'The Power of the Pen'

I've been using 'pens' lately, a lot of 'em, different kinds:
>  a bunch of highlighters to label my codes and could-be themes
> reliable black ballpens for post it notes on my charts
> broad whiteboard markers to label headings on big A5 sheets
> sweet blue ballpens on my decomposition (more of a decompression) notebook and scribble pad

Nice to know that I can still understand my handwriting when for the past months I'm always on my laptop or desktop or on my Huawei doing notes, writing my thoughts, sandwiching a 4500-word paper  and yearbook prod-work in between just by pressing on keys or abusing my mousepad, ergo my right shoulder, elbow and arm.

Soon, I hope to get back to 'letter' writing:
> a long overdue letter to my dad
> a card for my mom and Atel
> comfort postcard for Kat
> letter to Vic

All these penwork bring me back to my Pahinungod days at Tablas Island, Romblon and Cuyo Island, Palawan --lovely letters to Vic and a not so good one to some dude.

Twenty years later, I'm here at Australia. Who would have known, right?

And so, I am hoping these pens will have the power to make me connect the dots in this winding and complex path of data analysis. Quali-R now seems to be 3D puzzle I can't quite hack yet. The prior quali studies I've done were quite flat. Sure, it got me through thick descriptions and some kind of analysis I can't even remember how.

While I sat through a workshop on presentation skills, picked up a few self-help tips to help me look forward to presenting once again perhaps at AAOU or PELS (yeah, go local), an image of 'fear' got me thinking.

That fear is deeply rooted in self-doubt. I've always doubted whether I'm cut out for PhD work. But the fact that I'm still here and blogging away should be enough to assure me that I'm cut out for the work. Hellow, Aleta, got done with CoC and data gathering, what other proof are you searching for.

Then again, I am now able to put into words the very particular fear I have: that is whether my output will be good enough -- an examineable thesis of the USQ kind= having coherence,  complexity, and major contribution to the field. The other C comes from U.P. = that it is cost-effective -- will it be worth the 3.6 million bucks worth of grant in Filipino pesos-es.

The only  assurance I have is this: that all the barriers have been removed -- that there really is no reason for me to fail unless I do it on purpose.

So, I shall press on, make the most of these pens alongside NVivo-ing + focused thinking + focused reading + Chapter 4 writing...and find those words said by S. Peck (1978), “Courage is not the absence of fear; it is the making of action in spite of fear, the moving out against the resistance engendered by fear into the unknown and into the future.”

Me being here working until about 7.30-ish pm lately (and walking home in the cold) is the least thing I could do. Can't use my pen to cast my vote for Otso Diretso. But I'll use all the power I can muster within me to finally write this thesis, get done, graduate and publish in time for the next Philippine presidential election.

Call it ULAN

ULAN= Rain = outpouring of love and blessings

My KT ka-batch had her own share of fire, Feb 7 (my husbandry’s araw ng kapanganakan), while I had my own share of fires 2x in my lifetime of 50 years. In those times, I hadn’t had the chance to do the dirty work. Can’t count on my memory stick to remember what went on, perhaps it was a bit traumatic. What I can remember though is that in a few days, my apartment was fine….my husband’s reading clinic was fine. I thanked God we were all fine.

So I just moved on with my life as usual as if nothing happened.

My small school life and university life went on as usual.

In between these fires, I had my own struggles and trials in life as usual, without me calling for help from my ka-batches nor anyone. I just had my BFF Rachel Red and 3 counsellor friends. I lived. Don’t we all?

Day 3: And so, witnessing the site of 32 Kalinga jolted me a bit. This was THE 32 Kalinga, our Batch 87 HQ, the memorable sleepover home of my son who was classmates with KT’s daughter & son. There are hardly traces left of the room where we stayed for more than a week Year 1987. The large dining room still looks familiar though, and yes, the chandelier in the living room was still there, the same one which stayed put up there while my ka-bunches and I practiced our dance number of Hip 2BSquare (Huey Lewis). No time to reminisce more as I had to save the precious plates and rows of wine glasses. Best to start early cuz there seems to be lots to do pa.

Day 2 - Discourse analysis of MU’s messages reposted by ALF and QA are telling of urgency and immense work at hand…I can only think of a raising minimum funds among ka-batches as I really don’t know how KT is when it comes to getting ‘financial’ help. I at least felt safe that MU was there for her or that QA was in touch. Glad that ka-batches have been pledging.

Moreso, I really didn’t know whether in fact KT will welcome my presence (borne out of prior miscoms).  I asked myself: Have I even earned my right to be there in the first place? I am aware of her struggles being a co-parent in my school but KT really is the type to decide and handle everything on her own= Supermom, Superdaughter.

And that even made me think about the way we are as women – we seem to be built to  carry a lot, and  no matter how burdensome things can become, we bear it, bear it all, that we sometimes forget that we still  have a need for each other. We bury that need, keep ourselves together cuz there is so much to do.

Day 4: On my way home, I thought of my ka-batches now, especially the quiet, hardly chatty ones…how many times have we chatted away and in those chats are our hidden selves -- someone could have easily been in pain, caring for a loved one in pain...someone in a tough marriage, in depression, healing from a lost love or a miscarriage, grieving a loved one’s death, battling demons, battling cancer or even living in poverty (hayan na, I admit I am in poverty cuz middle class is the new poor in the Philippines…couldn’t afford that Sigma Delta souvenir watch…tipong saan ako bubunot ng 15k nang ganun ganun lang)

And how many times wasn’t I even there for my ka-batches even before the onslaught of social media. These days, our narratives come to us in trickles or hearsay…instagram, tweets, screenshots or even thru FB but not even as purely or as honestly as we want it to be.

Day 3: Bahala na… basta I’ll go. Buti nalang dehins trapik kapag Linggo.

I felt it’s my turn to pay it forward for those times others lent a helping hand to my family, even without me asking for help.

Finally, I see KT… a tight hug, konting teardrops, but KT is KT – her usual self = outpouring of stories and anecdotes that she hardly notices the time. I felt she was glad to see us. 

Alongside the packing it was heartwarming to see outpouring of help and offers in various, special ways since Day 2 when I contacted fellow Knollers.  It also felt like a test to my online classroom/ discourse management skills when chats, texts and calls go on and on in 2 big groups (MCHS + Batch 87) and 3 small groups (a few kabatches, a few students-former classmates of PT plus PMs with other co-parents & former classmates).

These sms-based & online exchanges = genuine concern, outpouring of love, call it Ulan kahit  mag-tatag-init na.

Perhaps it’ll take some time for the outpouring to sink into KT. She must be preoccupied --  the one and only KT ka-batch (yes, reclaiming, MY ka-batch) who takes care of her loving mom, her 3 children, her ancestral home, her La Union, their family business, her marriage for as long as she could. She is really built to manage all these, or perhaps have learned to bear it all on her own… that was obvious based on her helper’s story, the sight of crates, bubble wraps, and boxes with labels lined up by Day 3 morning.  (Day Zero): Not to mention’s KT’s story of waking up around 7am in the morning to the scent of something kinda smelling weird. (Iisa lang ang tawag dun = Super Woman / Wonder Woman/ Bionic woman o di kaya X-(Wo)MEN. Ang superhero ang tagapanguna sa pagbigay ng tulong at pinakahuling hihingi ng tulong. Hayun, diba?!)

Day 6: So, a shout out to Knollers – for keeping calm, serious, focused that by Day 4-5 you were instantly ready to make good use of your energies and resources to be there for a fellow Knoller from wherever in the Philippines or the world you are…

Of course, shout out to all ‘87 ka-batches: It’s been comforting to know we can count on each others’ time and resources, and in varied ways, mula sa pledges, bubble wrapping, inventory hanggang fragile tape…. Kahit viber hearts-hearts at palms praying symbols, mahalaga lahat…especially at our age and these days when it’s impossible to be there for each other (as warm bodies) due to our own busyness of being superwomen ourselves (plus dealing with our own life struggles), and despite the technology to connect us all.  

Hugs 2ALL.

From this Day onwards:

Someday, I know I will count on you. And I will call for help. And you will let it rain.

For now, I need a grammar guru for this blog and someone to remind me what went on Day 1.

Meant2BMotherLand

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Every day of my life here at Newtown, I walk a few meters to catch the 907 bus at Margaret St at St Mary’s College stop. Yes, I’d have to admit, I do look forward to bus rides here at Toowoomba. It’s lazy time to get your mind off things. Imagine all the driving that I need to do at Binan and Binan-QC-Marikina. And so, I welcome having my hands off the wheel and have another citizen of this land do all the driving4me.

I see my stop, and so there she is again. The old strong looking lady by the street, watching out for the pedestrian. She is one woman who must love her job dearly,  and does it pretty well I must say. She’d stay in her place to guard the kids and the traffic so they won’t get into each others’ way. Not only that…she is pretty strict about where to wait, where to cross and where cars should stop. And when it is time for her to demand a STOP by placing that stop sign in the middle of the street, she got everyone’s attention on her. It’s as if time practically STOPS for her.

One time and to my surprise, I didn’t see this uniformed lady on the street. Instead, she has donned her pastel colored top and practical slacks and shoes in place of her heavy uniform. She was seated at my usual place where I wait for the bus to arrive. She goes on to talk about her life and seemed to be  satisfied with her job. I figure she must have really found a job she can live with for the rest of her life. And at my age, which may be closer to her than my M&M’s,

I see myself in her more than the school kids she takes good care of while crossing the street

So I was thinking, would I have the guts to trade living my life in the current state of the Phils for this kind of life, her job and her bit of comfort (& discomfort) in return for the hard work she puts in. Then I thought, not. In the first place, I simply do not have the talent nor skill for such immense focus to be on the job for maybe 1.5 straight hours in the morning under whatever kind of weather. My mind is too restless to start with. I have too many inner speeches and daydreams. My emotions get the bit of me on certain days. I would not last long as for sure, I’ll get run over by a bus.

For a minute there, I stopped and thought, really thought, gee, for once, why am I even considering this at all. But I did.  For what has become of my motherland these days.

I hopped on the 907, put on my shades and tried to stop the tears from falling.  Painful tears of a kind I’ve never had b4. It started a bit last night, then again when I woke up at 6am to see the news. Everything was there—we are pretty much getting worse by the day.  No matter how I try to insulate myself from the pain and anger, I just can’t. I almost decided against going to school today. But I thought perhaps walking in the cold would help it all go away.

It didn’t. It just wouldn’t.

This must how Rizal, Bonifacio and Mabini have felt when they penned their pains in poetry – love for  motherland which I don’t even know where this damning kind of love comes from.

But this I know in my heart & trying  hard2holdon2:  I am meant2b where I am as this is the only way I intend to live with my choice to keep on being a Filipino in my homeland. When I get old as this old lady, I shall look back to these days, and THIS pain, when what I can only hold on to are my M&Ms and my PhD. This is my way of making sense of what has come upon us. I vow to live THIS life, and spend the last of my days as Filipino educator, and say to this f****** leader, IT IS YOU and your f****** kampon who shall die in vain, NOT I. I shall continue to live, older than this old lady if I have to in order to see that day…to the very end.

How about tweeting those last words in my Twitter2B profile?