I FOUND MY DIARIES, AND STARTED READING ABOUT ME.
I was 15 when I started a diary, December 1972 to be exact. I didn’t know what prodded me to write the daily details of my life—it may be because I was in the last few months of my senior high, a chapter that I did not exactly want to end. Or it could be my historical gene that compelled me to record events for my future descendants to read about—both milestone and everyday moments.
Long before the age of expensive moleskins and fancy scrapbook journals, I was already writing down, at day’s end, the things that transpired at home and at school. I first wrote on unused notebook pages, bound in metal fasteners. I wasn’t much of a writer, often writing in phrases, and just enumerating sequence of events.
My earliest Christmas day entry (December 25,1972, Monday) noted how my day started and the gifts I and my siblings received: “Woke up at 8:00 a.m., and I got my gifts—orange shirt and green ‘tela’, Php 10.00 bill from Ma and Php 5 pesos from Auntie Susing. Gregg got green shirt. Mike and Eric got chess sets. Froi got a toy harmonica”.
Similarly, on January 17, 1972 I nonchalanatly reported the posting of our bi-weekly grades, while a 4th year student of Sacred Heart Seminary: “Ranked 6. Spanish-77, Physics-79, History-88, Composition-88, Literature-81, Religion-82”. And I thought I was a real “bobo” in Physics—I had a better grade than Spanish!
There were days though when I started writing about my feelings—or more accurately, my mood swings—“Was very mad ‘çoz I can’t find my Jingle magazine! Locked myself in my room.” (17 January 1973. I wonder if that instigated my future obsession to organize my magazines and comics in neatly-labelled boxes, arranged by dates?).
Of my high school graduation on April 14, 1973, Saturday, I wrote: “Final graduation practice. We had to carry lots of chairs, so tired. Got home past 11 and after a brief nap, I dressed up for graduation. I was with Ma, Beng and Cyn. The graduation was a quick one. Went to Tatang Ato and ate and ate.”.
Even with such a bland description of an important school event, I could now recollect with greater details what happened that night. Our Class of 1973 graduation was held at the Sacred Heart Chapel. I was dressed up in a borrowed coat slightly damaged by a flat-iron scorch mark on the breast pocket, perhaps inflicted by a careless househelp. My mother insisted that it will not show on my pictures as the fabric was dark anyway (well, it did, Mother, the flash cameras captured it as a shiny blemish on my picture!). I remember the stifling heat and my hunger pangs—I couldn’t wait for the rites to end.
And when it did, I just rushed out to get some fresh air, and didn’t even have a chance to say my proper goodbyes to my teachers and classmates. Since I didn’t have any “handa” for my graduation, my parents and I decided to proceed to the house of my uncle, Tatang Ato and Mang Luning, who, at least prepared a party for cousin Ramiel, a fellow graduate. I remember having grilled tilapia for the evening, happy to feast and freeload.
As I sift through my diaries now kept and sorted in three boxes (I changed to writing on Cattleya notes, instead of bulky notebooks), I, too, have become amazed at the trove of information I have written. The entries for October 1998, April 2007 and most recently, June 2009, were harder to write for they contain the last accounts of my father’s, my brother Eric’s and my mother’s valiant fights for their lives. To this day, I have no desire to re-read what I have written, for that only serves to bring back memories of great loss and mourning.
But there were also momentous dates that I took note of, that were sources of joy for the family, all documented on my diaries---like the birth of my first nephew ( July 1978), weddings of siblings, my father’s Dream trip to the U.S. ( March 30,1980 ) my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary (15 May 1974) ,promotions on the job, passing of various board exams, and on a personal note, my London and U.S. agency training in July of 1989.
Even what’s in between the pages of my thick and tattered diaries contain surprising stuff that never fail to amuse—a clipping of a “want-ad”of a Makati agency which I responded to. I was accepted for the job, but never got around to writing my first ad copy as the company declared bankruptcy on the very day I was supposed to start. There were also school programs, photo negatives, various receipts and scribbles of my 1981 swimming records that I diligently kept (1 min,: 38 secs for 100 m. breaststroke, Nov. 8, 1980—slow for a 23 year old).
It’s been 45 years since I first took up a pen and began writing on a notebppk page that would become my first diary. For as long as there are things to write about, I don’t think I will stop writing. And I don’t care if these things I write about are only relevant to me. As far as know, they compose memorable references of the people I have known, siblings I grew up with, of fathers,mothers, grandfathers, and of forebears we now miss and honor,of classmates, teachers, officemates.
My diary doesn’t just document life events but they capture the nuances of relationships and illuminates what time has dimmed. So today, as I review the dog-eared pages of my diaries, I hope to explore again those shadows in my past that are vague and hazy; places, images and events that have been forgotten, ignored or taken for granted. Unravelling the magic of memory has never been so fascinating.
