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I would like to let you know that I miss all of my UPCYM friends. Take care always!

I WOULD NOT QUIT

One day I decided to quit...

I quit my job, my relationship, my spirituality...

I wanted to quit my life.

I went to the woods to have one last talk with God.

"God", I said. "Can you give me one good reason not to quit?"

His answer surprised me...

"Look around", He said. "Do you see the fern and the bamboo?"

"Yes", I replied."

When I planted the fern and the bamboo seeds, I took very good care of them.

I gave them light. I gave them water.

The fern quickly grew from the earth.Its brilliant green covered the floor.

Yet nothing came from the bamboo seed.

But I did not quit on the bamboo.

In the second year the Fern grew more vibrant and plentiful.

And again, nothingcame from the bamboo seed.

But I did not quit on the bamboo. He said.

"In the third year, there was still nothing from the bamboo seed.

But I would not quit.

In the fourth year, again, there was nothing from the bamboo seed.

"I wouldnot quit." He said.

"Then in the fifth year a tiny sprout emerged from the earth.

Compared to the fern it was seemingly small and insignificant...

But just 6 months later the bamboo rose to over 100 feet tall.

It had spent the five years growing roots.

Those roots made it strong and gave it what it needed to survive.

"I would not give any of my creations a challenge it could not handle."He said to me.

"Did you know, my child, that all this time you have beenstruggling, you have actually been growing roots"

"I would not quit on the bamboo. I will never quit on you."

"Don't compare yourself to others." He said.

"The bamboo had a differentpurpose than the fern.

Yet, they both make the forest beautiful."

"Your time will come", God said to me.

"You will rise high!"

"How high should I rise?" I asked.

"How high will the bamboo rise?" He asked in return.

"As high as it can?" I questioned.

"Yes." He said, "Give me glory by rising as high as you can."

I left the forest and bring back this story.

Father

I had no father and didn’t know I had one until I was ten.

It was two weeks after my appendectomy when a family acquaintance came with an old man in tow. The teary-eyed gray-haired, medium built man was introduced as my Papa. I was introduced as his “xerox-copy”. He didn’t hug me as if it was the end of the world like it happens in movies. He choked back a tear and said that he expects all his children to kiss him on the cheek. I got up from the hospital bed and kissed the air near his cheek.

Papa was said to have died of heart attack, lung cancer, and when my aunties, uncles and our neighbors were in a good mood, they would tell me that he died because he drowned himself by drinking too much soup. When people, especially my classmates, asked me where my Papa was I would readily lie that he was in the States, when I really had no idea where he was, much less what he looked like or what his name was.

Mama met Papa when she was a student assistant of the Silliman University Alumni Office where Papa was the Alumni Director. He also served as the legal officer of Sulpicio Lines. They believed themselves to be in love, but that posed as one big problem: Samuel Aseniero Malayang was already married and had five children.

Desire or love proved to be much stronger than commitment to one’s marriage, so their affair continued until he got Mama pregnant. They tried to hide it from the public and from his family by traveling to Mindanao—him pretending that it was part of the demands of his position and her merely disappearing.

When she was almost nine months pregnant, they were forced to go back to Dumaguete where her obstetrician was. On September 28, 1982, she gave birth to an 11-pound baby on the seashore of Bacong, Negros Oriental, a thirty-minute ride from Dumaguete City. There on the tranquil beach, Papa, Mama and I sought refuge. But our family couldn’t hide for long. Mama’s family learned where she was, and they set out to get her and her baby. It was time for her to go back to her family, and it was time for Papa to return to his wife and their five children.

Mama never talked about him nor showed me his photo. It seemed that both of them moved on with their lives—Papa with his family and Mama busying herself with her work in Manila. They seemed to be ignoring their little child who needed them, who needed to know the truth. Out of her goodwill, Mama left me in the care of my lolo, my aunt and a yaya. Papa was non-existent.

Then he came.

After a little wooing, Mama decided to marry Papa. I was in Grade 5 then, and it proved to be the happiest year of all. It was my first time to experience the thrill of having both parents around and doing most of the things together—eating and praying, going out for picnics, buying groceries and celebrating birthdays. Papa saw to fetching me everyday from school then we would always linger on the Boulevard, eating siopao from Chin Long and just talking about what my half-siblings are like, my favorite author, the books I’ve read. There was a time he showed me the pictures of his five children—four boys and one girl—and told me how much he wishes for us to meet one day and accept each other as brothers and sisters. He told me about the family of each and the things he did in the US—where he also served as a church worker. Papa talked about his childhood days, being the eldest of twelve and being so poor that he supported himself throughout college and how he worked as a helper of a missionary couple working as professors in Silliman University. Even though he was pressed for time because he had to cook, clean the house, feed their pigs, and was short financially because he was also supporting his younger siblings, Papa finished law school. He recounted the time he was reviewing the bar exam and lived on balut, and how sick he was during the exams. He seemed very pleased with all the things he went through and I, too, was both pleased and in awe. It was at that time that my Papa became much more than a father to me, he became my idol.

The year had to end and so did our precious moments together on the Boulevard. Both Papa and Mama decided to transfer to Dipolog City, Zamboanga del Norte—a four-hour boat-ride from Dumaguete—because he missed farming and was bent on managing the farm he had purchased. I was, again, left alone in Dumagute City with my lolo, aunt and her children so I could finish elementary in Holy Cross. Grade six passed by uneventfully, except for one event that made Papa so proud of me—the declamation contest. Even with a storm brewing, they made it a point to go to Dumaguete City and watch me compete. I was so happy I made it to the number one spot. The bad news was, that event marked the beginning of pressures to win and achieve more just to make them smile.

I graduated from elementary and it was time for me to leave the place I was most familiar with and the people whom I shared most of my life with. I had to leave Dumaguete City and transfer to Dipolog where they were. They enrolled me in Andres Bonifacio College and, for four years, my life revolved around academics and extra-curricular activities both in and out of school. People expected me to excel because I happen to be the daughter of Samuel Aseniero Malayang. I was third honors, a placer in the Mathematics Olympiad, I won another declamation contest in school, I also became columnist of Diwang Malaya, our school’s Filipino newspaper and a reporter of The Blue Quill, the English organ among others during freshman year alone. Being a transferee was a difficult thing because I had to make friends, but, it proved to be more difficult to keep my friends and have a barkada not because they didn’t like me nor I them, but Papa prohibited me from spending time to bond with them.

Papa imposed a 5 p.m. curfew rule, no TV, no Saturday gimmicks, no sitting beside guys, no boyfriends, no telebabad. To make it worst, because I happen to be a girl and girls would eventually become housewives and mothers, he made it a point not get a helper so I would learn how to cook, wash clothes, clean the house, and iron clothes. I was Cinderella except that no fairytale took place. I just realized that all these necessary training, as he called them, were, I thought at that time, the end of my life-long dream of having a loving dad whose attention is on me and who can’t help but shower me with so much love. As tears flow every time my father points out a petty mistake and succeeded in making me feel like an ignoramous, I would keep on regretting the moment he came back into my life.

My pains did not end when freshman year ended. As years progressed, pain upon pain was heaped on me. Yes, there were happy moments, but these were never with Papa.

I was a sophomore when I became a pocketbook addict. I pretended to be studying when in fact I was just reading Ludlum, Sheldon, Grisham and the like. The result was I didn’t make it to first place as was my standing during the first two periods. I ended up falling flat fifth place. Mama and Papa decided that I needed a good spanking—this will, as both of them said, teach me to prioritize my studies. As a result, it became difficult for me to walk straight and sit without supporting myself with my arms. I tried so hard to conceal what they did to me, but it became so evident that something terrible happened. Unluckily, Sunday came and I was not in good condition yet. I was wearing an ankle-length short-sleeved dress, as dictated by Papa, and was ordered to sit in the third row from the front where we usually sat. The worship service was about to start and people were coming in. I said my hellos and limped towards the front, all the while supporting myself with my hand, palm down on the wall. My walk seemed to last forever, and by the time they all stood signfying the start of the worship service, I was still limping slowly towards the chair. As soon as I arrived on the third row, the liturgist requested that we be seated. They seated themselves rather quickly, but I, on the other hand, took such a long time because I had to check my seating position as to the means of sitting without inflicting more pain on my bruised bottom.

This was not the most memorable event during that year, however. One Saturday that same school year, Papa ordered me to cook fried chicken for lunch because Mama was not feeling well. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to cook, and, at that time, I had no idea how to cook fried chicken except for the preparation part—washing, rolling chicken parts on flavored breading, putting oil on the pan and the dropping of coated chicken part. But I did not know how to tell a cooked from an uncooked chicken. The result? The chicken was burnt on the outside, while the inside was oozing with blood. To say that dad was mad is an understatement; he was so furious that he yelled at me saying I was a no-good, irresponsible person. He accomplished in making me feel that I was so much lower than a pest. Mama was so mad at Papa that they fought. Mama kept on yelling how unfair Papa was and how inconsiderate of me, and that perhaps Papa never treated me as his. I kept on hearing mama telling him akong anak… (my child). Objects were flying everywhere, and bodies were slammed on walls and floor. After a while, Papa called me and asked me to choose who I wanted to be with. In my mind, though I chose to run to my room without saying anything, I would definitely choose my mother.

My father proved to be an irresistible man. After lovely flowers were given and scoops of ice cream were served, mom and dad were all lovey-dovey again. And I was both happy and miserable at the same time.

Then came my junior year in high school. As if to slap Papa, I landed second without much effort and with much pocket-book reading. I started to watch television especially Tagalog movies, which he hated, when they were resting or sleeping and when they go out with friends from church. I became an expert in stealing moments with our television set, making sure that they won’t find out. This meant that I had to sit by the window instead of sitting on my favorite chair near the TV to better hear the sound of our approaching vehicle. I brought friends from school and from our church in our house and made sure that we hung-out inside my room, a thing he was against believing rooms to be private and for family members only.

I accomplished much for Papa even when I couldn’t help but hate him. I became managing editor and won in both division and regional press conferences, I won the extemporaneous contest against college students, awarded emcee of the year in our city, storyteller of the year, debater of the year and won in five quiz bees. All these accomplishments meant nothing to him, and he made sure I get the message loud and clear by disregarding medal after medal that I proudly handed to him. It was always the same treatment: blank stare, nod and, a lot of times, “so?”. I longed for him to say “good job” and, so, I tried to do more and accomplish more.

I became the editor-in-chief, winning editorial and feature writing competitions in press conferences, I won the battle of the brains, was awarded impromptu speaker and extemporaneous speaker of the year again, storyteller of the year again, debater of the year again, won in six quiz bees among others.

Still no pat on the back until the Rotary International’s annual competition. This is a competition where forty honor students belonging to different schools compete for various positions in the local govenrment. Forty of us were questioned and were expected to elaborate and defend our answers by ten rotararians—lawyers, doctors, judges, politicians, businessmen and bankers—about issues in the society, politics, laws and entertainment. The youth city mayor—the highest seat all vied for—would serve the city for one year. He or she is expected to help in forming ordinances with students who won as councilors, would be paraded in schools and business establishments and, of course, would be speaking to the public at the start of his or her career.

The pat on the back I was waiting for came. Papa was so proud that I won the top seat in the local government that he forgot about his independent study policy—he actually made my speech. And he trained me, a most unfortunate thing. He would make me go through the three-page speech over and over again, not letting me rest until he was satisfied with my delivery. The big day came and Papa was there, beaming as I delivered my speech like a real pro. He even bought two copies of each local newspaper that had me as the banner story and sent them to our relatives in Dumaguete City.

Then it was time for me to go to college and be separated from them again. Papa was to be heeded, thus I ended up studying in Silliman University. Studying in this institution brought more pressures because it’s a school where the Malayangs excelled—my half-siblings graduated there, taught there and, not only that, my uncles and aunties graduated there with much accomplishments. It has always been exaggerated that the Malayangs brought honor and recognition to the school not only in the Philippines but also abroad because my uncle, Papa’s youngest sibling who graduated from the Silliman University Divinity School, became the first Filipino to become the first Secretary-General of United Church of Christ USA, and he was awarded more than twice as Outstanding Sillimanian of the Year. Papa’s eldest became the undersecretary of the Department of Energy and Natural Resources and Dean of the College of Environmental Science in UP Los Baños. He became member of the Board of Trustees of the University and was awarded both Ford and Rockefeller Foundation grants for MS and Ph.D. Most of my aunties and uncles occupied high positions in the University. It is undeniable that the Malayangs are popular in Silliman University, and it was because of this that I struggled to make a name for myself; not wanting to merely share and bask in the limelight the older Malayangs have created.

I took the exam and got 99 percent, thus scholarship programs came pouring in. I was accepted in the most prestigious scholarship grant in the school, one which does not require you to pay a single peso for your schooling, I became a campus ambassador, a writer in the Weekly Sillimanian, played the part of lead roles in two plays, became a member of the debate congress, rotary actions club, the student government ,etcetera. On top of these, I maintained an excellent academic standing. Papa’s smile was immeasurable.

In the middle of the year, I went to Dipolog City to celebrate his birthday. It was the only time we really talked. Though it lasted for less than an hour, it was the only time Papa made me feel important. The talk was not so much to be bragged about, but it meant so much to me because that was the only time he listened as I talked about my dreams and the things I would love to reach. Not once did he belittle my dreams of becoming both an international human rights lawyer and a Supreme Court justice. In fact, Papa, the man who disregarded my accomplishments for so long, the man who made me feel so insignificant, encouraged me to be what I dreamed I would be. His smile was an assurance that he believed in me.

The world was suddenly bright until, when I almost thought it could last forever, it ended.

Doctors found out that he had prostate cancer. He was in and out of the hospital and all Mama ever did was take care of him. Both of them had to share the burden of transferring from one hospital to another, from one city to another—Dumaguete, Cebu and back again—looking for specialists that would help papa. Before the second semester of my freshman year ended, I endured sleepless nights as I took care of Papa when he was admitted in the Silliman University Medical Center. It was painful to see him with a catheter and a urine bag taped on his leg.

It was at this time that the annual honors’ day was held. His doctor was adamant on not letting him attend the honors’ day for fear of aggaravating his condition, but Papa proved to be a worthy opponent. In the end, bound in his automatic wheelchair, Papa came to see me received an honors’ certificate and the Freshman of the Year award. Papa was all smiles as he bragged about my abilities to the university officials who attend to him during the recognition day. But this did not matter anymore. I was smiling not because he was obviously very proud of me, but because he was there, cheering me on.

Little did I know that this would be the last time I would see him smile.

December was supposed to be the time of laughter, of much happiness and excitement for the future, but when I arrived at the Philippine General Hospital, none of these came to being. Even the sight of the Imelda Marcos Wing where Papa was placed did not do anything to improve my state. I feared opening the door of him room, not wanting to see him. When I finally entered, all I could do was stare at the man who was my father but looked nothing like him. Gone was the smile, the chubby body, the authoritative presence; he was replaced by a man with a shock of white hair, blank, unfeeling eyes, sagging skin. I refused to believe that this mass of bones covered by a thin layer of pale skin was the papa who showed so much authority in his stature that one could not help but fear him. I felt my heart sank. I ran to the bathroom and let the sorrow and anguish flow. All the while I hear the television set blaring with news and the loud side comments of Papa. I had to smile; at least, even in his commenting and strong opinions, I recognize the man I came to love and fear.

That night, while Mama was sleeping, I went to sit beside him. I studied him in the semi-lit room, as if memorizing every detail of his face. I could not contain it anymore, I hugged him, wetting his neck and his face with my tears. I couldn’t see the reaction of his face, but as he caressed my back I knew Papa was also crushed.

“I love you” was all I could say to him; nothing else could be made to come out of my mouth however much I tried. It was as if by showering him with love I might be able to redeem the time I spent on hating him whose only fault was not knowing how to express his love to his children.

**************************

I would trade every good thing that happened to me to let my mom live for another thirty or forty years.

Personal

The key word is personal.

In the genre called Creative Non-Fiction, subjectivity is highly encouraged. It is, in fact, the key element that sets it apart from mere journalism. And, I believe, Nick Joaquin totally believed in this when he wrote Journalism Versus Literature. Don't get me wrong here. When I say "personal", it doesn't imply pure ranting and raving, such things are trash and not worth any of your time. It is "personal" in the sense that apart from researching using the qualitative method, you insert your own experiances of the issue at hand. Meaning, you just don't tell the readers about the issue, but you also show the readers what you were thinking, what you were feeling, what you were smelling, what you were hearing during the time you experienced the thing you wanted to write about.

Among, the sub-genres of Creative Non-fiction, social commentary is what I love the most. Not only because it involves both intensive and extensive researches, but you get to weigh your opinions of the matter and, of course, you get to find out about the truth behind it and not just get a glimse of a half truth. Most importantly, in social commentary, you don't talk much about you. Not like the other sub-genre, the memoir.

Last Tuesday, my professor pointedly ask me why I avoid talking about myself. He said that I am too much enamored by social commentary and he thinks that it is a problem, a hindrance, in fact, in developing the craft of writing a creative non-fiction. Thus, I lamely attempted to tell them - it happened in the class, by the way - about my life starting from the time I didn't know I had a father to the death of my father.

My professor applauded. He loved my story and told the class that my story is the "winner". He even asked me to let him publish it. I was in a dilemma, and still am. I know I have a very interesting past, a horrid, a painful one, in fact. The truth is, I am still not reconciled with the pains of the past that whenever I write about it I couldn't stop the tears.

Only a few know about the things kept hidden in my closet. You see, I am not safeguarding myself from the opinions of the public rather I am protecting my mother and the memory of my Dad.

Creative Non-fiction, my favorite genre. I guess I'm caught up with it now. Can I not stick with social commentary? For now, nope. In the future, yes. Who knows? I might excel in the sub-genre I'm dreading right now - the memoir.

For the sake of completion, I will write about a part and parcel of my past. When I could finally manage getting pass the tears, I promise to have it publish whether here or elsewhere, whether under my real name or under a pseudonym.

So, Godspeed to me.