In good company

published 11 February 2007

Manila Standard 20th anniversary supplement

**

Call it a job interview with a twist.

One afternoon not too long ago, I was in a coffee shop talking to Standard Today editor-in-chief Jojo Robles. I had earlier informed him of my intention to join the paper as a correspondent and emailed sample essays so he could evaluate my writing and consider my application.

Jojo told me he needed not just a writer but an editor for the opinion section. We discussed the contents of my resume. Eventually, he started describing the role of editor in great detail. I was encouraged. I was almost saying yes before he even asked me.

Official matters over, I ventured to ask whether he knew anybody by the name of Liza Chua. My late mother had been a reporter for as long as I could remember. I also remembered that a significant part of her career was spent with Manila Standard. I hoped my memory did not fail me.

“You’re the daughter of Liza?” Jojo was stupefied. “Then I shouldn’t interview you any further. If you’re her daughter, it’s like I know you already.” Shortly thereafter, I assumed my post at the newsroom’s central desk.

Memory snatches

Unlike most children, I did not enjoy everyday interaction with my mother -- we did not live in the same house. To make up for this, she made sure we were always together during weekends or whenever I was on holiday from school. By being together I do not mean lounging around, watching television or strolling at the park. She always had to go to work, on odd days and odd hours. Spending time with her meant tagging along to wherever she went. This was her brand of quality time, and this was my introduction to journalism.

My mother was a beat reporter, assigned to cover Malacanang. As a girl of nine or ten, I was freely going in and out of the Palace. That was not quite a big deal then; what stood out more were the string of jeepney rides we had to take (think Monumento-Recto-Quiapo-San Miguel) and the long walk we had to take going into the compound – and all in the noontime heat. By the time we got to Kalayaan Hall, I was all but ready to slump in the sofa in front of the giant television set. Meanwhile, my mom talked with her colleagues or wrote her story in one of the cubicles. Saturdays were lazy days at the Palace, so she told me. When I got bored or remembered where I was, I called up my friends from a red telephone inside an honest-to-goodness booth – exactly like Colin Farrell’s. Within a few hours, my mom was done – she usually rushed because we still had one stop: the newsroom.

The Standard office was then at the Elizalde Building along Ayala Avenue in Makati. The elevator was dim and scary. The office furniture was rickety; the desks littered with paper, coffee mugs and occasional cockroaches. The phones rang endlessly. There were no computers then, of course, only manual typewriters that clicked nonstop. After awhile, one’s ears became used to the noise. The usual comment we got from her officemates was that we looked more like sisters than mother-and-daughter. I was used to that; after all, she had me when she was barely 20.

Only after turning in her story – usually in the early evening – did she consider herself done for the day. We usually headed to the Makati Commercial Center where Glorietta and Greenbelt now stand. We feasted, standing up, on noodles and siomai from her favorite kiosk. She gave me P100 to spend any way I wanted in National Book Store. In those days, the amount fetched me two or three paperbacks. Good ones. Then we took a bus that went straight from Makati to Valenzuela, plying what now seems like a primitive Edsa. There were very few airconditioned buses then, and I usually chose a window seat in the ordinary bus. Traffic was light, and by the time we reached our stop, my face was numb with the wind.

The editorial department’s Christmas parties were famous for the movie stars that graced them. In one particular year, the guest was teen idol Jestoni Alarcon. In the bathroom, I remember overhearing a conversation between two women who were talking about Jestoni and having to hold on to their underwear. I was perplexed at the apparent lack of connection.

I am not sure if it was that same party or another gathering, at a Chinese restaurant, where my mother was asked to sing. She brought along a multiplex, but for some reason the tape just stopped in the middle of the number. Loving the spotlight at whatever cost, she shrugged off the hitch and finished singing “Iisa pa lamang,” a capella.

The Standard, today

On my first day in the newsroom, I was introduced to people not as someone who had been part of this or that organization but as, plain and simple, the daughter of a former reporter. World editor Dinna Chan Vasquez exclaimed “Ah, si Liza, yung nagbebenta ng paputok!”

Indeed, Liza was a peddler of wares. I remember helping her carry the fireworks. In those pre-terrorism days, such items were allowed in the Light Rail Transit. I used to complain having to go up and down the terminal stairs carrying a big plastic bag on either hand.

Dinna also remembers Liza coming to the office with a little too much make up on her face. Aside from being inherently vain (even in her hospital bed, in those last days, she was most sore about having to be “panget” and insisted on having her kikay bag at her bedside), she used to play bit roles in films. Those movies are totally lost to me now, except for “Huwag Kang Hahalik sa Diyablo,” where she played the role of the yaya of Isabel Granada and Chuckie Dreyfuss. The movie stands out because here she had a kissing scene – lips-to-lips, mind you – with Gabby Concepcion who played the “diyablo.” Man, that really got my stepfather riled.

Not once did I hear Liza complain about juggling journalism with other sources of income. Aside from me, she had three other little girls to support. I do not think the thought of practicing any other profession even crossed her mind. As long as she could keep on writing, she didn’t mind having to be “creative” every now and then.

Homecoming queen

Liza succumbed to cancer of the colon in October of 1992. I was sixteen then, just done with the National College Entrance Examinations and in the middle of sending out university applications.

The wake showed our family how generous friends could be. We did not have to worry about little things like supplies running out, tents or chairs for the visitors, even the bill for the mortuary services. During the funeral, there were so many vehicles that people on the streets thought the hearse was carrying a celebrity. A group of journalists came in a van and told us there was still a lot of room in that vehicle for family members. I rode the van with my grandmother.

Now I find myself in this newspaper – a second-generation Standard employee in the editorial department. I am beginning to see this company in the same way as Liza may have seen it some eighteen years ago.

I especially like the giant corkboard where we pin our newspaper’s front page alongside the front pages of all other broadsheets and tabloids. I take pride that even though we are not the most widely circulated or the most known paper, we strive for balance and fairness. We do not give in to the temptation to sensationalize just to sell or play too safe to the point of blandness. I admire how we work hard at our craft, agonize over words and phrases, and abide by the rules of style.

Aside from the professional reasons, I really just like it here. This was Liza’s world -- albeit a different edifice and a different set of editors. I never knew her that much: she was only an occasional parent, and I feel that there is a lot of catching up to do. Had she lived, we would have been able to share many things now that I am older – motherhood, making a difference, disdain for sweet-talking politicians who promise you the world but don’t deliver, and sticking it out in this country, for better or for worse.

I’m here, though, and it’s the next best thing.