Impressed by a literary presence

MANILA, Philippines - Be sure your students have read me.” He signed his email “Manong Frankie.”

It was the only requirement F. Sionil Jose, National Artist for Literature, gave to accommodate my request for a Saturday afternoon meet-up with high school students enrolled in an enrichment subject on creative writing at the Community of Learners in San Juan City.

This was as good as a “yes” from this big man of letters who could sometimes be irascible and abrasive before his fellow writers but be gentle and jovial in the company of the young. The kids had more than two weeks to read his essays, short stories and, for the diligent ones, his novels. The school’s executive director bought additional copies of Jose’s books to supplement the ones in the library and to ensure there were enough to go around.

Three days before the encounter, the kids and I prepared the questions we wanted him to answer. Among the readings I gave them was a brief history of the Ermita landmark, the three-story Solidaridad Bookshop. It was going to be the schoolchildren’s first visit there ever, even for those who live in nearby Malate or Binondo.

The shop hasn’t changed much from its exterior, including the orange-and-white signage, to the layout of the shelves inside. From the inside the main door still has those chimes that tinkle to announce if someone has gone in or out.

Fifty years ago, Jose was looking for a place to turn into his office. His in-laws offered the property on Padre Faura Street. His wife thought, “Why not a bookshop for the rest of the space?” Her husband continues to hold office in a corner with glass windows that look out to a wider reception area on the top floor.

In the same area is a round table that seats at least eight. There is enough space to fit in more people for lectures, readings, book signings, even a party to honor a visiting author or any publishing/literary biggie from another land.

The Philippine Center of International PEN holds its monthly meetings there. Although he founded it and served as its secretary general for many years, Jose, who turns 90 in December and who always says his current location is the “pre-departure area” of life, has repeatedly told the organization’s officers to look for another “clubhouse.” If he goes, he doesn’t know what the shop’s fate will be.

That Saturday, the children browsed for an hour in the bookshop to give them time to decide where they would use their pocket money on. Upstairs, Jose had just risen from his siesta and was famished, perhaps due to a sudden drop in his blood sugar (he’s diabetic). His secretary Cesar Quinagan had a Big Mac, a packet of French fries and a glass of Coke fetched pronto.

Jose’s eyes were heavy from sleep. I recalled asking him on another occasion why his eyelids were always swollen and droopy. His wife didn’t give him a chance to answer. She said, “Mataba ’yan kaya mataba rin ’yung mata.”

After gulping down the last drop of Coke, he tossed a cylinder of fast-acting glucose tablets to me upon learning I was a fellow diabetic (it used to be automatic for him to pull out a blank notebook and a ballpoint pen that he never seemed to run out of in his drawer and hand them over to me as his way of continuing to encourage a word dabbler who’s 30 years his junior).

I briefed him on the children’s background: they were almost all city born and bred, most spoke English as their mother tongue, a few have special needs, and all loved to read and write.

He adjusted his beret, exited from his office to a waiting audience of children who greeted him in unison, “Good afternoon, sir!” He turned to them with a smile that showed gaps in his teeth and said, “Are you impressed by my presence?” That put everyone at ease. A remark like that was vintage Frankie. At one point, a student asked how he felt when he was named National Artist. Reply: “It was long overdue!”

Jose asked them straightaway, “Has any of you ever ridden on a carabao?” We all shook our heads — even teacher Maite de la Rosa, me and some parents who came along. I made a mental note to add “carabao joyride” to my increasingly abbreviated but doable bucket list.

He asked, “Have you ever caught fish from rice paddies?” Again a loud “No!”

He told of how he once brought his own city-born children to his hometown in Rosales, Pangasinan. Upon seeing a carabao, one of them exclaimed, “Papa, tignan mo! Ang laki nung baboy!”

It’s almost predictable in a meeting with a more seasoned writer for the fledgling to ask, “How do you deal with writer’s block?”

Jose’s easy answer: “I go to the refrigerator. It happens all the time.”

Before this field trip happened, I asked the students to jot down copious notes on what Jose would say. Among other things he expounded on was why the Philippines remains a young country without an old religion like Buddhism and Hinduism to anchor it, why Filipinos culturally act like Westerners despite their being part of Asia, what literature teaches us, ethics being foremost, and why “writing can’t be learned by listening to old writers like me.”

But listen they did to how literature makes readers understand the past, how it takes them to the future, how it makes them less shallow, how it helps them develop roots in this country, how a wide vocabulary doesn’t make a writer (he/she doesn’t need all of them), how it is better to write with great simplicity and lucidity than trying hard to be “stylish, original” and ending up with an “obtuse experimentation,” how writing is all about industry, persistence, diligence, having a broad vision and most of all, passion.

Based on their notes, the students composed four days after the visit to Jose an imaginative story about a nonagenarian Filipino. Among the stories 22 students handed to me last week were these two.

‘Calling the Kalabaw’

By Ally Villar

Mornings here at Solidaridad Bookshop are calm and quiet. I look out the window. The street is still empty, the sky dark, the sun not fully out yet. But a pale blue tints the sky, assuring me that it is morning already. It has been a night of non-stop writing.

“Chewie!” A shrill voice calls out. I turn my eyes away from the sky. On the street I see a girl is running. She looks odd because she’s running in her pajamas, yelling over and over, “Chewie! Come here, girl! Chewie!”

Suddenly, a dog darts out of the other end of the street, runs towards her and barks happily. The girl bends and opens her arms and take the dog into them, an embrace that says they are reunited.

As I watch the girl and her dog, memories of my youth return. I am running in the field looking for the baby kalabaw. My slippers are twined around my fingers, my loose shorts are about to fall, but I go on running.

I slow down to a stop while trying to catch my breath. I remember my mother teaching me the right way to call a kalabaw home. I find it funny, the sounds my mother made, but I know they will be useful.

I take a deep breath and call the lost kalabaw. I purse my lips the way my mother taught me and go “Ooohwahe, ooohwahe!!!” The wind carries my voice throughout the field.

I’m about to give up when the baby kalabaw trots towards me. I laugh as it pounces on me until my chest hurts. All I can do is laugh now that I know how the kalabaw call works.

There is a knock on the door. I snap out of my reverie.

“Sir Frankie, the children from that school have arrived.”

“I’ll be right out,” I shout from behind the door.

I gaze out the window, hoping to see the girl and her dog again. They have been replaced by pedestrians walking briskly and cars rushing past them.

I put on my black beret and walk out of my room, half hoping that the pajama girl will be out there so I can thank her for the memory.

‘The Old Man and the Students’

By Joan Torres

“Knowledge is not wisdom!” I exclaim as I burst into the room where the literature students are waiting for me. The room is about the size of an auditorium.

I continue, “I see many blank faces today maybe because each of you is like a blank page of a book. Today is a new day, and I assume not everyone is prepared for this class.”

I lean on my desk to await their reactions. “Do you know that literature is the noblest of the arts? Even then, there are many writers there who are conceited, who are very proud of their fluffy works, who are faking it as columnists or commentators in social media. Just because something is beautiful in the eyes of another doesn’t mean it’s a work of art.”

I watch the students. They still are not reacting. I ask them, “Why did you choose this class? Don’t you know that writing is a low-paying job? Writers and authors are not rich people, they’re not supposed to be rich compared to a successful lawyer. Although writers must have passion and integrity, integrity does not pay for breakfast, especially if you have to feed two stomachs.”

I hear giggles being stifled around the room and continue, “Do you want an old man’s take on how to make decisions? Do not make conclusions from comfortable positions! That’s what I tell myself. If you do, your conclusion may not be as it should be. Stay hungry, keep that fire in your belly. Even if people look down on you because writing doesn’t pay much, much is still expected of you — you have to be excellent, you have to be virtuous.”

I see a timid hand go up. The student asks, “Do you know how I can deal with writer’s block?”

I say, “That’s simple. One word: refrigerator. Dealing with writer’s block is as simple as walking towards the refrigerator and getting something to eat.”

I watch that student’s head bob up and down.

I feel a little disappointed and tell them, “You know, my other students are noisier than you.”

I shut my eyes but when I open them, there are no students. I see my wife standing under the doorframe.

She says, “Frankie, honey, wake up. You need to get up. You’re about to meet some high school students today. They’re waiting outside.”