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| Sunstar Davao's former newsroom |
I guess my career in writing began at the very early age of
two, when I learned to use my right forefinger to write in the muddy front yard
of our house during rainy days, and drawing figures in the dust despite the
constant sermon of our babysitter. I thought I was going to be an artist then,
judging from the complicated abstract figures I always drew but reality hit me
full force in Grade one when we were told to draw our seatmate. My seatmate looked
like a fat louse in my drawing, and she did not talk to me again until I moved
to another school in third grade.
Frustrated with my elder sister who turned out to be
left-handed, my mother decided to make it up to me and spent more time teaching
me to trace lines and curves ever so patiently, with my right hand.
I guess I learned fast because after that, I think my mother
regretted teaching me how to write, and that’s when I became a full-pledged
writer. I wrote on walls, tables, chairs, and wallpapers, and everywhere,
particularly on areas that are resistant to soap suds or chlorine solutions.
After a few months of writing, I decided I had enough and
stopped. That's when I entered first grade, just when I was required to write. Long story but to
make it short, where are we again?
Oh, my career in writing industry was not handed down to me on
a platter. Neither did I sweat and labor in college to get a journalism degree.
I know I love to write but that’s it. That ‘love’ stopped the time I was
ordered to go out and gather news and write four of them and submit them before
the deadline day after day.
But seriously now, I never envisioned myself to become a
reporter for a daily newspaper covering politics, court drama and the
action-filled police beat. I dreamed of writing but it’s more of feature
stories where I am my own boss, write at my own leisurely pace and time, travel
and eat and get paid to write. Nice life, huh?
It all started with a
deadline
The moment I got out of college I got employed right away—by
myself. I was happy and earning good in the marketing world, never knowing what
it is to quake and run when a boss gets cranky, until one afternoon 10 years
ago when I saw a newspaper Ad announcing the need for a reporter.
It was almost 4pm on the deadline day, and I had barely an hour
to make a resume and get to the newspaper office at the other end of Davao City
two rides away, just when traffic starts to get heavy. It was a challenge I couldn’t
let pass and I decided to try my luck, more of beating the deadline than
actually thinking about the job.
At exactly 4:58 pm, two minutes before the deadline, I
pushed open the doors of Sunstar Davao and submitted my papers to a woman who
was sitting on top of the table nearest the door. Everyone was waiting for the
two minutes to time out and leave work.
The woman briefly scanned my application and asked if I had any experience. When I shook my head, she said
nonchalantly “we’ll just call you”.
I told her I had no cellphone and no landline either. I just
put the location of a food stall at the bus terminal as my contact point, if
ever.
“We’ll just send you a telegram,” she said in a tone that
dismissed me as she tucked my papers in her desk and got her bag. Experience was
obviously important, and she was clearly not impressed with my application.
Haha and good luck, as if telegrams still exist. I bit my
lip to stop telling her RCPI and PT&T telegraph companies had closed shop
years ago. I learned later that Miss Olive, that woman, was the general manager
of Sunstar Davao.
I forgot about it all until one day two weeks later at the
Ecoland Bus Terminal when I waiting to board a bus for Cotabato City. A man with
a big camera slung on his neck and a vest most photographers wear was staring
at me. He looked at the papers in his hand, looked at me and back to the
papers. I was getting alarmed when he hesitantly called my name and asked if he
can talk to me for a moment.
Truly alarmed now, I glanced at the papers in his hand and
blanched when I saw my photo. I grew up in a small town where bombings and gunshots
and people getting shot and killed are considered normal, but when a stranger
stares at me and my photo was in his hand, it’s a different story.
Then I remembered that application letter.
The photographer which I knew later as Kuya Seth told me to
report to the office to take the entrance exam, and said I must have had a very
impressive resume as it was the first time the office asked anyone to search
for someone at a very busy terminal, one who doesn’t even have a cellphone.
The Exam
Needless to say I showed up for the exam and met three other
applicants, all with journalism degrees and with the ‘right connections.’ I
only had three units of Journalism, three units of Creative Writing and no
connections. I also learned that of all the applicants, 12 of us were called
for the exam and they need only four.
Reality sure slaps hard.
The others were from Davao City and had published some
stories in the newspapers for their requirements.
I stared at the questions and the sheets of yellow paper
supplied for our answers.
And suddenly I wanted to start laughing. The questions covered local and national politics. What do I
know? I always read the lifestyle pages first and the headlines one week later.
Name at least 30 elected and appointed officials of Davao City. Again how was I
to know? I even get lost in the streets. Senators? I remembered only 12 of the
24. What’s my opinion on the pressing issues like the mining at
Mt. Diwata? Nothing, except that everyone in my family has visited the place,
except me.
Anyway I did not submit a totally blank answer sheet. I
scribbled an unsolicited essay at the bottom, explaining the blank pages and
being honest about being not familiar with Davao City, and how I could have
copied from the others if I wanted to.
We were told to wait for their call. If they call, that
means we passed the written test and had to report for the interview. I waited and waited for the call, forgetting I had no cellphone, no landline, no nothing. I also only check emails every two
weeks or so. Then I remembered I was told to call and check.
Which I did a week later,
although I knew I would never pass that test. Miraculously, Donna, the newsroom
admin assistant scheduled for an interview right away.
No longer funny, oh i mean it's funny!
I was wearing my usual denim jeans with slits and holes in
the legs, an over-sized t-shirt with huge cartoon prints all over, and open-toed sandals. I was not going to
spend even a cross-eyed peso to shop for clothes or have a makeover just for an
interview for a job I was not even serious about in the first place.
A friend lent me a presentable blouse and I refused the
jeans, telling her that if I won’t pass the interview just because of my denim
jeans, so be it.
I was told to wait for the publisher, a “Sir Tony” to
interview me. It was my first job interview and I was nervous, expecting to
face a dignified looking man in a coat and tie on a swivel chair. Taking a deep breath, I I entered the conference room and found a shirtless man in
shorts with a towel slung on his shoulders, shampoo and soap dish in his hand. Sir
Tony was obviously on his way to the bathroom and stopped by to interview me.
He had a room at the office, I learned later. Sir Tony bluntly told me I don’t
know how to write a news story at all but he is willing to give me two weeks try
out as a paid apprentice.
I never found out why he hired me, but I bet that unsolicited essay in
my exam must have made some impact.
Anyways, I am still laughing.
*Watch out for my
real first day of work as a reporter, and how I quit on the second day.
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