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.

Sir Leonilo Estimo

My friend Vera informed me a few minutes ago that our teacher back in college, Sir Leonilo Estimo, recently died of kidney disease. I last saw Sir Estimo when I visited UP one afternoon two years ago. He was walking to the gate on the clearly defined sidewalk of the Cebu campus at a very slow pace, with his back slightly hunched. He was as how I remembered him from my second year (forced) elective class: polo-and-slacks, dark-skinned, thin (and seemingly getting thinner), a hint of gel in his wavy hair (i vaguely remember that stray curl on his forehead ala Elvis), and the black attache case. I did not go up to him and shared pleasantry because I doubted he remembered me at all.

I sucked in his Cebuano class. Though he was pleasant, he did not let me get off easily for my very bad reading in Cebuano and slow understanding of the figures of Cebuano language. In all honesty, I loathed his class. I am always racked with worry every recitation time, fearing he'd remember that I'm the same student who has stumbled over her Cebuano in a straight sentence countless times and has still not understood the intricacies of Cebuano grammar. It also did not help that his class was scheduled at 6 pm in the evening, or about the same time my brain is dead after the long day.

Despite these frustrations, I still gave him the respect that he (earned and) demanded. Sir Estimo's name is always dropped when it comes to the foremost Cebuano writers. He is a Don Carlos Palanca Awardee for Literature (Short Story in Cebuano). For most of my classmates (those with an easy grasp of the language), he was an effective teacher. But he never gave up on the rest. He never gave up on me. In return, I never intentionally missed his class. I never engaged in chatters with my chatterbox co-Mass Commers. I never burrowed myself under my cloth bag to nap (unlike other classmates). And I always tried, though unsuccessful, to ace his exams.

He was the first among the many Cebuanos I met who showed absolute regard for the Cebuano language. In his own right, he was an unparalleled advocate for it.

Rest in peace, Sir.

Maria Vita Tan Rodriguez
02-42101

Maria Carlyn Villarosa Rodriguez

A person is often construed by his outward manners. An established social case or an old cliché, this works both goodly or badly against Maria Carlyn Rodriguez, depending on what people think of the feisty that is her.

Carlyn's (or Cai) presence involuntarily demands attention. Aside from that she relies on a big-boned, 5’8” frame and carries around a disarmingly pretty face, her voice registers more than the number of decibels that’s expected from women, she walks around with a gift for chatter, and more often than not, wears bubbly with a winning smile like both are her best accessories.

But these are only the Cainess hanging from her sleeve. Up close and personal, she is bright, sensitive, thoughtful, and insightful beyond her 20 years. As a friend, she has many descriptions: one who would drive anywhere to comfort you in your emotional downtime, one who sometimes forgets your birthday but otherwise, would have prepared a candle on a cupcake for you, one who doesn’t mind hours of dispensing sound advises when you need, one who listens all too willingly. If you stay long enough to take this side out of her, congratulations, you’ve just made one good friend.

Hope you also stay long enough to be a good friend to her. No question Carlyn is strong, independent, and decisive; these are clearly part of her feistiness. But she also has fears and a lot of questions, suffers from insecurity and sometimes, alienation, and most crucial of all, she is needy of somebody to whom she could show this weaker side of hers. She is just 20 after all, the age that holds the threshold to a major crossroad in life.

Other people may busy themselves more with noting down her flaws, which at many times, are hard to miss. BUT who doesn’t wake up late in the morning or arrive late at a gathering? Who doesn’t leave or misplace stuff everywhere? Who doesn’t get confused by suggestions? Who doesn’t get something wrong once in a while? Who doesn’t want to insist on what she believes in? Carlyn may fall victim to these more often than other people, but as I have earlier mentioned, this is not all that she is.

On a final note, Maria Carlyn Rodriguez is a bundle of sunshine whose light she shares and extends beyond her daddy Bingcol and mommy Judy, brother Vincent, and sister Alyssa, beyond her huge family scattered around Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao, beyond her high school and college friends, beyond the one guy she calls her sunshine (I’m assuming Cai :)… to everywhere that she blesses with her presence. She was born on April 29, 1987, and in behalf of all whose lives she came across with or she is yet to touch, we’re glad her sun shines at this corner of the world.

*** Carlyn is now a first year med student at the Cebu Institute of Medicine.
~~~

I originally made this in my cousin Carlyn's request for her school project. (so to my dearest sisters, don't feel bad i have not put you down in words yet)

Daisy Flores

The life that Daisy Flores had and the life I am living are worlds apart. She is the type of person who I never would have met or hang out with had I not sat to her right for close to two years. Officially, she was my direct head in the Marketing department of the company I used to work in. Unofficially, she was a very thoughtful and fascinating friend to me as I was a good,... friend, and listener, to her.

She is naturally a chatter; so from the beginning, we did not have to gauge if we clicked or not. She simply chatted away; and me, being an equal chatterbox when provoked, our impulse to chat with one another was mutual. That's where our friendship stemmed from -- our chatting hours in the office. Busy or not, when the impulse was between us, no office rule or the most daring hush-hush from other officemates silenced our area.

Thinking about it now, I am quite amazed how the small perimeters that bounded us to our desks contained the life that Daisy had.

At 23, she was already living on her own. Though in many countries, 23 is already too late to live independently from one's parents, here in the Philippines, that's too early, or altogether unusual, since every singleton traditionally stays with their parents and sleep in the same bed they used to pee in until they get married. But Daisy, as she described herself, was never a sticker to the rules.

While I talked about a childhood of dressing up Barbie Dolls and talking to myself, Daisy only remembers that she was out of the house playing street games with the boys in the neighborhood more than she was in it, that her mother had to remind her several times that she was a girl so she had to learn to stay put (a tireless reminder that always fell on deaf ears). She does not remember ever owning a Barbie Doll, but she can talk with vivid images racing barefoot and climbing mango trees with her friends.

Her rebellion appears to be inborn, but it only started to alarm her parents when she reached high school. As Daisy shared to me, in her entire school life, she was never the good student. If her teachers knew her at all, it was because she frequently cut classes or missed it entirely. She never really enjoyed school, she said, which surprised me because Daisy speaks with insight and profundity. Later, I would understand that this was not out of formal learning, but the experiences she hoarded from a life of unparalleled free-spiritedness.

Growing up, she would defy more house rules than her parents thought she would dare to. She would tell me about taking extra clothes with her to school so she need not go home to change out of her school uniform for afternoon disco. She would go home on school nights past 9, to her father's questioning and mother's reprimands. That did not change anything. Throughout her teenage years, it wouldn't be her rebel streaks that would grow out of this persistent evening episode, but her parents admonitions.

At 19, she put her study on hold and spent 6 months in Vietnam multi-working as DJ, bartender, and bar and restaurant consultant of some sort. Even before she left, she was already juggling work in Cebu's top clubs and her Interior Design studies at the University of the San Carlos. It was her choice to earn on the side as it gave her a measure of independence.

Her mind was set on that school can wait, while opportunities cannot. In her early 20s, she lived in Germany for a month with the family of her German ex-boyfriend. This boyfriend asked for her hand in marriage. Though she liked him very much, she said no, packed up, and returned to the Philippines.

Upon the prodding of her father, she went back to school and finished her degree. However, this did not cure her of restlessness and sense of misadventure. She moved out of her parents' house and shared an apartment with a French woman (who has long since moved back to France but continues to be a good friend to this day). She would dress up in boots (before anybody else in this tropical island had the guts to), short skirt, and a cowboy hat to meet and party with her friends. Once, she talked about the few solo expeditions she made to Vudu without planning with her friends.

"Unya Daise, kinsa imo kauban didto?" I asked her.

"Kung naay kaila, muoban ko nila," she replied.

"If wala?"

"Then I make new friends!" She answered.

Indeed, Daisy's circles of friends are so wide and varied that despite the size and population of Cebu City, I actually know a few people she also knows. Another colleague, Setty, hangs out with a lot of people from the artsy-fartsy whom Daisy hangs out with as well. Even our boss calls a lot of friends from the design and high society that Daisy calls hers as well. I am friendly by convenience, but Daisy is sociable by any terms.

Her circle of foreigner friends is of United Colors of Benetton-caliber. She had a French housemate. She hangs out with Italian business owners and managers and Spanish designers (mostly from the manufacturing industry set). She once dated a Palestinian expatriate, an Indian businessman, and a Spanish immigrant. She now lives with a New-York born and raised Honduran who taught her jazz, music history, fine cuisine, South American cultures, and foreign policies. Most importantly, he taught her to see things from the world's point of view.

She met Walter [the Honduran] on her job as furniture designer. She got her job with Kenneth Cobonpue while working freelance as furniture designer. If she's kept still, she is an Interior and Furniture designer. But Daisy, in her free spirit, is a jill of all trades and a woman of the world -- though she hasn't really been around the world.

Her natural rebel did not survive 30+ years because the world was charming to her. Daisy did not have it easy, emotionally, physically, and financially. But this story would not have the tone of confidence and strength if long before, she had already been defeated. There were many instances that her story would have gone towards that direction: when she ran out of money, when her relationship with troublesome men got her in even more trouble, when juggling work, health, dependent parents and brother, and generally, life with its complicities with love, money, and fate pushed her closer to her limit.

I've seen Daisy cry and belt her troubles out. What amazes me is she does this with dignity. In the 20 months we were seatmates, I've never seen her in a bad hair day and bad dress day. She cried over a seemingly perfect relationship gone awry, but she did so with a pretty white top, pinstriped shorts, and creamy pair of wedges. A hotel had mistaken her for peculation, but she pulled herself out of the confusion in a colorful dress. She did not cower, run, and hide from a single trouble. She confronted it all head-on, but with enough humility to accept that her past experiences may have qualified her as a jill of many trades, but honed her a master at none.

If there was one thing that her rebellious youth taught her to perfect, it's how to drown out the loads of "I told you so" and walk on with, "What won't kill you will only make you stronger." Now Daisy is no longer the rebel that she used to be, a gift of age and maturity to her parents and to herself. She continues to live by the moment but with much consideration of the future. Recently, she opened her fashion and accessories boutique called D + F Lifestyle Shop in ML Quezon Street, Cabancalan, Mandaue City.

She is still juggling, but she's long grown out of her misadventures. It's an unanticipated ending to the carefree life she once led, but the realization that her spirit is no longer free has brought her salvation, and the world, a new woman who sticks to the rules, but her own.

~~~
Talking to Daisy has really been one of the most interesting use of my free time in the office. Sometimes, our unrelenting arguments would crash against each other's and end in a 1x1/2 meter cold war. But in all cases, we would work it out over a mention of jazz music, a story from Walter's days in Louisiana, or hear each other's say on a piece of news.

One skill from her youth that Daisy never lost is partying. She is careful now though; foregoing liquor so she can take medicines for her allergies.

Freline

a lot of us may overtime at work, but nobody gets lesser rest time then Freline. She punches in at before 8 am. She has to leave before 4 pm so she won't be late for her class, which ends at 9 pm. It takes her almost an hour to commute to her home. When she arrives, she still has to do her part of the household chores plus her schoolwork.

yet, she comes in at the office with a smile. she greets everyone with a half-diffident smile. she meets our guests at the showroom to offer drinks with a well-practised, "Would you like anything to drink, Sir?" and with a smile so shy yet visibly there. she serves coffee or juice with a smile. and nobody even tells her to do so.

Freline is one of the young college-level girls we have taken to calling the "show room girls," though technically she is the only one in-charge of keeping the showroom spic and span while the other girl, Mirali, is in-charge of the office. At home, she is one of 13 children. Like her name, her 12 siblings have monikers that start with the letter F.

"Ka creative sad sa imo mama, nakahimu siya'g 13 names nga nagsugod og letter F?!" I exclaimed when she told me. I suggested that her mother may have got her name wrong. Perhaps, her name was inspired by the Sound of Music's Fraulein Maria (which literally translates to Little Miss Maria). she said no, and that her mother really intended her to be called Free-line.

Aside from her mother's naming method, we didn't talk any more about her family. She told me about her plans. She is taking up Hotel and Restaurant Management so she could carry on with her dream (not just a plan) to work in a cruise ship. This was before the schoolyear 2008-2008 started. At that time, she told me she would stop working at the company when school starts so she could focus on her studies. But well into the 1st half of the semester, she's still there, feather-dusting the furniture, sweeping the floor, waiting on the guests. I need not ask her why as she volunteered herself, "Dili nalang ko muhunong ate uy kay para makatabang ko sa ako mga ginikanan."

I wonder how many college-level employees are struggling out there to carry on with their dreams. I wonder how many among these struggling college-level employees actually make it through and realize their dreams. I'm positive that Freline is certain about what she wants, how much she wants to get it, and what the stones she needs to step on to arrive there are. But I couldn't really tell; each of us could only take so much. With Freline's circumstances, how much really could she take? I could only hope she has enough strong nerves in her litheness to stop her from letting go.

I hope what she earns at the company will be enough to sustain her and her dreams. Or better yet, I hope she gets wait-listed in the company's newly-implemented scholarship program (for which I have to salute my boss, Sir Kenneth). I hope this program is not discriminating against those in the lower positions. What matters, isn't it, is not the distance one is at ahead of the others, but how those behind and anybody is willing to get ahead in life. I see this willingness in Freline by the way she carries out even the most menial tasks and by the way she talks about life like its a cruise in the Caribbean. I hope life sees her on the same cruise.

Kenneth Cobonpue

So far in my life, I have already come close to two people who have been featured in Time Magazine. For someone who reads Time like it's a graded homework, this is big. Like, whoa!

One is Carlos Celdran; the other hired me on my 21st birthday. Allow me to brag and introduce you to my boss, Kenneth Cobonpue. I wonder why but it's easier to introduce him as the designer of the bed that Brad Pitt bought, than the designer to whom Time has given the credit, Rattan's first virtuoso. Most possibly, it's that more people watch Brad Pitt than read Joel Klein. Okay.

For almost 2 years, I've had the honor to be seated two office chairs away at KC's left. But to be honest, the honor gradually disappeared starting on the third or fourth month. By the time it has completely faded away, KC has been relegated to just a boss. The Time recognition is just a page off the magazine, laminated and placed against a mini-standee on the production head's desk, and Brad Pitt a vital namedrop to make his way to celebrity level. Good news though, he's a one-of-a-kind boss.

First, I don't call him boss. I am among the 10 or 15 people in the office who insist on calling him Sir; the rest are comfortable with Kenneth, which he very much prefers by the way. Second, I've never heard him scold anybody. This I can say is the most remarkable about him. Believe me, the company has suffered enough production failures and mixed-up shipments to give him the right to belt it out.

With this being said, as a head of the company, he's pretty laid back. He gets tense when it's show time (international furniture shows) or when there's a negative complaint in his inbox (like of a badly warped rattan chair or a hularo that was not sufficiently secured around the metal frame), but his amateur sarcasm is about as far as his reprimands go -- as subtle [albeit slightly mean] as a sneer. But not always he cares enough to respond this way to every problem. Most of the time, he will just hear you out. Speak, and he shall understand.

Quick, find me a boss whose boss-ness sounds like mine and I shall gift you with the award-winning Kenneth Cobonpue original Dimple chair. Criteria are as I have already mentioned -- plus, plus, plus his desk should not be cordoned off by white walls and a requisite knock on the door. He should also be available for consultation whenever one feels like he needs it. He should be able to sit on a table with his office workers and eat puso, barbecue, and ngohiong. He should have enough respect for local showbiz denizens as to allow them instant Chiquita stools or a tour around the showroom with himself curating. He should be busy enough as to leave to his clueless Marketing Officer, yours truly, the job of answering interview questions from important magazines (*humbled*).

And lastly, he should be a design genius. No outpouring of words about him is ever complete without re-upgrading his image from just a boss to the rattan virtuoso that Time Magazine has called him. He gave the dented can a pedestal in the Lolah, an easy armchair that the most prestigious design award given in Asia (the Design for Asia) has noticed. In Croissant, he turned the French breakfast staple into a living room spectacle. The Pigalle easychair is his interpretation of the human curves.

Not all of us has a boss who turns the mundane into brilliance, and gets Brad Pitt to appreciate it. What more, Time Magazine to plaster you on a full page feature. For my first job, I have it pretty good.