The first time I stepped in my kindergarten class marked the beginning of my history of writing. It began with writing the alphabet. My teacher was a petite lady, well-known for her patience. We were a perfect match as I took twice as long as my classmates just to write A-Z. She would take up all of the papers and then slowly turn around. Then came the stare; a stare I came to know very well. I would look back at her with an exaggerated innocence and quietly ask, "How does my paper look?" I knew even at that tender age that my letters looked better than everyone else’s. At this early stage, I developed enthusiasm that has lasted throughout the years. I would finish a writing task and when I finished it, which is more often than not, it would take a special and qualified person to truly appreciate it.
During my elementary years, from grades one through six produced nothing more than a long and dormant period of writing. I was just like Bermuda grass that turns brown all winter long and then greens up in the spring. I finally came out of dormancy in my first year in high school when again I met my grandma, who took a flight from Australia. In my eyes, she was halfway to perfection. But it was just about her wits. She was about five feet tall with large, soft, black eyes and short hair. I was just 2 inches shorter but that didn’t matter.
Every time I saw her, a tingling feeling would start in my stomach similar to the sensation of racing around that sharp, fast turn on a giant roller-coaster at the amusement park. Not only was she physically aggressive, she was also a vibrant human-being with strong personality. Right then when I realized that I want to be like her, a woman of wits. She has a career of various interests, a journalist in the Philippines (during Marcos’ regime) and in Australia, a terror professor, a lawyer, a pianist and an interior designer. I look up to her as a versatile career woman and as a mother. I was her favorite grandchild, and we would sit together and talk about everything. Much to my surprise she never tired of my constant attention. One remarkable tribute was her ability to express meaning as well as describe people she had encountered or objects she had seen. I always listened intently. Throughout her stay here in the Philippines, I went out of my way to learn more from her about things that will help me be inspired in reaching my goals, which is becoming a journalist tops my list. That was before when I was kinda innocent…
My experience during my high school was in some way profound. It wasn’t so much the fact that I thought my stay in high school was so spectacular. What was amazing was the emotional response that my achievement could summon from some members in my clan. All year long, I had seemed somewhat friendly. I have earned the care and love from my friends in the class and even from other class sections. Perhaps they had little time for sentimental thoughts of the finer things we had (wink!)
It appeared that our friendship had somehow transformed as least temporarily when we enter college, where we traverse separate tracks towards our future career. But I know that is just temporarily like what a friend of mine has told me, "That’s all right, Tel. She then gave a somewhat less-than-thunderous slap on my shoulder. Not very soft, but it was an improvement. This gave me a comfortable feeling.
Well, after high school I embarked another level of thinking. My writing habit has begun to absorb inks of my pens. I even joined the publication to somehow dream that I am at least on my first step in becoming like my grandma, a journalist (sigh!Attention and congratulations from people around me have become a part of my college years as well. I was completely captivated with writing and speaking which required a unique combination of flexibility, strength, grace and poise. I slowly improved my skills.
But at this point, I now realized that true wits is often hidden and concealed. The skills utilized during my activities still manifest itself in my own character. (To be continued hahaha!)
During my elementary years, from grades one through six produced nothing more than a long and dormant period of writing. I was just like Bermuda grass that turns brown all winter long and then greens up in the spring. I finally came out of dormancy in my first year in high school when again I met my grandma, who took a flight from Australia. In my eyes, she was halfway to perfection. But it was just about her wits. She was about five feet tall with large, soft, black eyes and short hair. I was just 2 inches shorter but that didn’t matter.
Every time I saw her, a tingling feeling would start in my stomach similar to the sensation of racing around that sharp, fast turn on a giant roller-coaster at the amusement park. Not only was she physically aggressive, she was also a vibrant human-being with strong personality. Right then when I realized that I want to be like her, a woman of wits. She has a career of various interests, a journalist in the Philippines (during Marcos’ regime) and in Australia, a terror professor, a lawyer, a pianist and an interior designer. I look up to her as a versatile career woman and as a mother. I was her favorite grandchild, and we would sit together and talk about everything. Much to my surprise she never tired of my constant attention. One remarkable tribute was her ability to express meaning as well as describe people she had encountered or objects she had seen. I always listened intently. Throughout her stay here in the Philippines, I went out of my way to learn more from her about things that will help me be inspired in reaching my goals, which is becoming a journalist tops my list. That was before when I was kinda innocent…
My experience during my high school was in some way profound. It wasn’t so much the fact that I thought my stay in high school was so spectacular. What was amazing was the emotional response that my achievement could summon from some members in my clan. All year long, I had seemed somewhat friendly. I have earned the care and love from my friends in the class and even from other class sections. Perhaps they had little time for sentimental thoughts of the finer things we had (wink!)
It appeared that our friendship had somehow transformed as least temporarily when we enter college, where we traverse separate tracks towards our future career. But I know that is just temporarily like what a friend of mine has told me, "That’s all right, Tel. She then gave a somewhat less-than-thunderous slap on my shoulder. Not very soft, but it was an improvement. This gave me a comfortable feeling.
Well, after high school I embarked another level of thinking. My writing habit has begun to absorb inks of my pens. I even joined the publication to somehow dream that I am at least on my first step in becoming like my grandma, a journalist (sigh!Attention and congratulations from people around me have become a part of my college years as well. I was completely captivated with writing and speaking which required a unique combination of flexibility, strength, grace and poise. I slowly improved my skills.
But at this point, I now realized that true wits is often hidden and concealed. The skills utilized during my activities still manifest itself in my own character. (To be continued hahaha!)
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