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.
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