From Isagani’s long list, I shall draw a few who in their lifetime extended to me acts of kindness, or who left indelible images of themselves in my memory.
Historian Horacio de la Costa, S.J., the towering intellectual whose books were recently published by the Harvard U. Press, once gave a speech at the Ateneo in the course of an academic installation to which alumnae of Harvard U. and Radcliffe College were invited. Although his remarks were of the briefest, they left everyone else’s speech anti-climactic.
A year or two after I had joined the Chronicle, my editor I.P. Soliongco gave a dinner at his house to which he invited Fr. De la Costa, publisher Eugenio Lopez, Jr. ("Geny"), J.V. Cruz and me. Except for Soliongco’s wife Jo, who did not join us at table, I was the only woman in the group. The conversation was so stimulating that it went on past midnight – to the consternation of my straitlaced mother who was waiting for me at home. To my mortification and embarrassment, Fr. De la Costa and J.V. had no car; consequently, they asked if they could ride with me. (Incidentally, I recall sitting beside the driver.)
Although the incident may no longer raise eyebrows these days, it would have looked extremely awkward at the time for all three of us to have been seen cruising toward the Jesuit House in Sta. Ana past midnight!
I met Prof. Ariston Estrada through my brother Sixto, Jr. who was once his student. Concerned about my soul, Prof. Estrada, who was then teaching apologetics and philosophy at DLSC, lent me A Map of Life by F. J. Sheed. The excellent spiritual guide is still with me, the eminent professor having assured me that the book was on permanent loan.
Historian Marcelino Foronda, who likewise taught at DLSC, was hispanista of the first order. I have often wondered why he never received any recognition for this fact from any academic group.
Playwright Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero, after whom a theater in the UP has been named, died a virtual pauper. Yet, he was one of the most prolific of the early dramatists, having written more plays than Montano or Bayot (the other two of the triumvirate) ever did. When I last saw Freddie, he was telling me what a cruel blow life and people had dealt him.
Playwrights Orlando Nadres and Bienvenido Noriega, Jr. and choral conductor-arranger Rey Paguio have enriched the theater and music scenes, respectively. Incidentally, Isagani R. Cruz, who is still very much alive – he heads the humanities and literature department in DLSU – is himself a playwright. By the way, he wrote a history of Philippine theater before he was thirty upon the request of the legendary Cecile G. Alvarez.
Poet Nina Puyat Estrada left us so precipitately; so did fictionists Estrella D. Alfon and Lina Espina Moore, two charming and scintillating Cebuanas.
Actor-director Nick Agudo was a very strong presence in Barangay Theater Guild productions under National Artist Bert Avellana.
I fondly remember certain of my colleagues. When ace lensman Honesto Vitug headed the Chronicle photo department, he was already much admired as the photographer of Philippine presidents. I shall never forget Honesto’s gallantry. One afternoon, he and I were riding in an office jeep for an assignment when it suddenly rained. He quickly shielded me from the rain with his body to keep me from getting soaked.
Manuel "Manny" Pichel was the entertainment editor of the Times which I had joined shortly after EDSA I upon the gracious invitation of the Roces family. Kind, gentle and considerate – a real gentleman of the Old School – Manny treated me with such deference that a number in the profession may appear rather gauche in comparison.
Not in Isagani’s list was Joe Burgos, Jr. who recently passed away. Scores of columnists have each paid him a richly deserved tribute. Indeed, Joe contravenes what the Bard says: "The evil that men do lives after them / The good is oft interrèd with their bones." Joe will always be remembered as a paragon of integrity and unwavering courage, virtues he particularly demonstrated when men of lesser stuff were quavering in their boots.
I always enjoyed my long conversations with Raul Locsin while we were both with the Chronicle. Raul was the son of my parents’ close friends – the tall, dignified Aurelio "Iyo" Locsin, editor of El Civismo in Bacolod, and Soledad Lacson (genteel sister of Mayor Arsenio Lacson), a skilled writer who later translated Rizal’s novels into English.
In every respect, Raul the journalist reflected his parents' refinement, culture, nationalism, solid convictions and principles.
In 1998, I was invited to serve as a member of the jury for the CCP Centennial Awards. While I was in deep conversation with other jury members in a conference room, UP literature professor Nieves A. Epistola arrived. Upon seeing me, she immediately asked in a tone of surprise: "What are you doing here? You should be among the nominees!" Forthwith, Nieves, Felice P. Sta. Maria and others suggested that I submit my curriculum vitae to the board headed by CCP chairman Baltazar Endriga.
Overnight, Nieves had changed my status from that of jury member to that of awardee. At that time, she was hardly more than a nodding acquaintance of mine!