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THE FIRST TIME I TRIED TO WRITE an essay, my third grade teacher returned it to me , her normally serene face furrowing in a mixture of consternation and annoyance: “ This isn’t an essay, Gee” she announced in her deceptively soft voice, “ can you do something to turn it into one?” One eyebrow shot up, signaling that she wants it to be done. Pronto. No arguments.

Not that I would have argued. She was right. No one can call a one-sentence piece an essay. The incident struck a deep chord in me, primarily because that was the first time a teacher chastised me. Since then, I resolved to submit only written works that I can be proud of.

As I struggled to improve my craft, I encountered loads of obstacles, mostly streaming from the rigors of language use. But I was lucky. I had a constant inspiration who prodded me to go on , beef up and polish my work: MY FATHER. My late father, Mr Sixto B. Jacome was a prolific writer himself. He was - in every sense of the word- a bookworm . To call him a “fountain of ideas” is an understatement, it would be more apt to dub him as “waterfall of ideas”

My journey towards becoming a real writer kicked off though, when I was selected as the representative of our school in an essay writing contest. I won but it was an empty victory because I submitted a memorized piece. When I did not make it in the regional levels with the same piece, I uttered a deep sigh of relief. Oddly, the failure left me with a feeling of tranquility and silent joy, such refreshing thoughts compared to the guilt of gaining a title which left a bitter taste in my mouth.

The experience did not sour my eagerness to dabble into the world of creative writing. Reading my father’s works egged me to try on several methods and techniques to refine any written work I accomplished, be it a simple haiku or a full-length novel. Having brilliant Communication Arts teachers in highschool and in college facilitated my journey. Having a diary also helped a lot.

Soon, writing became one of the activities I can never do without. It became a source of relaxation, an avenue for expression and an arena for release of tension. It didn’t take much to keep my ballpoint pen rolling. Even the simplest and normally unnoticeable objects can stimulate my motor nerves to flex my fingers….to make my palm itch…. to write.

When my father passed away in 1994, it was as if my writing spirit was maimed. It was only the thought that he would never have wanted to see my disfigured spirit that jabbed me awake to carry on the beautiful legacy that he sowed in me and so I wrote one of the most painful and difficult reflections : “ON DEATH”.
It was largely due to my father that I resolved to impart to my students the therapeutic value of writing. And so, even as I’m not teaching Communication Arts, I have always made it a point to know what’s on my student’s minds thru their essays, poems and other literary works. This mission included encouraging my students to appreciate literary gems written by some of the masters and other contemporary writers.

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Thursday, October 8, 2009

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