Looking back and holding on
“You should write this,” my good friend suggested.
His comment made me think how long I have been in the business of journal writing yet it seems that I have forgotten to pen down good memories as well. I am firm in the belief that writing is cathartic and therapeutic, so, unaware, I happen to only write when I am in low spirits.
This is not to say that I do not “cherish” moments like this, because I do, although perhaps I just employ a different means of expressing my delight. Usually, I would call my good friends, even if it means waking them up at three in the morning, to share my stories and laugh incessantly as if I were high on drugs.
Of course, I cannot faithfully expect all my friends to always be available for me. Something has to be changed.
So, in an attempt to preserve the most heartwarming, inspiring, and groundbreaking moments in my life, I shall write. I begin with posting the first six euphoric memories that come to my mind.
I was applying then for internship at Probe Productions (now Unlimited Productions, Inc.) and Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism (PCIJ). Upon arriving at their offices, my first thought was “Ito na ‘yun?”, an expression of both amusement and dismay. There was amusement because I have always been interested in working in both media organizations, and finally, I was literally a few steps away. The dismay is rooted in the notion that I would see high-end commercial buildings housing both organizations, but all I saw were a house in Matipid and a room in Criselda II.
Amid the initial disappointment, it was utmost joy that penetrated me. I guess I was dumbfounded for a few moments then; right before me were the editing rooms and equipments of Probe, and archives of government documents and investigative reports in PCIJ.
I remember sighing before I walked in, perhaps to contain my excitement. And I recall telling myself, as if to confirm what I had long known, “I am going to be a journalist.”
Most people are named after saints, or at least have names similar to that of saints. Corollary to this, most people have patron saints and feast days, only that celebrating feast days is not necessarily a tradition even to the devout Filipino Catholics. I learned about this in the university. Our university president was named after St. Therese of the Child Jesus, so we would celebrate President’s Day on October 1, St. Therese’s feast day. If, in any case, no saint bears the same name of a person, his patron saint could be the one whose feast day is celebrated on the date of his birth, Ate Agnes told me.
Well, I am not lucky enough to be named after a saint. There is no St. Cherry, or St. Mae. Not even Blessed Cherry or Venerable Mae. I did not make a big fuss out of it until I learned that no saint, too — none that I know of at least — is being commemorated on the date of my birth. I was bitter that I could not celebrate a feast day because I have no patron saint.
My name is derived from the old English word charity, which also means love. There are write-ups about a St. Charity, daughter of St. Wisdom and sister of Sts. Faith and Hope, although her existence is merely mythological. Aside from her, no saint bears a name close to mine. It was Father Mike, a Salesian priest-friend of mine, who introduced me to St. Charitina, whom he also dubs “Little Charity”.
The first celebration of my feast day in 19 years happened one day in October last year. Father Mike brought me to the Don Bosco Retreat House in Batulao, Batangas, now one of my favorite “heaven on earth” places, for a personal recollection.
^ I have forgotten why Father Mike was laughing, but I am sure this was an accidental (or maybe not really) stolen shot.I have the tendency to hide my feelings and keep pains to myself. Eventually, some time last year, I was on the verge of explosion that I needed an avenue to purgate my ill feelings before they devour my sanity. There was none.
... until one Sunday when I “met” a friend who listened intently as I vented out all that was slowly killing me inside, trying his hardest to understand what I was going through, making himself available to the almost lifeless who was me. He made me believe in myself and in the goodness of life again, and I could never thank him enough.
He is, as he claims to be, my “candle on the water”.
The best moments in life come unexpectedly. This, I learned during the first day of my bumhood.
I had a lovely dinner with a good friend in Alabang where we conversed about almost anything. I stayed overnight at his place. His home was located somewhere the night sky is prominently accentuated with the clear horizons that I stayed up almost the whole night gazing and marveling at the wonders of the dark — Scorpion! Sagittarius! Saturn! Also that night, he surprised me with a bag that I had always wanted, albeit not openly and desperately, as his graduation gift. We had ice cream as we discussed politics.
^ He let me in the trunk of his car — for half a minute. Huzzah!
(Yes, I am weird that way.)It had long been planned, irrevocably: My good friend Franz and I were to watch Despicable Me 2 together. And we did.
The other agenda of the day, however, did not push through due to some circumstances. We were unable to either watch a set in Virgin Labfest or attend the screening of the 1950s film Genghis Khan, the first Filipino movie to be internationally acclaimed.
Still, there was much to that experience that I enjoyed heartily.
It has to be said that I had always been the laughing stock of my best friends because, they say, I do not feel “kilig”. To use Pam’s words, I’m “hindi normal na babae.”
I do not exactly know why or how I have seemed to outgrow “kilig”, but I admit that my best friends’ jests are true. Yes, I am no ordinary woman... but that is not to say I do not feel “kilig”. Maybe I just cannot identify an experience when I dealt with the seemingly elusive feeling. (Defensive. Haha.)
Not even the day I spent with Franz made me all gaga with “kilig”, much to the dismay of my best friends, but it did fill my heart with warmth and comfort — the way coffee does on a cold rainy night, or a good laugh when life seems to turn us down.
I shall leave other details unposted for my privacy and Franz’s, but I have to declare, lest it be downplayed by my memory through the years, that the best part of the day was when we sat in a park that night, and he handed Keri Smith’s Wreck This Journal, which he saw me picking and peeking in a book store, a Despicable Me minion toy for my niece Apro, and a cat figurine that was from his mother.
That Franz’s mother, with whom I have not been introduced yet, remembered me was in itself sufficient to make the day special.
I had wronged my good friend MFL, and I was not even aware. We had not spoken for ten days, which was fine with me because I thought he was busy, that when I learned about how I unknowingly hurt him, my inner critic resonated with self-hatred and guilt.
I kept apologizing over the phone but his voice remained cold and distant. This happened thrice in less than 24 hours before his flight to halfway across the globe. I would not want a good friend, especially him, to leave with resentment. But I respect his need for time to heal and, in his words, to “process” himself.
It was difficult for me to accept the possibility that our friendship may be a thing of the past upon his return. But I understood how much I hurt him, although it was not my intention, and he might never learn to forgive me. Going aboard the plane, much to my delight, he called: “Che, mag-iingat ka habang wala ako, ha. ‘Yung ingat na sobrang pag-iingat.” The conversation lasted for only a minute and nine seconds, but it has since been the most meaningful one minute and nine seconds of my life. •
