mot juste

What quality do you value most in a friend?

‘Losing family obliges us to find family; not always family that is our blood, but family that can become our blood.’

If we manage to look beyond what lurks dimly on the horizon, there will be angels ready to spread our wings and make us fly. I borrowed that quote from the ending of my fave film.

 

Many of my fellow young blood are too elusive to grasp the full meaning of losing a part of you. We live in a time where it is hard to speak from the heart. A thousand trivialities smother our lives, and the thoughts and cares of daily affairs, silence the poetry of our spirits. The song in our hearts, the song that we have waited to share, the song of being vulnerably human, is silent. We find ourselves full of lightning, but wanting in thunder.

 

The Assignment

There either is or is not a way things should be. As I wrote when I was sixteen, ‘The question was posterised with a resonating echo and left everyone in the house gasping for breath.’

I’m talking about the search for life’s meaning. This was the theme in our high school yearbook. In my time as a writer, I have never written something as meaningful nor answered a question so interesting. As I looked into the depths for answers, I saw the truth always comes dainty.

 

My perspective, of course, wasn’t contained in my high school yearbook. One page is never enough. I am still an inchoate paradox. I’ll let the years onward be the judge. Meanwhile, the search continues. So though I may give a finite answer to a conundrum, like, for instance, others, I can touch the peak of Mount Everest.

 

The Subject

An equally unique mind is needed for such a soul-searching query. Before speaking of the devil, I’ll describe his class. Now, there were lectures but the subject was different. Freedom, mercy, conscience, and sIn. They seem fundamental, but he took us to the art beyond the art, the game beyond the game. For instance, he called conscience the ‘Big C’, and wrote sIn that way as it focuses on the I. Mercy, I answered, is the human face of God. He will rush on with so much detail that kept us hanging to his every word.

 

We watched films about boys dancing in the wind. With triangles in their hands, he made us interpret exactly lay beneath their act. He encouraged us to read The Catcher in the Rye. Asked us who won in the end, Freddie or Jason? There were the questions that mesmerised you: Why is water wet? What would you rather be, a contended dog, or discontented man? Which comes first, being human or being humane? What is more important, a sense of humour or sense of compassion? Like he said on the first day of classes, it was about the ‘grey matter’, between the prosaic black and white.

The Teacher

If you have read the book Tuesdays with Morrie, you’ll know this kind of special bond. The book itself is teeming with life’s meaning. I felt the same way with Bro Ed as Mitch Albom did with Morrie Schwartz.

 

I knew early on that he was not someone you would meet everyday. His engaging personality borders on the surreal. This, plus a wicked sense of humou, makes him a splendid teacher. Nobody wanted to miss his class. What really separated him was his fountain of knowledge. Like a wellspring of wisdom, he always had something noteworthy to add – another book, figure or event. His hour was the single, most memorable class.

 

Blue scheme of things

Bro Ed also had one passion that sparked so much friendly debate – his propensity for the colour blue. There is a reason behind this. He is a die-hard fan of the ‘blue’ school along Katipunan Avenue. Naturally, he bears the grudge for the ‘green’ school along Taft Avenue. That’s where the fighting begins, a class torn apart by the Blue Eagles and the Green Archers.

 

When the latter had beaten the former in their UAAP (Universities Athletic Association of the Philippines) encounter, there was teasing, and vice-versa. So as you can see, there were talking points in his class that everyone else couldn’t even try.

In which he reverberates

High school’s senior year was when he taught me. It was during this time that we forged a close friendship. He found me almost as interesting as I found him. As I look back three years ago, there was nothing we couldn’t talk about with each other. We shared interests, zodiac sign, and helped ourselves see more than our mismatched ages allowed us.

 

In so doing, he let me ogle the importance of others in our journey. Meanwhile, I helped him understand the shortcomings of a sixteen-year old trying writer. Although I have not seen him in a while, like Albom with Schwartz, I can still feel the fire of his affinity. I found out that he is now a Catholic priest. Before this, he worked in Escuella Taller, a Spanish school in Manila. He also had further stints as an educator. This included a spell at our sister school, Saint Scholastica’s College Manila.

Interestingly, Robin Williams (pictured above) passed away a decade ago. He made a career-defining turn in Good Will Hunting, bagging the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. The film was directed by Gus van Sant, one of my fave helmers.

Three doors down

Of all the light he shone upon my young mind, one event eclipses the rest. This was the retreat, in fourth year. I missed my class’s version. That disappointed some classmates, including this girl who had fancied me. He was so convincing in letting me join that I dragged my weak spirit to another class’s retreat December of my senior year. We spent three days in a retreat house for this occasion.

 

Ours was a beautiful experience. On the first night, Bro Ed said that the purpose of this was finding the ‘three doors’. They were the marked door, unmarked door, and empty door. Those three days were the sunniest I’ve felt in a long, long time. I felt quite relieved; my worries filtered out. Amid the invigorating ambiance, I found true-blue freedom, and hoped the change lasted.

Losing Family

Brilliant as the sky was, there was a catch. In the welcoming grounds, my indestructible mentor showed some softness. He told us the story of how he lost family, to tragic circumstances. Listening to the drama unfolding, I felt for him. Yet what I admired most was how he did not let this snag affect his personal meaning of life.

 

Here I would like to quote a line from Albert Camus:

In The midst of Winter

I finally learned that

I had in me an

Invincible summer

 

I knew that at some point, Bro Ed was caught in a chilly winter. Because he was made of sterner stuff, the winter of his life gradually became conquered by spring. And as he saw the leaves blossom round him, he prepared to forget the past. Armed with this determination, he willed summer to sprout all around him. In this summer, I was happy to be invited.

 

Prolific Summer

I have exhausted most of my story through what happened during my senior year. However, something even better took place when my high school days were all but over. During the bus ride to the retreat house, as my seatmate, Bro asked if I would be interested in helping him with the yearbook. Without much thought, I said yes. After this, he asked me again during graduation practice and I agreed once more.

 

He already gave us yearbook’s topic: the meaning of life. Every one of my batchmates was to offer their retort to the big question. My good friend made sure that all seniors had their say with a solo picture accompanying each graduate’s page. Aside from class shots, there were collages of activities done throughout the year. All was something to cherish: conversations with the guy who encoded and decorated the yearbook and the day I submitted the poem. The latter was my legacy to the school. Seventy-one verses long, a definitive poem of my alma mater. Up until now, at the very last page of the yearbook, I count it as one of my finest achievements. All in all, it was the most prolific summer to date, for me. I truly hope that someday, here in the heart of Sydney, I would experience even a semblance of what went on back in the day.

Quick aside: since writing this, I have published three books. Fiction, nonfiction, and a 112- page poetry collection (my latest). As I’ve shared in the past, the nonfiction read was 300 pages. I detailed our friendship in my memoir. All of them were self-published. I’ve been blogging weekly for years. This confirms that my writing journey has continued. I’ve evolved from the yearbook guy to a serious literary triple threat.

 

Sunset

So here I am, writing more chapters along the Sydney side of things. Nothing’s ever the same, that’s why we both got a move on. He remains in the same place. Things are much different in my case. I have left the city I called home for many years. I’ve moved countries ages ago, though I still write poems. When I’m feeling magnanimous, I would pen love poems.

 

I know I can’t say this enough, but thank you very much, Bro.

 

*Originally written a while back. Remastered for today’s WordPress daily prompt.