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An essay I wrote for a graduate school class 2 years ago.

The first thing now to remember when teaching language and literature was how I was taught. I had an alphabet chart once when I was one. Funny how I still remember that part of my toddler years. These are just figments now. Dad’s patience had me recognizing letters for the first time. He even bought me a VHS that was a picture book of some sort. It even had a narrator teaching me how to read the…

INWW was the big break I had, national workshop-wise.

I'd revert you to the April blog about when I received the big news. We were eighteen fellows. A batch from Manila, and the Visayas. I know no one from Mindanao, because they were mostly from Iligan.

Then, the Marawi siege started. Everybody I know who heard of me going to Iligan feared for me. I had prepared already my letter to the Director of the unit that I was leaving for professional and personal purposes (the workshop was in conflict with school commitments; I wanted to go so bad.) I didn't want this chance to slip by. So, I insisted. Even the organizers told us not to worry, because it was safe in Iligan. Here goes nothing.

The journey there was long, and a pain in the ears. I traveled by bus from Davao to Cagayan on May 28, 4:00 AM. Bukidnon was majestic from the bus window. I borrowed a travel pillow from a colleague that time, but I was not very keen on sleeping in transit, even when going to work or elsewhere via commute. My bag was a hand-carry. I know I should have bought a trolley, but it was so expensive. I also brought my green malong with me, and 3 sets of clothes. I had no formal outfit. The trip was a pain in the ears because of Bukidnon's changing altitude. My ears fully popped at Cagayan de Oro, probably before I'd gone to Bulua.

In Cagayan, I had to connect to the INWW staff who asked me what time I'll arrive at Iligan. I said, probably 2 PM onwards. It was an assurance that I'll come with no certainty of exact time. From the Super 5, I hailed a jeep going that should pass IIT.

IIT doesn't look big on the outside. The school was really strict in handling outsiders. I knew the hostel was inside the campus. So I told the security personnel I was expected to be inside the hostel, and will be staying for five days. They were rigorous, but yeah, I told them I'm an INWW fellow. I got in.

I got pretty anxious as I was walking from the gate and towards the Admin building. Do I have a roommate? Is she nice? Are the other people nice?

Turned out, as I checked in, I was the only one in the room. Room 6 was near the caretakers' kitchen and dining area on the ground floor. Outside, there was a clothesline. Good. I wanted to hang my towels in open air. Or my aircon exhaust. I was told that I should have had a roommate, but there were people who backed out, most of them from Luzon. Also, a panelist asked to stay upstairs. I was staying beside Ma'am Erlinda Alburo's room and Ma'am Christine Ortega's room. Oh, boy. Can't. Make. Noise. Is this the silent retreat I was looking for?

I got to meet the rest of the fellows upstairs, where we ate catered dinner. I met 10, so far. A friend said he knows Drei, because she's really from GenSan, but she is working in a firm in Cebu. She's also taking her MA English in USC. Along with her, was Niño and Hannah, both instructors and graduate students of USC. Then I met Loi, the first one from IIT, then Eric, from Silliman, then Kwesi, who just came, Reynel, a public school teacher at Leyte, the first to come, Alican, from nearby (I forget where he came from) and Kim, a graduate student of IIT. Panelists present were Vic Sugbo, and Ma'am Linda. The rest were Ma'am Christine's staff at OPI.

Next day, they introduced us to everyone. The last fellows who caught up was Doc Joti from Manila, the only one from Manila, Sir Delfin a Filipino professor at IIT, and Loi's previous teacher, and Mildred, who was second year BS BIO at IIT. (She's the same age as most senior high learners.) Our workshop was scheduled later this afternoon, in the Chancellor's conference room.

I was seated beside the immediate replacement of Rio Alma (who couldn't make it due to Martial Law), Sir Roland Tolentino, and Doc Joti. Mechanics: read the works beforehand, give preliminary comments, and then the writer can say something after "braising the work in the skillet."

And during the workshop, I was dubbed as either the first or second to comment on the works. I remembered how I was remembered at the 2010 Davao Writers Workshop. But unlike that workshop, I was more detached. The work I submitted was written 2009 or 2010, thus there was no personal attachment.

The story turned out to be a pre-write for a novel. There were a lot of material to dabble on. There were a lot more to add. I thank the panelists for their wisdom, and for not making it hard to accept. Level-headed Erika at it again. I wonder if it would be the same if I submitted poetry instead of this story. I would probably bawl my eyes out. Like some of us did.

Perhaps the reason why it was a downer because I felt I was the only one who didn't feel emotional while my work was being discussed. The rest were feeling disappointed or slightly apprehensive about their work. It was normal for any group to be like that after a stressful day.

We went out for drinks, but since it was Martial Law, Iligan implemented curfews. We would sneak in alcohol and drink outside the hostel, under security officers' watch. We were reminded to CLAYGO because it was protocol not to bring alcohol to school. Since it was a special circumstance, we were allowed to. But there were other nights that we'd go out of the campus, sneak into a bar and drink there. Yes. It's tradition, or practice, in workshops, that you drink alcohol. It was also Mildred's first time drinking alcohol, EVER. I was more of a friend than a teacher. I gunned the Empi shots to her. And she was a jolly one when drunk. Hi, Mildred. You are loved.

We couldn't go to the day-long trip that was planned on the fifth day (Darn it!), which was a trip to Maria Cristina Falls, and Macaraeg-Macapagal Ancestral House, because (Darn it!) of checkpoints, so we roamed around the sweltering heat of Iligan City. I was looking forward to buying sarong there, but there was none. I bought a purple malong with gold accents instead. Again, I wasn't excited that the Pantone Color of 2018 is Ultraviolet.

Paseo de Santiago had a terrific view of the bay that is shared by Iligan, Dipolog and neighboring towns. I also heard stories about Sendong and how Iligan was in ruins after the flood. It's nice to know everything has gone back to normal, but yeah, bummer, Martial law.

I don't think I was that affected by it, apart from the curfews. Sir Roland was even so against it, that we were almost unable to come into the hostel because it's past nine. We were still drinking beer. I refused to. I don't drink beer anymore, unless it's a Mule. We couldn't return the beer case right away, so we had it hid in his suite.

Leaving was the hardest part. We were in a cocoon. Our first impressions were all broken after one session at room 10. They thought I was maarte because Arreneyo. (They totally forgot I was a UP graduate?) But I wasn't as maarte as they thought. Thank you guys, the brave 13 are cherished.

The greatest lesson: to take courage to step into unknown territory. It is there that I would meet my thesis adviser for the first time (she was present in the opening). The workshop became an add-on to my resume. It may only be an entry, one week of braising works into the skillet, but I had fun with them. The experience was kindly given.

We therefore start with a brief description of my life so far as a teacher of Creative Writing.

Let's be straight to the point: Nothing good ever comes easy. It's quite difficult to teach them writing poetry the first time. Perhaps some of the students think that writing for a subject is a pain, but others seem adept at it and had promising poems presented. I seem old when I say that I remembered the first time I wrote poems for a class. It wasn't easy to tread into darkness when writing a poem. Light only shed when the teacher said it was "promising." No, I'm not exactly a people-pleaser; I was quite vain when writing. I learned the hard way through writers' workshops that I had to let go of attachments and focus on revising.

And yes, it's unlike the singing or dancing competitions when judges say, "It's the best performance I've ever seen." No. You can only get "It's good," or "You can do better than this." Or "It's not yet a poem."

I'm hard to please, they say. Some whine over their green-marked draft. Others were happy to have a barely passed mark. I concur; I got a final grade of 2.0 in my CW class. In UP, 2.0 isn't much. Probably in the eighties. Please correct me if I'm wrong. Anyway, the grades were objectively given because, RUBRICS are our Bible. A comment from one of our admins: "There's no rubrics in Creative Writing Classes." As a basic ed requirement, we have to incorporate this as an objective way of grading. Giving the full credit when accomplishing requirements weren't applicable.

Fiction, I guess, were their strongest suit. A lot more people shone in this genre. Someone wrote about the War on Drugs. Others, about misdiagnosis and giving the wrong medications that led to madness. Others went to the popular "we had the right love at the wrong time" or "I like us better when we're wasted" scene. You hypebeasts. Some more people really struggled with finding a story. And yes, the 750-word requirement. That crimped their grand plans (at least for one person). That challenged their creativity.

The drama part I dreaded. I wasn't good in this genre. In fact, I only appreciated reading them, or performing in one. So, I wasn't very concerned if they can stage them someday, although I found ones that are stageable. In order to become a good playwright, you step out of your way and imagine yourself in the shoes of the character you are trying to perform. Apparently, the students preferred looking at their own experiences, so some of their characters have similarities to an actual person. I believe it's much easier.

Second semester was the time that inner demons must come out. They just finished writing personal essays, and it really didn't turn out the same as first semester. They were only given 1 day to accomplish 5-paragraph essays, and it was an option to start earlier but submit on that day. Some of them don't make the cut. But one caught my eye, at least, content-wise and form-wise. It was attempted rape between a senpai towards his kohai (the narrator) and how it scarred kohai for life.

I had a lot of thinking to do. I had to level my expectations as I have almost the same students as last year. Hello, super-duper seniors, twelfth graders. (I hereby call eleventh graders super seniors!) At the twilight of their basic education life, they are trying to make their own books.

That's right. Goals met. I'm a Creative Writing teacher now. But then what? (More of that next update.)

Also up this semester is my proposal. My master's thesis proposal. It looms behind me. I need to finish this year. And given my status as a teacher, my means of schooling myself has been, well, troubled. Money problems, really. All I can do rn is pray, wait, and get it paid as early as November.

This is also the first time that my thesis is research-based. College thesis was memory-based and a creative production. So I had dilemmas with how to begin problematizing, or to whom is this study for (I could just say to pass this degree but it's really lame), where to find secondary sources, et cetera.

I needed a break. It took a week to write the entirety of the first draft, and another 3 days to write the revision. I lost some money. Thanks to a very generous donor, I was able to pay 70% of my balance. I only need some to pass. And for Finance to finally credit my benefit and subtract it from the total bill.

And yes I haven't done my presentation yet. Is it possible to move it to the weekend? The 2-day transport strike/extended holiday put off some of the checking and printing.

I can do all the things I need to be doing.

Shortest post. Listing all possible food and other stuff i’m allergic to.

Chocolate. It’s understandable since it’s from a nut. Peanut. Egg, particularly the yolk. Chicken. All seafood, unless I don’t eat it every day.

Dust. Second-hand clothes. Clothes from any type of thrift shops. A murky swimming pool.

A type of penicillin known as cloxacillin.

Almost a year had passed since last update. Approximately 2 semesters ago, I was astounded how my journey towards teaching went.

A year has passed. I’ve met well-traveled young men and women who couldn’t be separated from cellphones and yet would struggle through Math. I’ve met colleagues who inspire me to work hard everyday. I’ve taken tests that boggled my mind. I’ve answered a lot of questions, but parked a lot others. Even though I considered myself a private believer of a supernatural being, and being jaded of the opioid that is the Church, I reflect and discern a lot through my writing.

I’ve started to do things and discontinued others. I’ve traveled and have boarded off a plane (back and forth).I’ve met friends, and lost others. I’ve tried to think of retorting political analysts but I’d rather stay apolitical and let the present administration do their jobs to the state. I still think of law as interesting, but I’d rather not debate about. I still think of literature as venerable, but I think I lost the patience to read long and compelling ones.

I am now 25 years old. Just like John Keats, I had fears when I cease to be “content.”

They call it ‘writers’ block’. During this block, I helped people hit competencies they would probably use in life but wouldn’t realize for now, being their young, rebellious selves. During it, I passionately lobbied for the arts, individuality, and spirituality. I look back and think of a way to convert that into writing.

An old story brought the once voracious reader and pseudo-poet back to life.

College. I had no idea what to pass as the final project for my fiction class. One midnight: a eureka moment. The draft was done in five days. My professor told me to hand the draft over to a Manila-based editor. (He later told next batches how odd our batch is because of the fact that most stories we have submitted were based on actual experiences of people close to us, and–gasp!–ourselves. I could totally understand his point, but where else do we get our ideas from by then? Making up stories is hard.) I tried to. No news.

I even handed it over to a local weeklie that has already provided light to my poems. Still no news.

Then this announcement came January this year. They had hinted that they would gladly accept any material that had a hint of cultural heritage, but would also accept those who didn’t have it. It had a relatable predicament that included intercultural marriages and possible conversions of faith. I did not immediately heed the call because of schoolwork. There was even extension of deadlines, but I was able to pass this a day after the presupposed date.

I didn’t even edit it. I was bothered by the ending. My professor’s comment was to make the female character’s sickness more definite. I added that to the ending, but only for compliance. After graduating, my father revealed what made the story take a different turn: The separation was due to a series of arguments about the daughter’s future as a person. (She turned out well.)

Yesterday. I was cleaning my workstation inside the faculty workroom. Here comes my friend who took the exams to comply with her application as a teacher. She told me the news. I didn’t want to expect anything. Writing a good piece is a hit or miss, I recall in Creative Writing 101 class.

My story made it.

But a draft is a draft is a draft, and it’s time for this old story to be braised and cooked into a hot skillet, or be praised because of the wildest conflict ever conceived, or the point of view, or the narration. (I’m the last to know what possible strengths the story is.)

I thank everyone in my life who gave me a point in the world last year. My world has been lit.

#INWW2017

Meanwhile, right in the feels, you lovely gif

It’s been a month since I resigned from the Call Center.

I have now been called to become a teacher. Yes, the profession that so far, taught me how to love literature, love writing, love poetry, and write poetry; to spend countless hours revising and counter-checking grammar (often breaking it to be even with rules), and to love becoming a student once again. The profession that taught me the value of life in the eyes of the one in front, the classmate, the environment, the wooden scent, as well as rust. I was thinking of my high school days in the public special national high school I attended. I was thinking of the chairs.

The school that once became my foreground for all my insecurities, awkwardness, and decisions, wise or not, is now my office. My clients are sixteen, seventeen year-olds that were caught in between the ruling of the nation’s leaders to align our education to that of Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia, etc.

Grade 11. June is approaching. Dad thought before that I am to teach Grade 9 students. Of course he has heard of Grade 7, but not Grade 11 and 12.

It’s a new terrain. In call center speak, this is a new venture of the business.

Even as I have been commissioned a la newly ordained priest to teach and form, the thought of me teaching how to appreciate literature is still giving me the jitters. In theatre, this is stage fright. I probably wouldn’t go so well as to conform with the guide that I have. My teaching strategies weren’t enough. All I could recall was how I was taught this in college, and how it went on at Graduate School.

It should not be a problem. We are all new in this journey; and the doubts are normal; I may even cry if I couldn’t make it meaningful, or understandable. I only know: all along, I was training myself how to teach as I clean my room, or discipline myself to write again. I was teaching myself that I have changed my career path, from a seemingly comfortable but nerve-wracking life of the computer, swivel chair, the Avaya phone, and the Plantronics headset, to a rowdy, unpredictable frosh filled with hormones and hugot.

It’s a new terrain. In call center speak, this is a new venture of the business. Glad to be here. Tomorrow is the official day 1 on the job.