In temperate countries, the hood is worn to help ward off the cold, said the priest after the baccalaureate mass. Later, the academe has adopted it as a symbol...
That enlightened me a bit and called the pinning the most important thing I've ever done in my life. Then something suddenly hit me in the gut.
I'm just fascinated by this old building standing unobtrusively, almost obscurely, along City Hall Drive and caught my camera on Independence Day. While waiting for the VIPs to arrive, my camera felt very impatient and explored the vicinity of the square some distance away. We were allotted a standing space without any chair to sit on so it really tested my endurance, especially as my hipbone was hurting that morning. So, the camera roamed around and happened to look up at the trees--there were about eight full grown trees left standing at the City Hall grounds, had they cut all the others? and beyond the trees, this particular building, so fascinating because it looked so old. What story could it be telling me? The drive on its ground floor was often crowded with people milling around, doing some business with City Hall, vendors hawking, or selling fruits like sliced papaya, singkamas, raw mangoes; or banana cues and later, siomai, binignit, used to line up the sidewalks outside the camera shops next to this building, photocopiers, laminating shops, photo studios and Davao's oldest bookstore, the Velasco Bookstore, lining down the entire stretch of the drive that ends at the Jaltan outlet where it meets Magallanes Street in the corner.
Is Agfa Building the real name of the building? And why is it named Agfa in the first place? Yes, I know it had something to do with Agfa film but I want to know exactly what and how.
Because the last time that we talked, she was in her bathroom, washing clothes because washing clothes was more important to her than talking to me. Just talk because I'm washing clothes, she said in a dismissive tone, as if what I was about to tell her was something that would only need half her attention, like when you tell her, hey, I'm going to the market, do you need something for me to buy? No, that was not the kind I was trying to talk about. In my mind, I revised and reviewed several ways to tell her how I knew she was ostracising me, her kind of a power play, something that I saw other people do to me countless of times but never expected it from a family member. Also, I wanted to ask her if she was talking about me in front of my boy? Why is my boy behaving like that? But I did not know how to bring this up so I talked about other things and realised we were replaying scenes we did in childhood; her being allowed to do everything she liked with impunity while I was not allowed to complain because I was older by one year and five months. Every time she did something to me, Ma, who was now in her sickbed, said I should not complain because I was the older one, I should just let my sisters be because they were younger.
So, while she was yelling at me, "you always have what you wanted!" and me, dumbfounded, saying, "whaaat?" and could not even say a word. When I said, why are you not including me in your discussions and your plans? Both of you talking to each other, excluding me as if I were not a part of it. She replied, "Whaaat? Do I have to ask your permission to give the medicine to our Mother?" As if that was what I meant. So as she continued talking angrily in her bathroom, I quietly stood up, opened the door, walked away calmly and felt sharp pains shooting from my left arms and left shoulder as I reached the potholed streets a few paces from her gate. It was my body's way of telling me it was such a really terrible experience talking there with my sister. I should not do it again.
As a young reporter in Cebu city, I did not cover City Hall. That beat used to belong to Sol, who always landed in the banner headline almost everyday. I did not cover Capitol, either. That beat belonged to Michelle, who also used to grab the headlines with Sol. I did not, could not cover the police beat, supposed to be the training ground for young reporters. Instead, I was made to cover the business and economic beat, not because I was a smart ass but because no one my age and fresh from school would dare cover such a beat. In fact, the one covering it was Pops, an octogenarian so aloof I was afraid of him. I treated him like a sage. He always had sums of money, running in the millions, on his head. I knew it because that was always what came out of his mouth when he stood talking with presidents of the Chamber, another scary thing I had to contend with. Pops used to wear a gray beret that covered his balding head. It gave him an air of style and prominence.
Reporters my age used to describe the business beat as difficult, boring, full of economic jargons one can't understand, numbers, figures, charts. How can you make a story out of mere charts and numbers, no narrative, from BIR, from SEC, or from Neda? But my editor taught me how to make the numbers talk.
Even during those times, I already had the ability to sit straight quietly and listen as somebody explained to me the workings of the Norwegian ship. Maybe, it was a result of some neglect I might have suffered in childhood because I could sit there for hours listening to a farfetched subject without complaining. Towards the end of the day, I would hurry back to the newsroom to write the story. My business editor would be waiting for it, as if it were a matter of life and death. She would ask as soon as I opened the door, "So, what's your story?" and I would stare at her, mouth open.
So, I'd never open the door again if I was not sure of the story.
Our newsroom was on the second floor, so even before I could take the stairs, I would be composing the lead and two supporting paragraphs in my head to give her a ready answer. Sometimes, I would go to the toilet before opening the newsroom door. The toilet was just near the newsroom door. You can write your lead and two supporting paragraphs in the toilet.
I was still a dreamy-eyed and clumsy young reporter then. I never actually fully understood what was going on with my life.
One afternoon, after spending long hours with Norwegian engineers piloting a shipping project in the city, I was already three steps to the newsroom door when I realised I no longer had my notes with me. I panicked. Where could have I left my notebook? Did I drop it in the jeepney? I was about to go back to chase the jeepney when I realised--how could I do that?! There were lots of jeepneys plying the city. How would I know which was the one I was riding?
So, right then and there, I tried to recall the story. I loved those Norwegians so much. Just like me, they'd be easily dismissed as boring and they never spoke English that fast. They spoke English slowly, as unsure as I was. I could ask them over and over again about the basic concept of their machine and they'd never tire explaining it to me. So, more or less, I already had the story in my head. I can even approximate a quotation, knowing their Norwegian English well. Yes, it was really, really painful to retrieve jottings from a lost notebook in your own mind. It was hell. The story made it to the business page's banner headline the following day. But from then on, I really made sure not to lose my notebook again.
