The purpose of our lives is to be happy.
The Dalai Lama
THE BIRTHDAY BLOG
It still feels surreal, but today, June 11, marks my second decade on Earth, shaped by a world both majestic and unforgiving, pushing me to teeter between stupidity, mediocrity and superiority. For all the achievements and failures that I encountered, I am satisfied because I have attained happiness, burdened and exhausted but gratified and thrilled in the end.
For the past two decades, it is my outspokenness that has defined me – vocal on issues, talkative on gossips and jolly in encountering anyone. Sometimes, people distrust me whether I can determine the demarcation line between seriousness and joviality.
That talkativeness could not be found when I was three years old when saying basic words like “mama” and “papa” became laborious work. I was enrolled at a training center, sort of, to develop my speaking skills. When I learned how to, I couldn’t stop.
I was awarded the “Most Outspoken” award in Grade 4 and “Most Inquisitive” in Grade 5. I thought, at the time, I was just blabbering utter nonsense because I was just 10 and 11 years old. It turned out that when it comes to a talking spree, I am the victor.
These distinctions were signs of the career path I would embark in the next few years: journalism. When I was in Kinder, I wanted to be a doctor, maybe influenced by my dad’s yearning to have a dentist in the family (for reasons I don’t know why). Six years later, at our graduation picture, I dressed as a businessman, posing at the canteen as if I were calculating the business’s sales for the day. When my Grade 10 class adviser tapped me to write a class prophecy, I ended the story with me as a film director, influenced by my taste for the Oscars. And as the college entrance examinations season kicked off, journalism was my first choice.
Now that two years of journalism classes are over, I fear that the subsequent decades of my life will be filled with terror, especially since the incoming administration has established cold relations with the fourth estate and inspired a social media mob to delegitimize legacy media. I’ve seen broadcasters and writers being slapped left and right simply for telling the truth. But realizing that my would-be job is a public trust, criticisms, regardless if they are valid or not, are simply par for the course.
Writing has become a passion that, amid the workloads, I can still find time to post for The Edj View. Since its inception in 2019, I have managed to churn out more than 200 articles, ranging from topical to bullshit. It feels gratifying to burst out feelings in a partly academic, partly striking manner that some may find dizzying to read.
“The Edj View has been my singular platform to castigate whoever I want to, praise whoever needs to be and shower the readers with my personal or academic grievances. While I could have saved them time and stress in another pastime that limits all ideas to a measly 240 characters known as ‘tweeting,’ who cares? Blogging is so much fun in part because there is no character limit to scream in such a formal, dramatic and well-argued manner,” I wrote for the blog’s second anniversary.
It feels happy to write, even though sometimes, it’s already dangerous given the precariousness of the times. To communicate is to establish trust, gain confidence and offer feedback.
This is something I failed to strengthen with my three romantic relationships, all crushed into pieces because of the fear that consumed me, stripping me of any chance to experience the magic of love.
The happiness that defined the first few weeks was overshadowed by a confluence of problems. I remember how the third relationship turned cataclysmic because of the distrust permeating between the two of us and our entire batch, already tethered in a web of lies and deceit. For my yearning to keep all sides satisfied, I ended up losing her and nearly breaking up with the friends I hold dear. There were simply no convictions, to begin with.
Laughter and elation all turned into a wave of frustration. She won’t longer trust me because I was immature and childish. They won’t longer trust me because of my betrayal. The road to rebuilding their faith in me was odd and steep.
But friendships last. Sincere apologies are given. Every time I think of that episode in life, I am reminded of the importance of having to grow my balls because, frankly, it didn’t – at least when the tricky adolescent part came in. I cannot survive journalism or the real world without drawing a line between what is right and wrong, notwithstanding the personal connections or the feelings attached to it or the reactions that could be generated.
It has been a 20-year colorful life, even though my mind was innocent in the first half of it. God supplied me with people who formed my every being, from the best to the worst, so that I can face the following decades with sheer vigor and determination. And even though my faith, admittedly, floundered in the past two years, He has used His power and might to bring the best in me.
My talkativeness and seismic energy thrusted me into circles of friends I’m most grateful for. In Grade 3, I was crying because nobody would talk to me (but maybe I was just too dramatic at the time). In college, I feared at first that not a single soul there would understand me. Miguel de Benavides might resurrect from the dead to give me a crispy slap.
Friends taught me that beyond the gossip and the one-liners – often offensive but funny nonetheless – lie the fact that their support incontrovertibly enlightens and encourages me to firm up when the ground gets shaky, to stand for what is right when the temptations start tickling and to humble myself when gloating becomes irresistible.
In my Inquirer piece in May 2020, I saluted my classmates for their “daily convulsions, hysterics and over-the-top jokes,” holding hands together in times of joy and darkness.
“Through thick and thin, the HUMSS and STEM strands personified determination and cooperation. Laborious projects like research and feasibility studies showed how we could lift each other up despite our weaknesses and failures. That we wouldn’t let each other fall to the ground because we consider our class a whole. That we used the concept of graduation to remind ourselves and others that we weren’t going to end this year without all of us climbing the stage to receive our diplomas. From there, we were able to overcome the most arduous challenges of our high school life,” I wrote.
Truly, academics peeled me – and every known student in the universe – to the core, fleshing out every single brain cell I have. Much that I have learned a fraction of the body of knowledge, exhaustion would sometimes get the better half of me.
It didn’t help that online classes became the new norm of education, prompting me to stop taking notes and reviewing intricately – habits that I’ve been doing for much of my student life.
In the past two years, I vented how the digital setup altered the way we learn, think, and socialize. Zoom hands a lifeline to the educational sector but saps my energy like a giant straw in a small bottle.
“The online academic year has been quite a ride, but I don’t know if I ever want to take that again,” I wrote back in June, one year after surviving the new normal of academics. “Enough is enough.”
But if I’m itching to go back to the campus, my family has been rejoicing because they saved transportation and other finances.
Through thick and thin, they have been there to support me.
When I sang at SM, despite my harrowing voice, they were there – flabbergasted and humiliated. When I forced my relatives to give me the microphone to host our family reunion, they were there – confused and shocked. When I wanted to go around Manila, hang with friends and express myself, they were there – half uncomfortable and half proud. When I stumbled and fucked up, they were there – galled and irked at first but contemplating in the end. That’s why I learned honesty, respect and integrity the hard way.
It has been a 20-year colorful life, even though my mind was innocent in the first half of it. God supplied me with people who formed my every being, from the best to the worst, so that I can face the following decades with sheer vigor and determination. And even though my faith, admittedly, floundered in the past two years, He has used His power and might to bring the best in me.
I hope that He will give me eight decades more to attain much happiness through the grueling process of life because I want to spend as much time on Earth, whether or not I have my own family to foster – Spoiler alert: I hope I’ll have one.
Climate change will surely make our lives miserable, destroying tourist spots and battering the country with calamities, Mother Nature’s revenge against irresponsible humans. “With the threats of climate change and political tribalism, I may not be able to see them with my own eyes in the coming years. I don’t want to end up looking at landmarks on a postcard or on Google,” I wrote for the Inquirer’s Young Blood column in January 2020.
I am always reminded of the famous proverb, “Sa hinaba-haba ng prusisyon, sa simbahan din ang tuloy,” every time I feel dispirited about my way of life. The road may be as long as NLEX, SLEX and SCTEX combined, but I will get there – and we will get there – to wherever destiny brings me. (Though that proverb is actually about courting, who cares, right?)
And so it is my fervent wish to learn further about life’s intricacies to the people who will matter the most, be slapped by the truths that need to be confronted and experience the happiness that I deserve. It takes time to actualize all of these. Eight decades would be enough, I presume. It’s a conservative estimate because of how time flies like an eagle. If only I could outmatch Noah’s age.
But in the event that I can’t pass through that eight-decade wish, I can only assure that whatever I’ll be doing will be for the glory of my family, of my friends, of my alma maters, of my country and of myself. The physical body will turn to dust, but the memories linger. And I hope I’ve been part of a chunk of memories for a lot of people who may have loved or despised me. Diamonds, as the song goes, are forever.
Happy birthday to me.
Featured image photographed by Bro. Jerome Moralina.
The Edj View 