Descrying the Virtue of Faith, Trying and Self-Worth

By Charmilyn C. Manansala

            Four years ago, I was just one of those pimple-picking, gum-chewing, pea-brained and fad-overwhelmed adolescents. Actually, those appalling features mentioned are just few of the gazillion flaws of teenagers that I also possessed. Apparently, I was one of them − underwent what a certain psychologist termed as “role confusion” and almost drifted churlishly from disappointment to disaster.

            I am the worst late bloomer anyone could ever meet. Well, that is a paltry description. I only started being inflicted with the “reading bug” when I was in junior high. Pathetically, as a novice I only drooled at children’s (or should I say toddler’s?) books, just like a homo africanus about to be citified by Eddie Gil. It was embarrassing to learn that teenagers my age should have mastered Edith Hamilton’s mythology book, watched Dawson’s Creek and Hollywood films, known the essence of Golden Globe and Oscar awards, should have come across the great literary works of Shakespeare, D.H. Lawrence, Nick Joacquin, and Kahlil Gibran , and known the arbitrary forces behind the parting of the Red Sea, which I was unlucky enough not to experience. My cognitive sustenance was very much delayed.

            It was an ordeal because, at age of fifteen, I didn’t even have the foggiest idea how to speak and read in English. I was deprived of the proper mentorship that literature is essential to human survival and that the English language is as necessary as ascorbic acid.

            Needless to say, I overlooked the presence of Nancy drew series in the library because of the puerile credence that only life-forms with a genetic make-up like those of James Joyce, Jessica Zafra, Greg Iles and Bill O’Reilly could discern such kind of literature − that trepidation caused me to freak out at the sight of tomes of that ilk (that’s why I only stick to substandard children’s book during those days). Disdainful but true. And I blame our nation’s poor educational system, poverty, discipline-deficient English teachers, and influx of computer games for that. The realization became more stifling when I dared perusing one of the Hardy Boys mysteries. Me: a desperate imp under the arrogant, idiotic pretense that I am precocious just like Smart Guy finally found a rock to hit my head − reading the book was like seeing an alien appear before me uttering invectives in another esoteric language. I could have ended up with epistaxis.

            For four years, I got obsessed with reading and writing. Whenever my mom would chide about my sedentary hobby because I couldn’t help her with the household chores, I would tell her half-apologetically, half-menacingly that it is for my future. And so as theirs. That squalid comeback would eventually leave me scurrying outside our house to keep myself from suffering the consequences of her fury.

            And with that obsession, I was full of vivacity, ample with admiration to best-selling authors, thirsty of fame. Reading and writing weren’t just my hobbies − they were my vitamin. In the long run, during countless days and nights of poring myopically over my tacky tomes only with the aid of kerosene lamp (we live in a remote gas-lit house that time), it felt like I wasn’t merely a reader anymore but rather a character to the books I read. It has opened worlds I have never seen as well as the world I have unknowingly cloistered inside me. More often than not, all the books that I have come across would make me smile, cry, laugh or simply leave me pondering after being piqued by its resemblance to my life. Every book I read was like an every bit of me. And if my life were a book it would be bearing semblance to Chris Jones’ legacy − a saga of a girl who searched for her shape, discovered her worth, and continued living by trying and trying.

            I always admired Chris Jones’ vigor and faith as he searched for his identity in Matt Johnson’s Drop. Like him, I dreamed big and am still dreaming to become someone of prestige someday.

Back in high school, I spent most of my time perusing tacky books without giving a damn if it were bestsellers or not. I collected cut excerpts from the Lifestyle section of Philippine Star which are mostly columns of Celine Lopez, Dero Pedero, Igan D’Bayan, and chosen entries in My Favorite Book Contest. I have bundles of them in my bedroom and bookshelf. I consider them as the most priceless treasure on Earth. Each time I am losing my fervor in writing and my studies, I would read them over and over and over again and feel invigorated afterwards. I valued them more than Physics and Trigonometry and eventually is the reason why I am hooked to literature sooo badly. Someday, I thought, I will be one of them. Someday people who scorned at me would flip the pages of Philippines Star and see my work with their eyes wide with an unexplained feeling of surprise, fascination and regret. Someday, at the sound of my name my friends and parents would utter compliments with no hint of incredulity or shame. Someday I will be someone who made a difference because of exercising well the benediction I received from God.

            I had my fair share of ups and downs, pushes and pulls, thrusts and parries. My mentors would always fulsomely tell me that I have “it” and that I can go anywhere. I didn’t pay much attention to their plaudits because, just like the peeved Chris Jones, I was vapid, believing “paths were not inclines, they were just plains; at the end of each I would be no higher, just further along.” I thought my potentials, if there were any, would be as bland as lugaw. I reckoned no matter how I try, no matter what I do, there is no hope. That, if my offing would not be dark, would merely be dim. It was only until I met Sir Mon and humbly earned the prodigious encouragement of my school then (Naga College Foundation) during my self-discovery was I able to comprehend well what that “it” really meant.

            Sir Mon Nuiz was like the David Crombie of my life. Amidst blatant incredulity among a lot of people I know with that the talent I strongly presumed I have, he suddenly came out of nowhere. During the most unglamorous moment of my life, he appeared with that enticing wisdom facilely saying I got to believe in what I have and don’t have. Nope, he isn’t a derelict like David. He a venerable man though. A man who has an influential devotion to the Almighty. A man who is very convinced of what he has inspite of his own imperfections and let’s us do the same. Like David Crombie, Sir Mon squeezes out what’s meagerly left in one’s value that that person thought he no longer has. David’s agency is like my school that sheltered me with support and faith as I tried to enrich that last meager thing I had.

            Aside from Sir Mon, I also have an Alex (Chris’ best friend) in my life. I met her when I entered college. Just like Alex, Jha isn’t like those immature social climbers who are your friends when you’re loaded and avoids you as if you have leprosy when you’re broke − she is a true friend. We have a lot of things in common. However, what makes me love her most is her authenticity and difference from me. When it comes to pursuing our dreams, she doesn’t complain, acquiesce nor go where I want to go. Rather she stays neutral, lets me see the essence of my every action and decision, fills me with positive energy to preserve my own values, takes her own road and cheers for me as I take mine. She taught me to become strong and independent. She made me realize that I shouldn’t care about what people say but what my heart says. She lets me value my own stand, and recognize and understand the stand of others without rebutting or affirming with them. Jha is the kind of push I couldn’t live without (aside from my parents’ of course) and would be the first one to know when miracle/magic starts unfolding before me and my savior when I get wounded in an adversity. Just like Alex, she let’s me eat cheese sticks while I’m in the midst of insanity − a suavely supportive gurl.

            I was also smitten real hard by someone I thought was the right person destined for me, much like what Chris Jones perceived of Fiona Otubanjo (a Nigerian dancer he met in London during a pictorial for a cereal ad). Out of so much affection, I have witnessed the beauty of love I have and how I futilely gave it to someone undeserving. Just like Fiona, he sucked out all the good things I possess (except for my chastity of course) and left me with nothing but misery. It had taken me six months to alleviate the pain, rise with it, go to bed with it, and live it all my waking hours until, accepting its naturalness, it had begun to recede.

            Anyway, it would just be a waste of time to curse and hate him. I let go. I moved forward. In the butler’s script in the romantic flick Maid in Manhattan goes “A man is not defined by what he does in this world. What defines him is how well he rises after he falls.” So albeit bleeding, I proceeded and learned from my mistakes (while him, maybe, still a drone like he always was). Besides, I am luckier because I have faith and he doesn’t. However, even though I held this confidence with so much firmness, just like Chris Jones, certain insidious quandaries caused my driving force to dissipate.

            When I was on my third year as a student-nurse, during the second semester, I agreed to stop going to school after the company that provide my educational plan was bankrupt. With that, I went back to vapidity and became forlorn. Consequently, when our publication released its delayed issue, I have eavesdropped that our paper was accused of as propaganda even though apparently it was not. The news stirred unease in our department, our school, and even my family. Certainly, I basked in so much judgment because I was the editor-in-chief that time. Although not guilty, I resigned from my position out of so much disappointment from their recriminations, for basing their conclusions within the limits of their own scant vision. I felt like Chris Jones who lost his job and lost his hopes. I surmise (even the people who know me very well) that it was unreasonable for them to overreact, much as to judge my sentiments. Half of the world abhors me while half of the world just crossed their fingers despite their amazement. I was misunderstood. They hated me of something unknown. Never in my nightmares did I see my works as bane to other’s reputation (To ruin mine is okay. Besides, in this imperfect world, who is going to assume they are impeccable?) But as the rule of survival says, when you are down, there is no other way but up, up, up!

            So after the abominable things that occurred, I relied in the last drop of grit that I got. There was no more Sir Mon, Jha or my Alma Mater to hit my head against the wall to wake me up from morbid hopelessness. There was only me. Only me. So I squeezed myself more and more and more because I know there is still something left of me. That last drop is the most bitter. That last drop was the strongest. That last drop was the most powerful part me. And when I found it, I knew it was not too late.

            I reconstructed my goals, redirected my energy and returned to my sane, alive and kicking self. My dreams now are like the blood running through my veins − they shall stay with me as long as I live which leave me with two options: either achieve them or achieve them. Why? Because dreaming is a measure of how man knows his worth well. You dream because you know you have value, that you can do something. You dream because you know you have meaning, you are boundless; you believe that your wings can bring you to places and changes we have never imagined. That, if you stop dreaming, you stay in the rotten den of stagnancy − a place of mere routines and no purpose, boredom and meaninglessness. That if you don’t dream, you don’t see your worth. No worth plus no purpose plus no meaning equals death. This is not out of self-indulgence. Not out of self-esteem. Simply out of purpose, period. Human with purpose dreams because he is alive. And order to continue living is to keep on trying. Try. Try. Keep on trying. Try with sincerity. Try with good motive. Try with no fear. If you start trying, you start winning.

            If my life were a book, it would certainly be like the adventure of Philly boy Chris Jones. It would be a story of an ordinary girl who dreamed to become extraordinary someday. Her legacy shall teach others to do the same. It would be a story of a girl who proved that if this world is inhabited by people who know their worth, then life’s not full of shit at all.