MY DAUGHTER’S HANDS

Yesterday, my only daughter turned 17.  She made Charlie Chan pasta for both sides of the family and I baked her a chocolate cake.  A simple celebration made special by the fact that as the celebrator she made everyone happy. 

This brought back a memory that I have of her.

A few months ago, I happened to touch my daughter’s hands while we were preparing merienda and I was very surprised at how much their texture had changed.  Used to holding her soft, warm hands I was shocked to hold hands that are harder and not dissimilar to my own work roughened ones. 

For the rest of that day, the sensation of touching her strong, hard palms stayed with me and it bothered me.  That night, I found myself crying when I recalled it and realized why it bothered me so much.  I have nothing against hard work, and when I first became a parent I resolved to teach my children its value and was even determined not to spoil them.  I was crying because my baby’s hard and rough hands came a bit earlier than I expected.  At the age of fourteen, she slowly assumed responsibilities at home such as dishwashing, cleaning and eventually doing the laundry.  We belong to a middle income household and though we could afford to hire household help, my husband and I decided that we could do it on our own.  This decision came when my kids turned ten and eleven and the last of a series of disastrous maids went AWOL.

Seven years later and with two babies added to the family, a toddler and an infant, things are quite rough.  For my eldest son, things did not change as much, but for my only daughter, the role became more pronounced as the years passed by.  My husband, who grew up in an affluent household as an only son naturally assumed that my daughter, being female should learn to do the housework.  It is a blessing that she loves to cook and has a natural knack for recreating dishes that I have made after simply observing, but as she grew older, she started assuming more responsibilities at home. I, being a fulltime working mother started to rely on her more, especially in helping me prepare three meals a day for our growing family.

When the lockdown hit last year, I was on maternity leave, and I was still under the misguided notion that things would be normal by the time my paid leave ends.  Five months after giving birth and four and a half months after the lockdown, my employer is yet to activate me and we are surviving on meager savings and the generosity of family members.  With the lockdown, my daughter saw more and more of my worries grow, as day after day of uncertainty passed.  I try to shield my two older children from our financial worries but my daughter, bright and sensitive as she is, sees more than others do.  Without me noticing it at first, I just realized that working harder at household chores is her way of helping ease my burden.  Whenever I would start to do something she would suddenly take over, constantly telling me to sit down and rest.  It became her habit to offer me food or water as I go through the series of chores on a daily basis.  She preps food ingredients, washes the dishes, babysits the toddler and the infant and even cleans the sink and the oven regularly (with an old toothbrush to reach every nook and cranny).

Indeed my little girl has grown up to be a mature and considerate young lady and I almost didn’t see it.  She may have lost her baby soft hands much earlier than I preferred but I know that she will be a strong and responsible individual who is ready to tackle any and all of life’s challenges. While girls of her age worry about what’s trending on Netflix, my young lady is using her hands to create something marvelous. Whether it’s a new digital artwork, writing a poem or making hand pulled ramen noodles, I know that whatever it is that she’s making, it would be amazing- just like her.

                      Of BLOGS and VLOGs

Blogs have radically evolved since I started dabbling in it.  Now as I browse through modern blogs , they look more like travel and food diaries, complete with cool backgrounds, stylish designs and breathtaking pictures chronicling the authors' travel and palate adventures.  Glossy and perfect just like browsing a magazine.

I am old school by heart.  Not only because I'm middle aged but blogs for me meant the beauty of written words, and that readers go along with you on a journey without visuals.  Pictures, although fantastic, distract from what's written, making words secondary.  

The new generation of bloggers have gotten so used to using a few words and preferred showing people images instead, hence the birth of Vlogging.  I have nothing against it, but gone were the days when a person simply blogs because he/she has something to share to the world in order to connect.  Nowadays, vlogs have dispensed with words, and anyone with a mobile phone can create content and upload it on the internet.  Now vlogs are about views and admiration from other people, and the ultimate validation that somebody's vlog is deemed relevant is the number of subscribers/followers he/she has.  Rarely will you come across a blog that is about a person's innermost thoughts (pains, joys, realizations etc), but they are all about places to see, food to eat and things to acquire.

This evolution is inevitable I suppose, because now, more than ever, with the proliferation of internet in our lives, everything in life has become a race.  Faster uploads, bigger adventures, things done on a grander scale have become the standards that the younger generation must adhere to.  Now, if you do things at a slower and more deliberate pace, people will say you're old, makupad or worse obsolete.

On some days, I simply wish things would slow down a bit so that we can all take a pause and see that all these hurrying up is not doing anyone any good.  For a while, with the onset of the pandemic we did that.  Phrases like smelling the roses and taking the time to drink one's coffee became popular anew. Two years into it however, and the world is again in motion, hurrying things along, trying to speed things up.  Fed up with isolation, new work conditions, the need to move and get back lost time can be felt in the air.  People are less patient, quicker to judge and less tolerant of any delay.  Back to the bullet train we all go, and I just pray that as life passes us all by, we don't lose out on the important moments for if we do, then we are all in for a future of regrets.

 A good friend of mine who inspired me to start this blog many years back has managed to sustain his  passion for journal writing.  As I pore over his more than a decade body of work I have to admit that I was filled with envy.  Not the green eyed type, but more of a sigh and regret filled envy that maybe I should have followed his example so that I would have more or less a record of my journey in life and its curve balls.

So here I am, ten years later since my last posted musings, trying my hand to revive my rusty writing skills.

What has happened since 2011? Professionally, nothing much.  Personally, a ton.

For one, I thought I would only have two kids.  A boy and a girl.  Fourteen years after having my daughter, I gave birth at the age of 42.  Needless to say, a lot of people were shocked when it happened (though the fact that I AM married shouldn't have ruled out this possibility), the joy that the new baby brought to our lives was immense. 

Then came another curve ball.   I had a follow up baby eleven months later.  So here I am, a ripe age of 45 with two toddlers who call me MAM MAM trying to juggle four kids of varying age and temperament while coping with the demands of work amidst a pandemic.

Most days, my life is a blur of activities from sun-up to sundown, and since my bunso has decided that playtime is when all the lights are out, I have been sleep deprived for three years and running. I am holding on to life by a handful of vitamins and pure will discovering strengths and resilience I did not know I possess.  I have added creases to my face, more grey on my hair and muscles on my arms from carrying squealing babies left and right.

What has life taught me in the past ten years? Expect the unexpected, prepare for what God has planned and savor every moment in between.  After all,  this moment is already my past in the making.

  

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

It's 3AM, and I can't sleep.

My quick trip to the bathroom turned out to be a curse. For unknown reasons, my mind refused to go back to sleep and instead is flashing back to my childhood memories in vivid detail.

I guess this stems from the fact that I have been pondering the kind of childhood memories my own children are making for themselves these past few days. Amidst talk of the possible dangers of computer addiction (for the boy) and overeating (for the girl), here I am pondering the question that has probably plagued any mother at one point or another: Am I doing the right thing in raising them?

I don't know if my own mother ever asked this of herself way back when the five of us were growing up and giving her hell, but I now realize that among us I am probably the one who caused her the most sleepless nights like this.

Thinking back, I now know that the person I am has been shaped by some very significant events in my childhood. They were not some tragic incidents that split my psyche into two, rather they are distinct memories that gave me an everlasting impression of my world.

OBSESSION – I was not aware that this word existed when I first experienced obsession. I was around five years old when my childhood bestfriend (who lives across the street, and still does) and I discovered the wondrous plant called Kamantigue. It had a poppy flower that when opened would curl like a shell in our palms, and when we discovered that it could be attached to our earlobes we were hooked. Voila, instant earrings!

We scoured the entire neighbourhood for that damn plant and it dictated all my waking moments. I would look around for kamantigue like a crazy alcoholic needing a fix. No matter where I would go, my eyes would scan the area and look for the colourful kamantigue flowers that would carry these heaven-sent poppies. It did not matter that after a day my beautiful shell earrings would stink and grow slimy in my palms, I wanted that kamantigue and by God, I will have them. I can still recall riding a tricycle on the way to Sunday Mass and screaming like a banshee for the driver to stop because I saw a profusion of kamantigue flowers by the roadside. I earned a pinch from my mother, but my father who spoiled me rotten (God bless his patient soul), calmly told the driver to stop so that I could pick the kamantigue buds.

Once, at the height of this kamantigue madness, I was able to convince my best friend to go wandering in our neighbourhood to look for kamantigue. We walked and walked and ended up about five streets away from our home. (When I was young, I was forbidden to even go to the street next to ours, we live on the 7th, and we walked till the 12th st) I was in high heavens as I plucked the poppies to my heart's content, ignoring my friend's urging to go back home because we have already wandered far from our houses. The sudden downpour that drenched both of us that day while I was out harvesting new earrings amidst threats of dogs and angry garden owners (yes, I was trespassing) did not diminish the joy I felt. However coming home like a drowned puppy, with a skirt full of kamantigue buds and getting spanked thrice for driving my mama crazy with worry still make me wince and rub my butt up to this day. Lesson learned: It's good to want something and DO anything to get it, but one has to be ready to make stinging sacrifices for it.

GONE IN SIXTY SECONDS. My early childhood consisted of my mother curbing my hyper activeness and being told to stay indoors. Being diagnosed with a heart murmur at four years old did not in any way stop me from doing what the doctor specifically forbade me to do like running, jumping and getting overexcited. Whenever my parents would leave, my four older siblings would be in charge of my welfare, and way back then for them to do that was short of putting me in a cage.

One afternoon, I was able to convince my best friend’s brother to play superheroes in our backyard. My friend was on vacation that day and her brother was playing Superman (complete with a lampin cape) outside their fence. He and I both donned lampin capes and we ran around my house incessantly. My brother would bellow for me to stop and I would duck so that he would not see me. The minute his back was turned, I would run again. On a particular turn I tripped and fell and bham! I felt something hard hit my forehead. The pain did not register at first and I remember putting my palm up to my forehead and feeling something warm and sticky. When I looked at my hand it was filled with blood and I froze in shock. I split my forehead and seeing all the blood that must have been trickling over my face, my playmate screamed to the high heavens and ran all the way home. All my siblings rushed outside to see my front shirt soaked in blood and standing frozen to the spot. I don't recall what exactly followed after that, but I do remember my brother crooning for me not to cry and that I would be alright as he wiped the blood with his shirt. My parents arrived and I was brought to the family doctor who gave me nine stitches. I remember my mother being paler than usual and my father being angry. It's funny though, I don’t recall being afraid of the injury that day, but I was more worried that my friend's brother would no longer play with me. I was right, he never did again. Lesson learned: Safety and harm is but a hair’s breath away. This made me appreciate the times I spend with my kids more. Rolling in bed and making faces with each other has become a favourite pastime between me and my two children. I am realistic enough to accept the fact that I can never shield them from all harm, but I am hoping that what I am building with them now will make them strong enough to withstand anything their future will hold.

THE WORLD FROM THE BOTTOM UP. Things indeed look different when viewed from a different perspective. I had my second brush with death (the first was a vehicular accident on my fifth birthday) when I was seven. My best friend and I were still in our adventure mode and that year our favourite hangout was the vacant house behind their abode. It had a wooden gate that looked like slim crayons glued side by side and it was our favourite dare to climb over that gate again and again. I guess we felt that it would build our muscles or something, but for no particular reason we would both race towards that gate and climb it as fast as we could.

On my third climb, I felt something pull at my knitted shorts and before I knew it, I turned upside down. In my haste, the end of my shorts got stuck in one of the pointy ends of that wooden gate and stopped my landing. My friend screamed as my feet raised up way over my head and I saw the ground quickly rise up to smash my face. About a foot from that collision, I stopped moving downwards because heaven help knitted wear, my shorts held me suspended on air. I could hear her screaming as I looked at her red slippers, unable to process what had happened. I guess somebody up there was looking after me that day because recalling it now I realized how close I was to complete disaster. You would think that that particular instance would cure me of my desire to climb things? Nope. I still continued to climb any height that I encountered until I grew bored with the activity. Lesson learned: Being suspended on air made me see that the tiniest flowering plants can grow out of cement cracks. Putting these tiny things in sharp focus made me realize that sometimes, when I am so high up there in my belief in myself, I fail to see that how my actions could affect others. I will never know how I scared my friend that day, I only knew that she hugged me as fiercely as she could as we both tried not to cry on the way home.


ANIMAL INSTINCT. I was not a tomboy, in spite the fact that I basically grew up sporting a boy's haircut. Due to a misguided sense of fashion, I thought it was the epitome of cool to sport a hairdo known way back then as “Siete”. The hairstyle aptly named because my hair was cut with seven-like precision over my earlobes. Had I not worn earrings, I would have forever been called “nonoy” (little boy) by people I have met.

Anyway, in spite of my boyish haircut and reed like structure, I felt like the greatest athlete in the world when I entered my elementary years. I could race like a boy, kick a ball like any of them and with the exception of engaging in fistfights, I felt that I could take on any of the opposite sex on any dare.

My childhood nemesis was an obnoxious boy (may he rest in peace, and may he not pull my leg) who would taunt me whenever our paths would cross. I have now forgotten what caused the animosity between us, but what I can recall until now is how much I hated him way back then. The feeling was mutual because I know for a fact that he hated me too. He had his own circle of friends and I had mine, and being classmates we would often come to heated words. I don't know what idiotic reasoning I had back then but I started bringing a breadknife in my school bag after a particularly nasty encounter I had with him. We reached a turning point when we were in grade four (I was ten, he was twelve) and we fought like cats (literally). The teacher went out to join an emergency conference with the principal and our class was left with seatwork. I don't remember what started the fight but I now recall pushing my enemy as hard as I could as he taunted me. He was a much bigger boy and my efforts only drew laughter from our classmates because when he pushed me back, I stumbled and landed on my butt on the floor. My friends urged me to stop and look for our teacher but I saw red when my fanny hit the cold cement. I jumped at his back and pulled his hair till his eyes crossed. He fought like a boy and in seconds I was again flat on my back. Remembering the breadknife I carried on my bag I quickly grabbed it and brandished it on his face. My rage was such that I felt like an animal, intent only on doing damage. Upon seeing my weapon he withdraw and quickly climbed on top of a deskchair. I did the same and to this day I could still feel the adrenalin rush I felt as I chased him around that classroom on top of our deskchairs, breadknife raised like Joan of Arc. The fight ended when he ran out of the room and went home.

Our teacher never found out about it, because when she got back, my classmates had already rearranged the chairs and school things that spilled on the floor. The next day, my nemesis did not speak to me again in any manner until we graduated in elementary. Lesson learned: ANYONE is capable of inflicting great harm when pushed to the edge; underneath, we are all animals operating on instinct when the situation calls for it. It's not a particularly pleasant lesson to learn, and I am not proud of what I did, but this incident drove me to extend my patience as far as I could whenever faced with heated situation. I never wanted to feel such burning rage that consumed my ten-year old self ever again. I got a good look at myself in my inner mirror that day, and I did not like what I saw.

INVINCIBILITY. When I was eleven, I was considered one of the tallest and the skinniest in my class but nobody could say that I backed out from anything. It became a daily habit of mine to sneak out right after lunchtime and go to the seaside at the back of our elementary school. The school was protected by a seawall about six feet tall and every afternoon for an entire year, my friends and I would traipse for an hour on top of that seawall between 12 and 1PM. We would run like mad on top of the seawall, oblivious to the danger of falling in rocks below the water. I remember how happy I was as the wind whipped my hair back and the sea spray stung my eyes whenever I would dash on top of that seawall as fast as my spindly legs would allow. One afternoon, the waves were particularly strong and they crashed against the seawall fiercely. My friends and I continued our daily walk on top of the structure. One of them shouted “Jump” after spotting a really huge incoming wave, and all my friends followed on instinct, except me. I thought I was smart, you see, so I ducked behind the short rise of the seawall, thinking my friends were such ninnies. I thought the seawall was high enough to protect me and I did not want the hassle of jumping down from it and climbing back again.

Whoosh! The big wave spilled over and drenched me from the top of my short hair down to my knee socks. I remember standing on top of that seawall dripping wet as my friends rolled on the sand below laughing their hearts out. When all of our handkerchiefs were wet from wiping my entire self, I knew I had no choice but to sneak back in my mother's classroom and get my jacket.

It was about 30 degrees that day, and I spent the entire afternoon wearing that damn jacket like I did not have a care in the world. I was dying of the heat, but I had to smile and say I'm fine to anybody who asked me if I was feeling sick. Did I learn my lesson that day? Nope, I still went back day after day after day that year and I only stopped when I slipped and fell on my back on the slippery slope of that seawall. If I saw myself I would have probably laughed until tears fell. It was that funny according to my classmates who saw my fall. One minute I was skipping along the slippery seawall incline, the next they saw my feet go straight up, with my skirt flying in the air as I flipped. For a minute I was so winded I could not speak and my friends had to shake me so hard before I regained the facility to do so. For the second time, my jacket was my saviour that year, for who could attend her classes with a wet back filled with sea moss? Lesson finally learned: Seawalls are there for a reason. In life, in both work and play, boundaries are being set for us to be able to control our most stupid inclinations and prevent us from making the biggest mistakes. I don't know if that hard fall had caused an irreparable damage to my spine, but five years ago I started feeling backaches which led to a diagnosis of non-progressive scoliosis. Could be a coincidence, could be not. One thing I know, is that I will never ever think that I am smarter than the majority ever again.

I now admit, I was a horrible child to raise and I can only appreciate the struggle my mother have had in coping up with my foolish adventures through the years. It is testament to her inner strength that I grew up to be independent, flexible and well-adjusted in spite of my many insecurities physically. Had she tried harder to protect me from all these things that I did without her knowledge, perhaps, I would have never gained the courage to try new things and accept whatever challenge life threw my way. I would have grown up as a very cautious girl who would forever have regrets for not taking advantage of the wondrous experience of growing up.

So now, as I look at my sleeping children, I say to myself: I am not sure if I am doing the right thing, but as long as I see their eyes sparkle with happiness when they feel joyful, I'll be like my mother. I'll let them be. I'll be there to wipe their tears and their snots and apply band-aid to their skinned knees, but I will never hold them back from exploring their world as it is today. I guess in the long run, the best gift I can give them is a childhood as rich with memories as mine.

RDC
July 20, 2011
5:15AM

I grew up in a household with one simple rule pertaining to education. Do anything you want, but don't fail a class. Viewed in today's context, this is a definite no-no for parents who want their kids to excel in school. And yet, in our house, we literally grew up under this rule. All of us may stay at home, skip school, not pay attention to any of our classes, ditch homework and have unlimited freedom regarding our studies, except the cardinal rule of not failing a single class. Nope, repeats are definitely out. My parents will not raise the roof if I get a 75 in my high school card, nor will I get privileges if I get an A, for both simply meant the same thing. I passed and I'll be moving on to the next level.

This may seem an abomination in today's culture of pushing kids to study, study, study, and I'll be the first to admit that it's quite a risk, but I now find myself practicing the same thing with my two preschoolers. And I have finally figured out why.

I have never been able to sufficiently explain to any of my friends why my parents seemed so happy whenever I tell them that I don't want to go to school. My father's usual words would be " Okay, stay at home, rest." There was nothing wrong with me and my siblings' health to warrant rest of any kind, but we got the same response everytime one of us wanted to skip school. This practice went all the way up to college for the five of us. And so I grew up not worrying about the homework for the next day, or the test next month. School became a part of my world, but not its entirety. It was a place where I had to be from June to March and that was that. Albeit, my experiences have gotten a bit harder in college, still, my college life was pretty much like my high school life. I report to class when I wanted to and I cut classes when I felt the urge.

Now I have two kids in preschool, and like any young parent, I am feeling the pressure of getting them ahead in academics. When the school informed us that they needed workbooks, then workbooks they got. When we were told to review them for their periodic test, I took a half day leave from my work to do just that, and yet amidst all these seemingly normal things a pressured parent must do, I find myself questioning the method which seems to be the norm these days.

I dont recall an instance when my mother or my father helped me do my numbers, or sat down to help me with my verbal skills and yet I could remember the very first time I learned the proper pronunciation of the word "genuine". I dont recall any instance at all when any of my parent pressured me to study, either for an exam or for an assignment, and yet I had no problems meeting deadlines or submitting volimonous work even at a young age. I have finally understood, that my parents method was in a way reverse psychology. Had I been pushed to do the right thing, being a stubborn-headed child, I would have done the opposite, and so from the start, recognizing this trait in my siblings and I, our parents removed the power of objection from all of us, and let us discover on our own what we needed to do.

And so I spent all my school years as a happy schooler. Inspite of many "restful days" spent in our couch and in moviehouses, I did graduate as scheduled, and modesty aside, got a few medals for my effort. I didn't have the advantage of having a computer at home, a set of encyclopedias and other resource materials while I was studying, and yet I didn't find it a complete hardship to course through primary, secondary and tertiary level. This is because I have not grown to hate school, nor have I felt the need to view it as hardship at all. This comes from the benefit of having two liberal minded parents who took a risk and let me become the person that I was meant to be academically.

School was school. It was a place of learning, sacrifice, hardwork, triumphs and failures.. But school ceased to be school once I stepped inside my home. I would put away my things and did what I loved to do. This is now something that I would like my kids to have. The freedom to appreciate their childhood that is pressure-free. To view school not as an end-all and be-all of their existence at this point in their lives, but as an expansion of their present world. I don't ever want them to wake up one day and refuse to go to school because they are too tired, or that they feel that their school-related problems are the end of their world. If they want to stay home and play, Ill give them the choice to figure out until when they want to play and when they want to go back learning formally.

I know now, that the reason why my parents didn't have qualms in letting me sleep late, or stay home is because they know that when I'm at home I am safe, and that eventually I would seek learning. In my own time, at my own pace. This was the gift my parents gave me yesterday, I can't give anything less for my children today.

Prior to April of this month, I had been hospitalized a total of three times in my entire life. One when I was around 6 years old for a nasty case of flu and the next two when I gave birth to my children. I was too young to remember the experience the first time around, but both my childbirthing experiences were something I don't particularly recall with fondness. (Hallmark people, shut up. There is nothing wonderful in pushing till you turn the color of a cherry tomato and your eye capillaries burst, ok?)

Indeed because of these ambivalent feelings toward hospital stay, nobody was more shocked than I when I decided to check in myself at the local private hospital last April 13. Simply put, I felt like I was at death's door and I had no more recourse but to seek professional care in order to get better. I was losing my homecare battle with pneumonia and allergic rhinitis despite the numerous prescriptions I had from a pulmonologist. I felt so weak that even talking to my babies exhausted me and boy, my coughing and wheezing fits would rival the worst crooner on the planet.

For a normally healthy and energetic person, my bout with pneumonia was one big eye opener. Yes. I am not superwoman. Yes. A simple cough could turn worse. Yes. One could die from the combination of asthma and pneumonia.

I had to stay on sick leave for more than two weeks after I got out of the hospital. The first week immediately after my release was pure hell for I suffered from severe asthma attacks almost daily. I had to be rushed for oxygen and nebulization thrice after my release, with the last one being the worst because I already hyperventilated. My entire face and two hands became so numb that I felt I was suffering from stroke. I urged the nurse to prick my ten fingers (first aid) but she looked at me like I was loonycase so my husband had to do it. He did so with tears on his eyes and I never felt a thing even if blood flowed from my ten digits.

I recovered but the experience left us both shaken.

I'm back working but things are not the same. My perspective has changed, and not for the better. I have become fearful, paranoid even that any time I would suffer from an asthma attack. I feel that I am wasting my time working for a company that doesn't appreciate what I do and what I have sacrificed. I have grown resentful of the fact that my time with my kids are limited to a few hours a day because sleeping doesn't count. I have become more impatient for things to happen. I don't know if this is merely a phase, a side effect of the cocktail of meds I've been taking even but I feel that time is no longer at my side.

At night I look at my sleeping children and ponder about my mortality. I try to shake off this feeling of negativity because it will only cause me pain, but when all is quiet I can't help but reflect how my carelessness has led me to this. And indeed I was careless. I figured I was young and a lot of things can be solved with a good night's sleep. Well, my body gave me a big wake up call. Now, everytime I take my medication I am reminded of how easily this borrowed life can be taken from me and I am humbled. I wouldn't be human and say I have no resentment, but it is a daily battle for pessimism and optimism. I have been given a fair warning, now it will be up to me to take it to heart.

A week ago, an old friend asked me for help regarding campus journalism, prompting me to wrack my brains for the next hour trying to recall whatever stock knowledge I have regarding the subject.

Along with the rules, that simple request brought back so many memories, both pleasant and unpleasant, that I associate with being a student writer. I did not set out to become one, and my foray into campus journalism was simply following orders to avoid being reprimanded by my English teacher. I used to draw a lot way back in high school. Doodles, sketches of anything and anyone that I come across with. My notebooks were filled with them because it was an unconscious habit of mine to draw while listening or engaging in a conversation even. The memory that I have of how a teacher looked is now reliant to those sketches. Im pretty sure not all of them looked that cartoony, but the obvious features were there.

Anyway, to make the long story short, I became the school paper's cartoonist. You could say I was a reclusive cartoonist because for the entire year that I was one, I have never attended a single meeting of the school staff, nor had any session with the rest of the writers.

My assignments were delivered to me by the editor, sometimes by a contributor along with the editorial. It was understood that I knew how to read, and thus I would be able to come up with the appropriate illustration. I guess my interpretations were okay because all of them got published in the issues that came out.

By the time I was in second year, I was still the "silent" cartoonist from the newbies and nobody paid much attention to me. I can never did recall how it came to be that one day, I just found myself being given an assignment wherein I only did not have to draw, but I had to write a few words as well. Following this up was putting captions on pictures. I used to think that perhaps, these are odd jobs that the other staffers were too busy for, that they delegated it to me. Since it didn't interfere with anything, I obliged.

I formally entered campus journalism when I entered my third year. Along with the subject Journalism, I finally learned how things worked in a school paper. It's actually pretty funny to think that I've been part of the school's paper for almost two years and yet I have only set foot once or twice inside its office. So, I wrote what was asked, I submitted my assignments and got the surprise of my life when some of them got published.

But these in no way prepared me for the shock of being called by the campus paper adviser one day to be told that I shall be assuming the editor-in-chief's post. I recall wondering if madam was cracking a joke at the time or was sloshed. Either way, I have never expected it to happen, and looking back I still think that she was pretty hasty in picking me for the position. After all, what experience did I have to make her think that I could handle the responsibility? Apparently, she thought otherwise because the next time the staffers had a meeting I was introduced to the group.

Needless to say, my entry was met with varied reactions. I didn't get punched, nor denounced to be a fraud, but my work was cut out for me. The rest of the days passed by hazily. I found myself staying at that small office more and more everyday, especially when deadlines neared. I got excused from my classes a lot and my teachers didn't seem to mind. We entered into competitions but that national gold never got to be mine, reinforcing my thought that Madam adviser must have confused me with someone else when she appointed me to the position.

In a nutshell, my stint as a student writer made me realize that I loved writing afterall. More so than cartooning for although that habit continued well into my college years, the urge to write stayed with me to adulthood. Looking back, perhaps, it was an unconscious acceptance of maturity that I stopped drawing funny faces of my instructors, and yet I continued to find joy and fulfillment in writing whatever mundane thing came to my head.

These days, I don't write as much, with work and my family taking precedence over it, but from time to time, whenever I punch the keys and see my thoughts take shape, I realize that the writer in me did not perish along with my student days.. It merely took a backseat, and yet always ready to take over the wheel when needed.