Mdm Tabada

In one corner of my closet is a paper bag filled with marked papers. They go back to my days as a BS Mass Communication student at the University of the Philippines in Cebu and boast of marks in black or red written by my favorite professor, Madame Mayette Tabada.

"Very good opening"

"Striking images"

"Too cluttered"

"Could be rephrased to remove excess words"

(Of a feature story I did on Kate Torralba for a Journalism 103 homework)

"Unique voice, can sustain curiosity of reader"

(Of a self-portrait in words for a Journalism 103 homework)

When I decided to rid myself of clutter, 3/4s of paperworks and memorabilia from college needed to go. But for some cheesy reason, I couldn't simply watch marked homeworks from Mdm Tabada's Journalism classes moved to the garbage. It was not so much about the content on those papers as it was about the red marks on them. They were not always positive as the flattering marks I copied above would suggest; I also had my share of the practicality and toughness in Mdm's critique that she's known for.

Though every new assignment and deadline was dreadful, I always relished the minute I finished and submitted them for her scrutiny. Mdm Tabada is well-respected in the local media. While she taught at UP Cebu, she also worked as Managing Editor for Sun-Star Cebu. If there was some ego-busting to be done, at least it did not come from a dilettante.

Just before I cleared myself for graduation, I left a greeting card on her desk. I was not a good student. I never participated in class. Many times, I passed homeworks too late (appropriately marked with an "OT" and a serious deduction); a few times, I slacked and did not pass at all. I talked in class; I allowed my mind to wander. There were days when I said to myself, "I'm not going to take this class seriously. I don't intend to be a journalist anyway."

But this delinquency did not stand out. I turned out to be a minor case. More than half of the class felt the same way as I and acted it out in more abusive ways than I did. Our batch will always be remembered for how it pushed Mdm Tabada, the pillar of UP Cebu's Journalism courses, over the edge where her cool, calm, and collected hang on to. One morning, in her 7:30 am Investigative Journalism class, when less than 10 students showed up on time, she cried. And I regret that I am not among the select few -- those who now carve their names in Cebu's Newspaper Industry-- who made those tears worth the release.

For whatever effect it may have on her, I intended the card to portray my apology for the half-hearted commitment I treated her class with that did not balance with the selflessness she gave it. On the same page, I thanked her as profusely as my available English and card space allowed, for what she, her class made me become.

By the end of all my Journalism classes under Mdm Tabada, I'd already have braved the streets of downtown Cebu without a partner. I'd already have established connection with the local offices of a few government departments. I'd already have learned to forego hesitance in approaching strangers who may be vital to a story. I'd already have known how to rely on my own instincts (unfortunately, I quickly lost it; I now seek for advice for even the most mundane decisions I'm forced to make). After all, for most of his career, a Journalist will have to go for it alone.

I remember a particular class she held just before the semestral break. She came in with a huge bag loaded with books. These were the instructions she gave us before we all flocked to the bag: "Here are some books you can read during your break. Return them if you feel like doing so; or you can keep them."

Among the lucky ones, I was able to grab hold of my first choice: Isak Dinesen's "Out of Africa". My mother made us watch the movie with her in our grade school years and I loved it so much that I remember a few scenes to this day. I've made attempts to read the book to the end, but Dinesen's writing is too tedious for me. Maybe in time; as I do not plan to get rid of this copy. There's a note that Mdm Tabada had written on the 4th page:

MTQuintana

September 9, 1989

Book Nook

- maybe searches do end

Whatever circumstances that surrounded her life then and elicited the rather short but romantic note is a piece of Mdm Tabada I will never know. Who I do know is the teacher who at one point, inspired me to a Journalist's life for a reason that does not have to do with passion (which I believe is the only explanation for staying a Journalist). I simply want to know what her red marking pen has to say.