Girl with the typewriter

published 11 November 2024
https://manilastandard.net/opinion/314521933/the-girl-with-the-typewriter.html

At age 17, at the home I shared with my grandmother and uncle, I grinned in front of an instamatic camera upon finishing an assignment for my English class. In front of me was a manual Olympia typewriter – a hand-me-down from my late mother. It was where I learned to type.

I was a university freshman and I felt the world was mine to conquer. I knew exactly what life I wanted to pursue – I would either be a journalist or a literary writer, and then see if I could get into law school — and it appeared as though nothing could stop me. As long as I did not stray from that typewriter in front of me, I will always be in my element, exactly where I was meant to be.

Weeks passed before the roll was consumed and the picture was “developed.” That girl, young and clueless, was driven by hope, optimism, and a nagging need to make a difference, somehow. Soon enough, however, she encountered plot twists and her path became both winding and murky.

She was never the same.

I came across that picture recently and it is now pinned on the wall of my home office. I also took a photo of that photo and shared it on Facebook. And as the older counterpart from 2024, wisened by three decades of lead time and spoilers in the story of my life, I found that I wanted to say a few things to that innocent-looking — “innocent!” (in a high pitch) – version of myself.

Accept that the rewards of writing are never economic. If you want lucrative returns, a fat paycheck, a fancy house and cars, or frequent vacations, this is not the path for you. Writers remain underpaid in our country unless they are able to publish a bestseller. But the psychic rewards are immense, and if you can live within your means, keep your wants in check, and embrace opportunities that do not compromise your principles, you can live decently and respectably.

Craving external validation is natural, but do not be its slave. Denying that we want some recognition would be hypocritical. We want some reassurance that we are at least good at what we do. But both recognition or the lack of it may do ugly things even to someone who started with good intentions. Let us guard against vanity if we are recognized, and let us guard against bitterness if we are ignored or criticized. Ultimately, we do what we do because we find inherent sense and meaning in it.

Live. Do not wish that you had more time to write, or that you had a better workstation or more sophisticated computer, or were not saddled with different concerns. It is precisely from the fullness and the chaos of our days that we are able to find inspiration on what to write about. It is up to us to squeeze in a few minutes to sit and gather our thoughts, and, with grace, even find peace in doing so.

Celebrate the mundane. Stay attuned to the little things that make every day different from the one before it and the one after. Heighten your observation of people on the street or in the bus, take walks and take note of what you see, delight in a good meal, laugh with friends or family, and treasure a book or a good night’s sleep.

Keep at it. Writing will not feel magical all the time. There will be instances when you will doubt whether this is truly your life’s work and wonder whether you might be better off elsewhere. Sometimes you will face a blank page and a blank wall. Be patient; this will pass. Nothing else will feel more right even when it is difficult.

Revel in the detours. We can only plan so much; there will be things that will be out of your control. Be agile enough to pivot and open yourself to possibilities. What results from the surprise could be something better, sweeter than what you plan or imagine.

It’s all right to not be the same. More than growing up, we grow.

Now I wonder what the septuagenarian me would say to the me who just punctuated this piece, and who just took a selfie with the laptop I’m using to write this. I’m eager to find out — but I’ll relish the intervening years while I wait, as well.

adellechua@gmail.com

Week of the Big Day

published 30 November 2024

People have grand, great, generic dreams. Examples would be to attend a good school, have meaningful work, raise a happy family, or contribute to nation building.

And then we have dreams that are so specific that no substitute will do. Pass the entrance test of XXX University, for instance, become an executive in YYY Corporation, occupy the post ZZZ in a specific town or government office.

For those who have committed their lives to writing, there could be some concrete forms of validation. See one’s byline in AAA publication. Publish BBB number of books (under one’s name, not just ghostwrite them). Get the much-coveted PPP award.

The latter happened to me this year, and the awarding ceremony – yes, I got to doll up, hobnob with the greats, get up on stage and pose for pictures – was held last Friday.

And because this award has been my dream since childhood, I imagined that the awarding night would be some sort of turning point in my life. I marked it on my calendar early on. I counted: how many more “sleeps” before the red-letter day?

As it drew near, however, I found that nothing much was changing.

On Monday, as was customary, I rose at dawn to do some writing for a consultancy project. And then I took out the trash which had mounted because I had missed the previous night’s collection schedule. I cooked Baguio beans for lunch but the beans were still  tough. I set up a doctor’s appointment for a wrist injury. I did some newspaper work, and then I stepped out to pick up the Filipiniana dress I had dry cleaned for the coming occasion.

I was up early again Tuesday, hitching with a colleague from Quezon City to Makati for a journalism event. On the way home I asked to be dropped at the university church for some quiet time. I had planned to work at a coffee shop but realized I had forgotten my chargers. I did the usual desk work, and then as a reward got a massage at the spa next door. I kept sneezing during the massage it was embarrassing.

I did not hold class Wednesday morning, because my students were on writing break for a paper. Instead I interviewed, via Zoom, a group of court employees – sheriffs, stenographers, clerks of court, one of which had herself become a judge — in Batangas. They reminisced about their time with their previous boss, with whom I had a book project. My older son treated to lunch at a restaurant, and the shrimp sinigang and tres leches sponge cake were so good I was not able to go to my doctor’s appointment. Later I took an Ikot jeep with my younger son, who dropped me off at my building, where I had an evening class, before going back to his dorm at the other end of the metro. Cute reversal of roles, I thought.

Thursday, on my way to interview another source for the same book project, I got lost. I had to take a pedicab to get to the right building, and it was a wonder I was not late. My daughters, who had been nagging me to get my brows, lashes, and nails done for the following day, told me I should head to the nearby mall after my meeting. I did, too, but just to buy notebooks and a bowl of noodle soup. And then I went home at once, because a deadline was looming. And besides, my right wrist was acting up again.

And then it was Friday.

My girls both filed vacation leaves at their respective offices so they could “attend to Mom.” That morning they convinced me to wear, instead, my go-to black dress, bespoke, done by a seamstress in Kamuning. They were shocked to hear I still needed to meet my class. When I got back from school, they were already prepping. They rolled their eyes when I said I still needed to open my computer.

We had drawn lots weeks before because I was only allowed one guest to the ceremony. The second daughter won, and she was already glammed up by the time I started getting into the dress. The others would drop us off at the venue, take photos, and then wait for us somewhere until we could join them and celebrate.

Everything after that was a blur. I only remember waking up with a hangover.

So that was the Big Day, I thought. It did not quite stand out as much as I imagined it would. I still worked a lot, ran into mishaps, did my chores, risked missing deadlines, got plagued by my body’s wear and tear, and fussed about traffic. I got caught up in the mundane. I still doubted myself and believed I just got lucky.

My expectation that everything would get a glow-up because of the prize was not quite true. I was instead seized with the need to work harder, write more, and do better. Ultimately, the greatest reward is yet another blank page.

adellechua@gmail.com

Cleaning to death

published 02 November 2024

https://manilastandard.net/opinion/314518111/cleaning-to-death.html

Holidays afford us time to rest and be with our loved ones, but also time to reckon with our relationship with things. Things, as in objects.

Why do we declutter? Different reasons, I suppose, and to different degrees.

Some people are more inclined to organize their things and get rid of the old than others. Maybe it figures high up on their priorities. Maybe they have more time. Maybe they have that clean-as-you-go personality so that nothing ever really piles up. Maybe they cannot stand a lack of or absence of order.

I can’t speak for everyone but for me, decluttering is a moving target. It’s always something I want to do, but always something I fail to do completely or in the way I’d really like to. Life takes over, and of course every day you add to the clutter: what you buy, and what you fail to put in its place at once.

Personal space is a luxury for many, especially in the Philippines. It is a concept that is foreign to some. People who get to have their own space may take it for granted but they are fortunate.

Having a neat and organized personal space is essential to calmness and inner peace, and could be crucial to productivity. Imagine saving precious time looking for things you need just because you already know their exact location, or at least the general area where they are likely to be found. To some extent, creativity benefits from it too, because the mind is clear, blank, and quiet, leaving room for ideas to come, develop, and flourish.

Decluttering is a good exercise when one intends to begin practicing minimalism, and focus on the more important things in life. Would it not be nice to want less, and need less, instead of basing our self-worth and happiness on our possessions? Take note I said “begin practicing.” It’s difficult, and the culture we find ourselves in could put undue emphasis on acquiring objects instead of experiences. We’re human – we see nice things, we have a bit of means to get it, and so we do.

Decluttering is good for aesthetics. A nice room or home does not have to be full of expensive furniture. But a tidy one will always be deemed a “sight for sore eyes.”

Lately, however, I have been thinking about yet another way to regard tidying up. What if one morning on your way to work you got hit by a truck? Or you slipped on a banana peel? Or choked on fishbone? Or suffered a fatal stroke? Perhaps when you get to this age you start coming to terms with the fact that you are not invincible, and that life would go on for the rest of the world even after you are gone.

Would my family, for instance, after dealing with their grief, be horrified by what they would find in my room – the amount of disposable items I refused to part with, mementoes big and small I should have disposed of long ago, diaries and drafts of work that reveal a self different from the me they know, too many shirts of the same color, too many pouches, too many containers that in their number have contained nothing? What if they were looking for important documents – insurance policies, for instance, or certificates – and could not find them in my left-behind clutter?

This is by no means an original idea. The Swedish even have a name for it – “dostadning.” Swedish death cleaning has become more popular in recent years, even finding its way to books and popular culture. The idea is to constantly tidy up one’s space as a way of being considerate to the people you will leave behind, such that cleaning up would not be a burden to them.

It sounds morbid but it is realistic, practical – as well as kind and considerate. In the end, we will all pass anyway, and we will all leave behind something, some more than others. “Death” cleaning is just another term for something that is good to adapt and practice in small doses but constantly, every day, for the rest of lives, whether they turn out to be long or abbreviated.

adellechua@gmail.com

Shifting the shame

published 26 October 2024

https://manilastandard.net/opinion/314515234/shifting-the-shame.html

A grandmother in France has insisted that her rape trial be made public.

“I am a woman who is totally destroyed, and I don’t know how I’m going to rebuild myself,” said Gisele Pelicot, 71. “I’m not sure my life will be long enough to recover from this.”

The accused: her ex-husband and 50 other men, with ages ranging between 26 and 74. Among them: a nurse, a journalist, a prison officer, a local councillor, a soldier, lorry drivers and farm workers.

The husband Dominique, for numerous times, crushed sleeping and anti-anxiety medication into Gisele’s food and drink. With his wife sedated, he invited men to rape her at their home in Mazan, Provence. It went on from 2011 to 2020. He used a chat group called “Without Her Knowledge.”

A report by The Guardian narrates that Gisele simply believed her husband was being thoughtful, attentive, and solicitous. He prepared her food. He offered her drinks. He brought her ice cream – raspberry, her favorite flavor. He accompanied her to visits to the doctor because she was having memory lapses, hair loss, weight loss, and some gynecological issues. He was someone she trusted entirely.

In court, she told him: “So many times, I said to myself – how lucky am I to have you at my side!”

The husband has admitted to the rape but the other accused say they thought they were playing a sex game where the woman feigned unconsciousness. Thus, they denied that what they did was rape. One even said, if he would rape anyone, it would be someone more attractive — not a 57-year-old grandmother (Gisele’s age when he raped her).

Dominique’s crime was exposed by accident, after Dominique was arrested for taking photographs up women’s skirts at a supermarket. It was only when the police seized his computer that they found a drive containing a folder named “Abuses.” In it were thousands of photos and videos of him and other men raping his unconscious wife.

“My world fell apart,” was Gisele’s reaction to the discovery.

The trials will last until December 20.

***

Survivors of sexual abuse are vulnerable during the commission of the crime, and during the process that follows the reporting of the crime. Some are doubted and blamed – they must have asked for it or are simply crying foul to save face or temper their guilt. They must have given indications that they wanted it, too. What about their skimpy clothing? Their relationship patterns or sexual past? Have they even established their credibility?

During investigations or trials, survivors are forced to relive their experience and many of them do so with a feeling of shame. That is, if the cases even get reported at all. Many rape incidents in the Philippines are not filed, because the perpetrator is a family member or a superior that holds ascendancy or economic power, or because the process is cumbersome, and could eat into the time they should be earning a living.

In other societies, rape survivors are the ones who are punished for bringing shame into the family. Some are beaten or killed in the name of honor. Some are forced to marry their abuser as if to extinguish the crime.

Tragically, some are not able to bear the burden of shame, that they take their own lives or spiral into a shell of their former selves for the rest of their lives.

In pushing for her trial to be made public, Giselle Pelicot advances the thinking that the shame should be on the rapist, not the survivor. She reminds us that abusers often do not look the part: many of them do not look menacing or speak in a threatening manner. “The profile of a rapist is not someone met in a car park late at night. A rapist can also be in the family, among our friends.”

The world has often looked to France as a pioneer in fashion and culture. The French are seen as worldly and sophisticated. But if the rest of the world should take the cue from France for any reason at all, it should be this – it is the perpetrators who must bear the shame of their deed. It is they who knew it was wrong but who did it anyway for their gratification or validation or pleasure. It was they who presented themselves as honorable or earnest or caring, or came up with some pretext to get closer. It is they who exerted power over those whom they had abused.

While there have been pockets of success in other parts of the world – think the #MeToo movement, or acknowledgment of abuse committed by priests and other religious leaders — this shift in mindset, and the justice that comes along with it, will take a long time to happen. The system that allows this is yet another monster altogether. At the very least, let us be part of its beginning now.

adellechua@gmail.com

Chasing Happy Yet Again

published September 14, 2024

THE first real problem with being asked to write a regular newspaper column is choosing which photo to use and picking out a name that would appear on one’s box.

I had that dilemma in 2006 when I first started writing for this newspaper. I was thankful it was a step away from getting only older, established, predominantly male columnists.

I settled fast on a photo but agonized over the name. I had two other choices, “No Shrinking Violet” and “In Plain English.” I thought the former would convey that I would not shy away from any topic – my soft-spoken introversion was often mistaken for shyness, and the latter would express my disdain for complex words and too-long, show-offy sentences.

The then young-ish, domestic me eventually chose “Chasing Happy” because I thought it captured where I was at that point and where I was hoping to be. Never mind that some people said it sounded grammatically infirm. It wasn’t. Happy was a noun.

And so I chased Happy for the next 10 years, writing pieces on various topics – government, governance, women, families, communities.

It was a mixed bag, really. And then I felt the need for change, first writing something entitled “Retiring the chase,” explaining why the pursuit of Happy seemed so pointless, and then started calling my column “Long Story Short.”

It was intended to be a tribute to clarity and brevity, but also an expression of my desire to be like LSS, a worm in one’s ear. I’m now using LSS somewhere else and, upon my return to the Standard’s opinion pages, which I edited and wrote for for 16 years, guess what? I’m chasing Happy yet again.

I’ve done some growing up since ‘06.

Today I return with a renewed commitment to continue chasing Happy, now fully aware that, catching it, possessing it, living with it every day is never going to happen. Nor it is the point.

It is Happy’s nature to be elusive. It could, from time to time, allow itself to be frozen. It comes at a moment when all you can do is close your eyes and savor the sensation of things being as they should be.

It could be the sight of the tops of trees, the setting sun, gentle rain that seems to wash away your cares and gives you better perspective, the knowledge that you’ve done a tiny thing that made a difference to someone, the company of persons who matter to you, the sight of a page you have filled with words, even a lazy morning when you can lounge around and not have to do anything.

And all too soon, it is gone.

It is Happy’s nature to be fleeting. When you sense it, prepare yourself for the moment it goes. Expecting it to stay is a recipe for heartbreak. Something is always going to shift.

I won’t be writing anything grave or heavy on this weekend space. I will write about things that are familiar to me, that are important to me, and perhaps these will find resonance among others even if we are complete strangers. I will try to make sense of the things that confound me. It may at first blush appear self-indulgent, but the ultimate hope is that even a few readers could identify and relate with whatever it is I am saying.

This is my Happy, and my hope is that it bears a semblance to yours. It’s a fleeting moment, but both the flash of experience and the lifelong pursuit are worth living the rest of our days.

And so hello again.

FOMO at the fair

published 21 September 2024

https://manilastandard.net/?p=314500089

You go to a book fair like a child at the entrance to a carnival or a toy store. To say you are excited is an understatement. Your cannot wait to present your ticket, go through the door, and step into a magical kingdom.

Your eyes practically pop at the sight of different booths. It is a heaven of sorts — if you dare imagine this is what heaven could be, a happy place. You do not know which way to go first. You want to be everywhere all at once.

The sight of throngs of people, which would normally turn you off, is oddly reassuring. You feel an affinity with those strangers and you wonder whether they feel the same way that you do. You are happy that contrary to expectations in this digital age, many are finding, or returning to, the printed page. There is hope!

You see children’s books and you are happy that today’s young readers have more at their disposal. An image flashes: You reading to your imaginary future grandchildren. That won’t be for a while, but it’s a nice thought, anyway.

At the booths of the publishing houses, the sight of the titles lures you. Pick me, one seems to say. But the other one looks good, too. Oh, wait – this is one you’ve been wanting to read for a while. Why not both or all? You remind yourself you have to stick to a budget.

You see the authors signing books and obliging your request for a selfie. These are names you just read about, and read, these greats, and they are there in the flesh, those people who have taken you places in your mind or given you some precious insight.

On the way home, you carry your precious haul on your lap. You can’t wait to open the package, smell the books, cover them as though you were putting a blanket on a sleeping beloved, organize them on your shelves, and start reading.

I went to three of these last year.

***

This year, for some personal reason, I missed the fair.

I was despondent for days, so I came up with numerous reasons to snap out of the sad spell.

Reasons like, if I had gone, I would have felt tired and dizzy, and then my weekend would have slipped.

If I had gone, I would not have been able to stick to the budget I had set for myself. There were other bills to pay and certainly, shopping for books is a luxury – a want rather than a need.

Seeing all those published writers would have also reminded me that I still want to do more with my life and need to work harder. Pressure!

More books, when there are plenty that I have started but not yet finished, and when there are purchases from previous shopping trips that I have not even actually begun reading yet? A friend once chided me for not even having gone past the foreword of a book I had said I’d long wanted to possess. Certainly, visiting the fair would have added to all that unfinished business.

Also, I’m running out of shelf space. The books would sit idly, and accumulate dust. I get really bad allergies from dust. And did I not say I wanted to be a minimalist?

Finally, I don’t really have time to catch up on my reading. Maybe when I’m older. Maybe when I retire. Maybe when there is less pressure to earn a living.

***

Who am I kidding? It’s all sour grapes. These arguments are ridiculous, if not downright wrong.

Going to the fair and the sight of so many people would have tired me out — but I could always rest. I could even have dozed off on the ride home. It’s a weekend acivity I should not have missed for the world.

I would have been able to stick to my budget, and even if I failed, I could always take on extra writing, editing, or translating gigs to fill the gap. It’s basic economics: when resources are limited, scrimp on other things to give way to what is more important.

I would have basked in the presence of other writers and would have been inspired to write just a bit more, just a bit more often, and a lot better. I would have strengthened my resolve to set aside regular reading and writing time, no matter the material demands of life.

What’s your wellspring?

published 28 September 2024

https://manilastandard.net/?p=314503351

I was recently in a Zoom conversation where we were asked to talk about the sources of our inspiration. The assumption is, we don’t just work and read and write all the time. There’s got to be a life outside all of that, something that gives us interesting things to say and a perspective through which we view everything else.

My hands went cold as my mind went blank.

My companions described a rich life outside what we were doing: music, sports, personal collections, volunteer work. I do different kinds of writing, I ventured. I am able to talk to different kinds of people for various writing or editing projects.

Yes, but that’s still work. Anything else?

I racked my brain to say something that was cool and interesting but also true. Is my life so pathetic that I can’t think of anything else I do outside of work? Finally I said, I walk. And play pingpong.

That night before going to sleep I thought about my answer and cringed. Seriously, walking? Everybody walks. It’s just putting one foot in front of the other. Even toddlers walk!

What I wanted to say was that a few months ago I began the habit of walking around the UP academic oval several times a week, in the early morning or late afternoon, as a way of staying healthy. I soon realized that it provided benefits beyond the physical. I was able to behold sunrises or sunsets. These happen every day but we are often too busy to stop and experience them.

But the bigger benefit to walking is the clarity it gives the walker. One thinks about issues, challenges, conflicts, and even aspirations. Reflects on a particular life episode. Recalls something read or watched or heard. Plans and outlines the next steps toward a goal. Come up with ideas on things to write about in whatever form. I return from a walk, body tired but mind bursting.

It’s almost a bonus to rack up several thousand steps.

Admittedly these rainy days I am no longer as consistent as I was during the summer. And then of course classes started and work demands piled up and all the other excuses weren’t too far behind. It’s always a target to make time for it.

I also answered that I played a sport. Sure, I learned to play table tennis in college for PE. Fast forward to many years later, during the pandemic, and the good fortune of our building administration putting up a pingpong table in one of the conference rooms for its residents. I took turns playing with my sons who were then in their late teens/ mid-20s. It was a nice way to pass the days when we were all meant to stay within the confines of the home.

But mobility restrictions have since eased, the boys are busy, such that we only seldom play. The table is folded away at the side of the conference room, which is now being actually used again for real meetings. So, no — not too much pingpong, either.

It’s typical of me to come up with witty or interesting things to utter long after the moment for saying them has passed.

Indeed much of what I write about springs from the work I do – teaching, talking to and observing people, reading the news, pondering what it means to different individuals. I am lucky that this is something I actually like. I guess this is why outside of this I am usually too exhausted to do much else. For recreation, I’m usually happy watching things, conversing with equally low-maintenance people, putting my personal space in order, introspecting, replenishing.

It took a while to stop wondering whether having a hyperactive inner world limited any possibilities for me. But we are who we are, right, and didn’t Rilke write, “And even if you were in some prison, the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses, would you not then still have your childhood, that precious, kingly possession, that treasure-house of memories?”

Oh I’d love to do some volunteer work much later, perhaps when the pressure to earn eases. For today, — and I’m not in any sort of prison – there remains an inexhaustible amount of things to make sense of and write about. The bigger challenge is actually finding the time to sit down and unpack away.

adellechua@gmail.com

Imperfect teachers

published 05 October 2024, MS

https://manilastandard.net/opinion/314506350/imperfect-teachers.html

It’s Teachers’ Day and there’s bound to be an abundance of tributes to teachers all around. Today they are heroes and can do no wrong. We remember our teachers all the way back from pre-school and remark on how they helped shape us all these years, how they taught us not only the required lessons but the real lessons in life. Their presence loomed large — and it was not just because they stood in the middle of the room while the rest of us sat.

Some of them become their students’ lifelong mentors and friends.

n fact for today I thought about writing about my teachers who are still in some way present in my life, either because their influence has stayed with me or I still catch up with them once in a while. But then I remembered, what about all the others whose impact was not as noticed or profound but who put in the work, nonetheless? Are they any less worthy of our tributes?

It was not until I became a full-time teacher myself that I realized that before teachers are educators, they are people first. Like everyone else, they are not entirely good – and not entirely bad, either. They are complex characters who experience a range of emotions from the altruistic to the unsavory. They have good days and bad ones.

And so today I thought I would pay tribute to the teachers who:

Wake up weighed down, feeling like they don’t want to get out of bed and go to class;

Are shy or introverted and who have to muster all of their energy to talk in front of many people the whole day, every day;

Who are neither witty nor funny and have trouble holding their students’ attention;

Struggle with managing their temper especially when they have unruly students who don’t do as they must;

Keep forgetting things;

Are limited by physical or mental issues from doing more and doing better;

Doubt their abilities and wonder whether they will ever measure up to what is expected of them;

Have to deal with so many things on the job that it is humanly impossible to be as prepared for class as they would like to be;

Feel frustrated that they could not get students worked up over something that would be helpful to them;

Sometimes feel judgmental toward their students;

Sometimes feel judgmental toward their colleagues;

Sometimes feel judgmental toward their superiors;

Try very hard – and often fail — to make ends meet given their meager salary and the high cost of living;

Balance the demands of the job with the demands of family;

Are exhausted from being caregiver to family members who need special attention;

Are sometimes absent because of personal reasons beyond their control;

Spend significant time and energy going to and from school because of great distance or inaccessibility;

Sometimes feel like they were meant for something else but feel feel compelled to stay;

Face threats to their security;

Want to quit or at least pause but are afraid of being judged;

Want to complain about what is wrong with the system;

Feel defeated by the flawed system;

Feel trapped in their personal circumstances; or

Wonder whether they are even making sense or making a bit of a difference.

Teachers are great because despite all these, they show up and do what they have to do. On any given day, this in itself is commendable. But to do so day after day, consistently over many years – now that’s a real feat.

Happy Teachers’ Day!

adellechua@gmail.com