking animals.
The video that was presented by Roselle marked me a lot. I imagine myself as the one who walks like the king, the supreme supervisor, the can- do- all- things man, that on his very journey in life, do nothing but to unleash the greatness of earth for his own pleasure, use the power being given by the one who created him just to satisfy his cravings, to ease all his life undertakings, and to find comfort out of everything not thinking whatever consequence he may face afterwards.
At the rear end of the journey of that stick man used in that life- changing infographics, all he has is a throne over the tip of the mountain of rubbish and junks, the product of his selfish wastage all throughout his life.
This just shows that we could not always be the king of our own universe. There will always be a limit for everything. There is no absolute freedom, that is why for every privilege comes along with due responsibility.
Our fate is in our own faith. We must always submit ourselves with the one who send us here, the one who gave us this divine chore to supervise the world. Knowing that someday in our lives we are going to be judge according to what we had accomplished.
Finally, I finished the last entry for this journal. Mission accomplished.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
“Alam nating simula pa man noong una, na tayo ay isinilang upang sumulat.”
Ito ay isang translasyon sa nakakapukaw na bahagi ng sanaysay na tila ba nakapagpabago ng aking pagtanaw sa larangan ng pagsusulat, ang “Why I Write” ni George Orwell.
Ako ay sanggol ng panulat.
Alam kong ako ay iniluwal upang sumulat, ang kumatha ng mga makakabuluhang babasahin, ang magsatitik ng aking bawat hinaing at nasain, ang dumhan ng tinta ang bawat dahon ng papel, ang maghumiyaw gamit ang kagila- gilalas na kapangyarihan ng nakalimbag na letra, ang magluwal ng masiglang pagbabago, magpunla ng progresibong kaunlaran at magtanim ng hanghang na kaligayahan gamit ang halimuyak ng aking retorika.
Ako ay sanggol ng panulat.
Sariwa pa sa aking gunita, una kong pinangarap ang maging isang inhinyero. Gayunpaman, ito’y pangarap na ibinulong lamang ng aking mga magulang bilang kahingian sa aming gradweysyon sa kindergarten. Ni hindi ko pa nga alam noon kung ano ang ginagawa ng isang engineer, kahit pa ang is-pell ito.
Bago pa man ako makapagtapos ng elemetarya ay naging punong patnugot at manunulat na ng editoryal ng aming pampaaralang pahayagan. Sa edad na labing- isang taong gulang, nakapagyari na ako ng mga kuru- kuro na siyang naging puso ng aming papel. Gayunpaman, hindi pa rin lubusang naaarok ng aking bumbunan ang kapangyarihan ng bawat salitang ipipinta ng aking musmos na isipan.
Naglaon ang daluyong, nakarating ang aking kakayahan sa pagsulat sa iba’t- ibang dako ng Maynila; samu’t- saring seminar, mga pakontes at mga malalaking kumperensiya.
Bago pa man ako makapagtapos ng high school, muli akong naging punong patnugot at ngayon ay bilang isang manunulat ng mga makukulay na mga lathalain. Noong mga panahong iyon, dinarang ng mga mapanrahuyong balani ang aking simbuyo sa bawat kurot ng mala- palamuting silaba na aking nadidibuho.
Ngunit sa aking pagtahak sa kolehiyo, pinilit kong alisin sa aking landasin ang pamamahayag. Sa halip, ninais kong ipagpatuloy ang kagustuhan ng aking mga magulang noong ako’y nasa kinder pa, ang maging engineer, na sa pagkakataong ito ay alam ko na ang ibig sabihin, pati na ang ispeling.
Ako’y isang dukha, anak ng pinakaitang lipunan. Hindi lingid sa aking kaalaman na hindi ganoon kaganda ang karera ng journalism pagdating sa usaping pamimilak; di makabubuhay ng pamilya, ika nga nila. Kung kaya’t tulad ng iba’y sinubok kong pumasok sa isang kursong in- demand, tulad na nga lamang ng Inhinyeria.
Bagama’t sinubok kong talikdan ang aking tadhana, tila yata’t ang kapalarang iginuhit sa aking palad ay ang aking pagpapatuloy ng journalistikong pag-aaral.
Salamat PUP! Kung hindi dahil sa pamatay na cut-off ng slots, disinsana’y di ko matutuklasan na ako’y isinilang upang sumulat, na ako’y hungkag na sanggol ng panulat.
Oo nga. Ako ay sanggol ng panulat.
Ako ay sanggol ng panulat na pinapasuso ng Politeknikong Unibersidad ng Pilipinas upang maging dalubhasang manunulat. Ang maibalangkas ang mga kaisipan na naaayon sa konteksto, tamang timpla ng gramatika at makulay na organisasyon ng ponema. Ako ay hinuhulma sa anyo ng isang ekspertong maalam sa lahat ng pasikot ng industriya ng Komunikasyong Pangmadla, dalubhasang di matitinag at nag-uumapaw sa kasiningan.
Ako ay sanggol ng panulat.
Ako ay sanggol ng panulat na pinapasuso ng Kolehiyo ng Komunikasyon upang maibsan ang aking kagulumihanan. Marami akong gustong isulat, marami akong gustong isiwalat. At ikaluluwag ng aking dibdib kung ganap ko nang mapapalaya ang aking mga bagabag at kinikimkim sa tanging moda na aking nakasanayan.
Tunay ngang malikot ang utak ng isang writer, kaya’t habang may panahon pa’y kailangan maipiit ng hintuturo sa dulo ng pinsel ang harayang sa anumang sandali ay maaaring kumawala matapos kumislap.
Ako ay sanggol ng panulat.
Ako ay sanggol ng panulat na pinapasuso ng Kagawaran ng Journalismo upang matutong sumulat; pagsulat na may paninindigan, may talino at kapangyarihan. Gusto kong makapag-impluwensiya ng mga kaisipan. Nais kong makapagbigay ng katanggap- tanggap na mga opinyon sa mga isyung kinasasangkutan ng lipunan, mga bagay na esensyal sa pag- unlad ng sambayanan. Mithi kong makapagtuwid ng mga kabuktutan at gayundin ang makapagturo ng katwiran.
Sa ganap na kapanganakan ay nabuksan ang aking kamalayan ukol sa mga sistemang umiiral, higit sa pagbabalita at pagkukuru- kuro, nais kong maipakita ang kagandahan sa bawat kasalimuutan.
Bilang isang feature writer, mas higit kong ninanasa ang makapagbigay inspirasyon, makapaghatid ng pag-asa sa aking mambabasa gamit ang mga istorya ng iba’t- ibang mukha ng mga nilalang na sa mga susunod na panahon ay mithi kong makadaupang- palad.
Ako ay sanggol ng panulat.
Ako ay sanggol ng panulat na pinapasuso para sa aking pamilya, ang maiahon sila sa kahirapan tungo sa pedestal ng kaginhawaan. Bagamat ang pamamahayag ay di trabaho ng pagpapayaman, naniniwala pa rin ako na sa pagtitiyaga at pagkamatatag, samahan pa ng katapatan at kadalubhasaan, ay may kapalit na higit pa sa aking mga kinakailangan.
Tulad ng ibang sanggol na pinapasuso ng isang ina, ako ay kinakalinga upang lasapin ang bawat sustansya ng karunungan, upang lagukin ang linamnam na naidudulot nito, at ang simsimin ang kalusugang esensyal sa aking pagkatao.
At sa aking ganap na paglaya mula sa kanlungan ng kamuwangan, mula sa kandungan ng aking ina tungo sa mundong puno ng pakikipagsagupaan, aking itataguyod ang aking mga natutunan; susuklian ang inang nagtaguyod sa sinapupunan sa uhaw at tigang na sanggol ng panulat.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
It is a truth that perception of beauty in humans is so feminist. Whenever we get to talk about beauty and all its facets, we always first assume of women and their tantalizing eyes. But how about the race of men? Could they not be beautiful?
If there is this feminine beauty, there must also be this masculine beauty.
However, I have no personal hatred with Angela Casco, the presenter of the infographics entitled “Beauty in Women”, for being one-sided and more focused on the part of the female race. She’s my friend and I deeply understand if she quite became bias from that point, after all, it’s her privilege.
Being born as a male, like females, we also have this awareness on how others might perceive us base on the way we look. We are also conscious on the effect of a single pimple, the unruliness of our hair, growth of unwanted beards, and /or even on some sort of vanity and personal hygiene.
Though man have much fewer concerns on beauty than female, much fewer take on fashion and styling; it seems like man, in respect with women, have much more confidence in showing off their manly beauty and even boasting it.
Based on Angela’s presentation, as shown by the social experiment executed by a private company, female sees themselves lesser in quality compared to what they actually appear in reality.
In relation to their weak nature, they have lesser confidence with themselves, in other words, they are much concentrating on their imperfections rather than their best assets.
Lately, my attention was caught by another meme posted by one of PUP’s university humor page, PUP Memes, were a fantasy and reality was merged in an edited photograph.
The meme is consisted of two- picture split in mirrors: one which is a hot, sexy, beefy, good- looking hunk posing like Johnny Bravo which represents every man’s fantasy; while the other is a thin, dark, short, bad- looking guy posing the same as the opposite portion, which obviously symbolizes the reality.
That meme just show on how males are pre-occupied by the thought that we look good despite of imperfections. Unlike females, man focuses on their best assets rather than those impurities that even though how evident or distracting to other people, seems like unnoticed.
Though females all have this thought of improving their beauty but in reality, just few of them possess the required courage to utilize and show it off. Males, though lacking in aesthetic necessities, have this guts to have a fashion hair- cut, wear things a la mode, and proudly flaunt it.
Gentlemen, being dominant in nature, have this perception of beauty among other, that based on Angela’s report, is lacking on women. This is the beauty not on what others actually see but on how you see yourself as a beautiful creature as it is.
Men are also beautiful, in fact, much beautiful than women.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
“Youth is generalized as the wild, violent, and lackadaisical portion of the society”.
is Peps’ introduction on his presentation entitled, “Identity of Youth in
My inner self wants to ravage against the thought. I, as a part of the younger generation, disapprove with the way the populace looks to us. It seems like we are perceive as rebels hard to be accepted and is just tolerated patiently by the older folks.
The youth are ones thought as the fair hope of this fatherland and I gladly thank Jose Rizal and his fellows in today’s time who are steadfast on believing that there is something to long for from us.
Though I know that some of our adolescents are wildly engage on stuffs such as premarital sex, crimes, drug addiction, thugs and turf wars, and different unfathomable activities, still, they are just a few but most are still busily scribbling their way to success, flaming up their thoughts and advocacies to engage on the much serious issues of the elderlies and above all, studying hard to fulfill the ideals and aspirations of the nation.
After his talk, I just felt quite cognizant on how other people might think of me as an individual. Are they perceiving me as one of those hopeless young, wild and frees, or those who walk against such flow and live this young, must- carefree days with due diligence in preparation for a fruitful future?
In our youthful days, there are many trends and popular pops that many teens want to engage to. In some point of our life, we forget the goal we are set into just to make ourselves feel the belongingness with the major clad.
In order to be “in” with what’s trending, there is this mask we wear to pretend to be a person whom we think is much acceptable to the society. We thought that they will like us more if we are the ideal person that they will admire, but still is not really our unique identity.
When the presentation asked, I remember, are we going to go with the flow or against it?
I doubt for a second.
It’s quite hard, but I don’t really think that we need to abandon the flow because I deemed to accept that we have this ‘social need’. What’s important is to choose the socialization that is appropriate for us, that is beneficial for our being; the socialization that will accept and respect our true identity, even without the mask worn on our face.
We don’t actually need to be the darling of the crowd, a party animal, a drunkard, a famous personality, a cigar man, or that wild, easy- go- lucky man to be accepted. With just being who we are, there is definitely a circle of friends predestined for us whom we don’t need to pretend and hide behind a mask.
myself, who am really I in the rear of that veil?
As what Peps had said, it is not on the very achievement we gain, not on every thought on how others perceive about us, not on the way we want us to be but on how the one who created us want us to be identified.
And that is being the son of Him, made by Him and for Him.
Friday, August 1, 2014
The three presenters made us wander across different time space. Yesterday, today and tomorrow collided in one day of discovery and learning in Visual journalism.
GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD’S MOST SORROWFUL YESTERDAY
We learn from our past experiences; that is the main purpose of history. Of what we have today are products of continuous refining and sifting throughout our glorious story. One of the main events in world history that could have taught one of the most unforgettable lessons in every people of the planet is the horrific age of holocaust.
Adolf Hitler’s dream is a nightmare for the race of the ancient Jewish people. The vast mass killing is indeed a very barbaric stuff in our time. But without the holocaust and those people who offer their lives, the world may not have been awakened on the essence of equality among races and the relevance of peace and unity for developmental progress among intercultural nations.
The most important point is that holocaust is now a part of history. And when history inevitably repeats itself, we now know and now better equipped with the proper procedures to execute from what we have learned from the past.
THE CRISIS OF TODAY
The advancement of media platforms correlates to the high exposure of people to different information. Kids do even saturated themselves on toddler- oriented programs such as animes and cartoons.
And through an expository type of presentation, the reporter bared off the negative effects of those fancy shows to their young minds. It’s quite surprising that those kiddie programs which ones had been part of our childhood have bad implications to our present attitudes.
The youth, which Rizal considers as the fair hope of our fatherland, is in danger of growing not uprightly because of these stuffs. We, therefore, need to take concentration on their viewing habits and refocus them on much more essential elements for their growth.
We never know what the future holds but there will always be a future we can hope for. And the hope we ever long for are the youth that would eventually dominate the country beyond the horizon.
The question that keeps on resounding behind my ears is that whether this generation could gratify the expectations of the people in their future subordinate.
First, I feel doubt upon thinking of those adolescents who, in their early age, are already engaged with crime and activities below moral standards.
But their number compared to those who prove themselves worthy fires up my belief that there is a bright tomorrow that waits.
I’m confident that being a part of this future in the making, the people have something big to expect from us. Upon watching the said documentary, the fire inside of me was stirred up and was reminding me that I’m playing a vital role in this country, that I shall do my best to satisfy everyone’s vision.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
If there would be a field of study that all people, regardless of age and subject of adeptness, would generally indulged with, there would be no much greater than the all- time favorite of most of us… love and emotion.
And in the second set of presenters, different emotions of human’s metaphysical faculty had been elaborated clearly and love, as a feeling exclusive for mankind, was elucidated and given much emphasis than ever.
One of this is the ardent love of those we never appreciate.
A FATHER’S LOVE
No stone heart could have been softened, no tough man could had not been carried away, and no strong personality in the class could have halted their tears from falling on the heartfelt presentation of Paullyne about an inspirational drama.
The movie entitled Miracle on Cell #7 is all about a father, for his extreme desire to continue to live with her daughter after being convicted, brought her child behind the bars without due knowledge of its jail manager.
“Lee Yong-gu is a mentally challenged man with the intelligence of a 6-year-old, which is actually the age of his own daughter Ye-sung who is much smarter than her peers. The two of them lead a happy life while Yong-gu makes a living by working as a parking attendant at a local supermarket. But one day, when the police commissioner's young daughter dies in a strange accident, Yong-gu is the one who happens to find her. He is falsely accused and sentenced to death for abduction, sexual assault, and murder of a minor. Ye-sung is sent to a childcare institution and Yong-gu gets imprisoned and assigned to Cell No. 7, the harshest cell in a maximum security prison.” (www.wikipedia.com)
But when the time comes when he was set free, he faced the agony of leaving her child since there is no way out for her but to work hard to prove her innocence.
The unusual story of the depth of the father’s love reminded me on how I must value every effort exerted by them just to satisfy our every needs.
The AVP made me confess that throughout all the years under my father’s custody, I had been an ungrateful son.
We may not notice how they do all things for our good, when the time comes they are already gone, we could eventually see their worth.
After weeks of grueling toils, sleepless nights, and restless days, I had finally presented my audio- visual presentation for our Visual Journalism class.
It had been several meeting with Professor Cabahug that was postponed before I finally have my turn to present my work before the LCD projector. After a very long time of prolonging the agony, I’d finally blow out my deep sigh of relief upon flashing my 11 – minute and 37- second documentary.
Indeed, I had been waiting for this time to occur for a very long period. And after my long wait, I successfully premiered my short visual film, the very time I supposed as the time of my life.
My knees are tottering, my heart seems like exploding as it punch against my chest, and all the joints across my body weakened to the very point I click the “play” button on the laptop. My back searched for the nearest wall to support my body from stumbling.
I just can’t move my eyes from the wide screen.
My short informative presentation tackles the glimpse of the future that awaits the industry of journalism. I deemed to clarify on the truth of the prophecy on the extinction of newspapers wherein I settled on the thought that newspapers could be dinosaurs, but then again, dinosaurs walk the earth for millions of years.
But aside from the fact that newspapers will prevail in the next decades, I made it interesting to showcase the different media that will eventually come out due to the current media revolution.
After all, I ended up on presenting spills and interviews from journalism students on which represent the real future that will comprise every pillars of the industry.
I made a hard time to edit it this video out but with due patience and determination, I settled down with a good- for- beginners output.
A few minutes later, I just hear loud tampering clicks from joyous claps resounding on every corner of Room 203. Then it come endless laughs on my documentary’s climax.
I’m glad that I made them think deeply, learn adequately, realize consequently and laugh unstoppably from my presentation.
The glorious time of my life ended with a round of applause suggesting my work is indeed a mission accomplished.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Are newspapers doomed?
What are the advancements to expect that will rise soon to the industry?
What is the real future of journalism?
An audio- visual presentation made in fulfillment of my requirement to my visual journalism class with Professor Felix Cabahug.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
I am used to subscribe the Philippine Star every Friday and for a very long time of my perusal to the paper, all I seek for are the juices of the article, the message been delivered by the reporter, and the way the penman bloom florals out of his unlimited vocabulary. All I want are the substantial jewels and diamonds, I sloppily disregarded those petty pearls aside.
But with the introduction of Mr. Felix Cabahug on the concept of visual journalism, my interest on kilometric paragraphs and amazing syntaxes were suddenly diverted to various visual aesthetics applied on the paper by a new breed of journalist inoculated to my consciousness concerning the profession.
The training I have as a multimedia journalism student in PUP was elaborately diversified from being a simple news writer, feature writer, news reporter, and editor to a more complex form of the business, visual journalism.
Before making a research about the stuff, all I perceive is that it is a combination of the journalism principles of data gathering, writing, and reporting fused with creative and elaborate art to make it more palatable to the consumers. I presumed that any sort of artistic touch that is utilized to present journalistic facts is therefore a form of visual journalism.
In an activity we’ve made, we are tasked to scramble for published matter over the pile of inked papers that fits best for the definition of visual journalism. Yes, the petty pearls I supposed before was being made as the center of our discussion.
For this time, I set aside my hunger for information and go with the flow as we hunt for the disregarded treasures of my yesterdays.
From that activity akin to a treasure hunt, I discover how bright these visual arts stood out from the rest of the monotony. I discover then that those pearls I supposed as mere fancy is perhaps equally valuable and priceless as the other gems.
From the catchy masthead, bold headlines, and unique typographies to wonderful shots, black and white photographs, and sketches, entertaining photo essays, creative listicles and colorful infographics, I will regret if I will never confess on how I’m blinded for a very long time to the value of this visual aids and furthermore, for separating them kilometers apart from intensive articles.
Now I’m facing my consequences for neglecting them before. For a whole semester, I need to study them and pass a course about it. But I don’t actually consider it as a burden; in fact, I’m inspired to do such stuffs because I will have the opportunity to unleash my artistic side in reserve of my reportorial skills.
I’m excited to learn more about the art of journalism through visual aesthetics, to make graphics out of raw data and to produce work of arts as precious as pearls. I could have underrated before visuals as simple ornaments on various media platforms, for thinking that they don’t value for readers, and that they are just pure crap out of the treasure box.
I am indeed wrong and in one semester, I just pray that it would not oppress me just to pay their price for underestimating these treasures in disguise.
Friday, March 14, 2014
There are stories within a story. There are chapters within a kilometric novel, there are stanzas comprising a poem, there are anecdotes for a much longer anthology; our life is a one whole omnibus, a compilation telling a lot more strains of stories.
Born to Write
“Ink runs through our veins,” that is what our department shirt shrilling out loud on every street we are seen strolling.
I am just turning three when I first ascertain on how to write my whole name legibly and read phoneme out loud. When I was two, I was submerged with pile of tabloids and broadsheets formerly wrapped on our family’s favorite viand, smoked fish “tinapa.”
Its stinky odor may have not been a hindrance for me not to play with those odd toys of mine in my childhood. Yes, I am a different kind of kid; serious and not that playful. I have found my first love before I have set my mind into its proper tone.
After receiving the fishes from the peddler, I segregated the fish from its wrapper. Excitedly, I usually ran with the pieces of paper and left those fishes unattended; however how many cats strolling inside our house hover over it.
On our wide- cemented floor, I lay the paper as of how I lay flat on the newly- waxed cement.
I always scrutinize first the graphics, those gray images are painting a wild scenario in my mind, weaving a sort of picture cinema of imaginary stories I ever perceived, and those are mainly from a toddler’s eye view.
Next, I roll my eyes around the words printed in the sweet-scented paper for my nose. In that early age, I am with this desire to know what I am reading about. I know that time that I have a lot of misconceptions with all the stuffs, like car accidents, all I know that they were just toys being bumped with each other by one of my playmates, but I never stop reading. I want to read the newspaper from top to bottom, from front to back, word by word, and cover to cover.
After reading the stuff, I always snatch a pen from my granny, the same pen she used to list the debts of her tenants in her rooms for rent.
And this is what I consider my very first writing exercises. I just rewrite everything, every word I can in the space provided in the margins of the newspaper. I just copy it and I do enjoy doing it.
But suddenly, I always came into a halt whenever the paper was already full of my messy ink or the old woman already seized the pen I stole.
Born to Speak
When I was send to preschool and elementary, they had already found me as a shy person. Along with my power to public speaking is the ironic part of it, stage fright.
Actually, in my first graduation rites away from kindergarten, every graduate was in need to prepare a one-sentence speech on what we want to be when we grow up. I fully rehearsed on what I am going to say but when my feet aboard on the stage, in front of all the people in white, I spoke wrong words in the wrong syntax, with tottering voice exploding because of nervousness and fear. My period to halt the seconds of introverted exposure inevitably caused for the mob to burst with laughter, a wrong thing to do in a usual solemn ceremony.
But when I was in grade three, I was prodded to represent the school to a poem recital to be participated by the whole city. I successfully won the tilt. But more than the medal was the giant leap I had made toward conquering the what-so-called ‘performance anxiety’.
Later on, I became one of the schools pride in terms of declamation and recitals. I won various awards out of that newly- discovered talent.
As I graduated from elementary level, I was tasked to deliver the speech being the valedictorian. I don’t know what’s with a graduation day that for the record, it was still an epic fail.
You know what I mean.
Born to Fail
In my journey as a young journalist, I had been part of Schools Press Conferences in my elementary and high school days. But in most competition, I failed to win.
Everybody expected me to win the affair because as what most of my journalism advisers had told me, I am innate and creative as a writer.
In the lower school, I competed twice as an editorial writer both in English and Filipino but in both tourney, I am defeated.
In secondary, I shifted to feature writing to try my luck for a much subjective and creative form of writing. I jumped up to regional finals by placing 6th in Valenzuela.
And in that highly- prestigious competition, obviously I fail to won.
It came a time in me that I doubted if I could really write.
Born to Lead
Though my young years as a journalist bloomed and brimmed with failings, it was also a high time for me to lead group of people being an editor-in-chief twice in my lifetime.
I became the EIC of The Bud, the official school paper publication of Arcadio F. Deato Elementary School. Seeing a published article of mine and even my name on top of the editorial board is a real satisfaction.
But yet a grade six student making a newspaper is not a serious matter for me before.
After three years, I am chosen again to lead another paper which is The New Hope (Filipino), the official school paper publication of Polo National High School.
Though the job is that demanding, I don’t really think I had given my best out of it since I am also the president of the Student council.
As an EIC, I had mentored wannabes for the publication. I had also trained the school’s radio broadcasting team, had designed the page lay-out for our single issue and the most exciting of all, seeing the single issue materialized, the product of a year of news gathering and brainstorming.
EIC’s job is the leadership side of being a newsman and press management is the heartbeat of my veins.
It came a time I erased the fact that I couldn’t really write. But there’s a demon inside of me who kept on reminding that I hardly write, hinders me to write. I don’t know who the real demon was.
Born to Grow
"Para po!” I pronounced to catch the driver’s attention to halt the vehicle. A signage suggested that I’m already here in my destination, Pureza. That time, June 25, 2013, was my first time to set foot on its quite busy street.
Students, vendors, face from different walks of life strolling down the street welcomed as I pace through the crowded sidewalks. I am walking towards nothing. I do not know where to go. I call a pedicab to drop me by COC, the college where my classes are going to be held, the college in that time; I don’t know where it is, and the college wherein I must belong.
It was the second week in the university calendar but it’s my first day brought by a skin disease that jailed me to bed rest for a week. I feel strange of what the college will surprise me then.
Inside the pedicab, my imagination travels, weaving a sort of prediction of what probably will I see there. I thought of my classmates, what would they look like? Are they like my peers before? Are they approachable and easy to be with? How about the college? Will it be as grandiose as my high school alma mater? My professors? Are they strict? Or a sort of a monster?
My head shook wildly inside the close pedicab as it trekked the path toward COC and…
A hand is now waiting for my fare and a yellow sign board printed on it, “Polytechnic University of the Philippines, College of Communication.” This is my new school and just like a kindergarten toddler, I ran excitedly through the corridor after I gave the money to the panting driver.
Before I could enter the premise, I stand before the building, with my knees shaking, as I stare down to its wholeness. This is the college where will I spent four years of my bachelor’s degree in journalism, I will be here day to day and eventually will became a part of my life. Before I lose control, I managed to look over my watch finding it’s already 7: 25 am, too late for an early bird like me.
I ran with wide eyes scanning room numbers that are creatively- printed above the doors. And as soon as I got in Room 202, I mindlessly enter the room as if there’s nothing. All eyes look at me offering an awkward silence broken up by a voice shouting out a passage,” an angel seemed had passed through.” Though, I’m not angelic at all. I sat as my back hungers comfort as it reaches the nearby chair. Time drops and one by one, my new classmates reaching before me like a sea of new faces inquiring my name, lending a ‘hi’, and a friendly smirk.
Sweat started to trickle down my face. It’s very hot. I can’t breathe. I’m easily getting uncomfortable of how hot it is inside the four cornerstone of that classroom, catering 61 students of BAJ 1-1D, its far way worse than what I have in high school, because we are actually in air-conditioner.
I just thought that this is what they are really saying of what I would expect in a lesser than 1.5K for fees. But however I grumble to show my complaint, I will just contribute in this irritating ambience warming. It is much better to shut up my mouth. It pushes me to observe of how I can last throughout the four years of my stay in here inside the hell-hot rooms. Messy boards, vandalized chairs, corroding paints on walls, these old pillars are truly not good for studying. All of these things are not conducive to learning but it makes me wonder of how PUP produced such great graduates and established itself as a premier state university of the country? Have they set low standards?
Professors walked in; they enter to and fro. All my doubts and misconceptions were vanished and were readily answered. Greatness comes from greatness. It was just passed as of how DNA passed on from generation down tom another generation. Our set of professors are really awesome and of high quality. There is no wonder that despite of the unfavorable environment given by degraded facilities, instructors of the campus can easily overpower each by their amazing strategies and higher order skills in educational management integrated specially for the ‘iskolar ng bayans’.
They can be much superior than the big mouths of Broadcast Communication Students, ease in installing harmonious student- teacher relationship and above all, getting rid of the spoon- feeding stuff, but instead of giving us the experiences that could itself teach what a book can teach.
COC… the College of the Champions, College of Celebrities, the College of Communication; a family that consists the growing PUP community, the college which really cares for each COCians as they lend their arms as they strive toward excellence. No one will be left out for if one is excellent, everybody must be excellent as well. There will be no more losers in the college that exercises excellence at its finest.
And this is the goal of COC oriented on us, that as a premier college, it flourishes hard toward a highly-competitive world, to produce students that will graduate as rich: rich in experience, in friends, in memories, in learning, in life skills, and above all, in fruits that epitomizes of how hard they harvest in the vast field beyond its gate.
I will never be ashamed if our rooms have only two electric fans, no projectors to be used for presentations, that we lack of necessary materials, tools, equipments, and facilities, if I only pay 1 K for my fees. I will always be a proud COCian not because were liberal as we think, but because we are blessed to have those things that are so priceless, even a private university couldn’t even afford to buy. I swear.
Born to Succeed
Now I am going to wrap up my first year in college. After the ten months of eyelash burning, pitfalls, stressors, depression, success, triumph, accomplishments, and growth; I don’t want to rest on my laurels. I would endeavor hard to reach my dreams because I deem that not too far and obscure in my vision that I’m going to end this journey, reach the finish line, anytime sooner.
I am born to write, I am born to speak, to lead, to grow and to succeed. My story is not yet ending. I am acquainted with the fact that there are more anecdotes to come in this never- ending anthology.
I will never get exhausted and no one could ever perturb in this race I’m ought to won.