EVANESCENCE

hare’s legs were naturally faster. I didn’t understand what 'own version' really meant before, but I still remember how I kept talking from a meter away, sitting on his bed while he looked at me in the eyes, his glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, lowered just enough to peer over the top. Then he said, 'I’ll answer you once I finish this story.'
Every morning after uncle left for work in the 'bulmilan' or gold milling site that his rich brother owned, to mill his collected gravel in the hope of striking gold, I secretly entered his room and slowly opened the last notebook he used. I was quite familiar with the notebook—thin, the thinnest one that we could just barter with three guavas at Mang Cardo’s store, dark colors on the cover page with Pedro Penduko showing his shiny sword near his head, with the blade going sideways. But it had seen a lot of action. Its cover was worn, with corners that were creased and edges that were frayed. It was like the other notebooks. It had gained weight from its content. But what was that weight really? Seeing uncle sitting on his only stool, always shutting himself in his room, writing and creating stories without minding to eat.

I did touch his notebook because I was curious, even though I already knew what was inside of it—the same boring narratives that every time he read me some, I wouldn't last for five minutes. I read the first part. It said, “August 26, 1987.” It was easy to read because my uncle had good penmanship, but after that, I just flipped through every page to see if there was any picture attached. There was none. I thought, how many more notebooks did he need to fill? His room was small, and his table was already occupied. He didn’t have any cabinet or drawer to put his future works. But that wouldn’t stop him from writing more. He had wanted to build a mini bookshelf where he could place his notebooks.

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That was just a powerful memory of my childhood. I grew up in my grandparents’ house in Pamintaran, one of the barangays in Maragusan, Davao de Oro, with a higher geographical location. I lived there with my Uncle Junjun, who was a bachelor. After his burial, my parents took me with them to Poblacion, the central area of the place, where our house was originally built, because they had already found a nanny who would take care of me when they were out for work. Then, my parents stopped visiting my lolo and lola when my rich uncle accused my father, who also worked there, of stealing half of the money they collectively earned in a month.

It took me eight years; I was in 10th grade at that time, before I got to meet them again, in their new concrete house because the old wooden one was burnt down from the carelessness of my lolo, who forgot to put out the candles that were on the floor after he prayed. For lola, it was a blessing in disguise since they would no longer fear the heavy winds and rain anymore. For me, it was pure sadness because the memories were also burned there, including the notebooks that my uncle had written. It was fortunate enough that one notebook survived. It looked beaten up and almost destroyed. The cover page was torn out, and half of the pages were singed and blackened. It was the only tangible remembrance of my uncle that I was asked to read.

I looked at the notebook and hesitated to open it. I knew that reading it as a child would be different from reading it as someone who has already consumed many stories. Although I hadn’t actually read or understood uncle’s stories before, the prospect of finally comprehending their meaning filled me with fear. What if I didn’t like the stories, especially since my mother had already told me about their lives before? What if uncle was a talented writer whom I had failed to appreciate? What if his stories had something to do with his life? Something that was different, not the typical uncle I saw every day?
In the same 10th grade, my English teacher chose me to represent the school in the Division Short Story Writing Contest. She let me read “Why I Write” by Geroge Orwell. I found the book boring because I wasn’t interested in reading very long essays. But I read it anyway. I have to admit that I didn’t find anything significant in Orwell's novel. That was when my teacher explained that we humans have parts of ourselves that we feel unable to express openly, and it is through writing that we can channel our inner thoughts and struggles. That was one way a writer can write faster during a competition after the prompt or theme is given—by using one’s experiences, especially those that are hidden. It would just continue to flow because writing allows us to be honest, even about things that are hard to talk about. It’s like a place where we can be who we are without pretending, where we can be real without wearing any masks. And the most significant thing when we write, is to have a primary motive to be remembered after death, just like Orwell’s concept of sheer egoism. During the competition, I remembered her words, and I used my own experience, the one that was different from my usual and physical behavior, that instead of being funny and comedic, I wrote something that was odd and vengeful. I figured it was a way to stand out and be remembered. I won third place.

But I never shied away from any books or essays I've read, despite warnings of potentially triggering traumas or narratives based on true stories that could evoke horror in the mind. That was what I was thinking before I finally opened the notebook.
It started with a date, saying “August 26, 1987.” It was the same notebook. The story was about a man named Mar, and all I read was how happy and successful his life was as a teacher until he died in the arms of his old wife. It was just a simple story with a straightforward narrative—Mar finished high school and college, got a permanent job, married a beautiful wife, and had three kids.

Then his own version of ‘The Tortoise and the Hare.’ After the bang of the gun, the race started, and in the end, the hare won, leaving the tortoise behind. This was what I didn’t understand when uncle told me this story. He put another paragraph below that God was being biased for providing the hare fast legs while giving the tortoise a hard shell which made him slower. In the end, the hare celebrated his success while the tortoise hid in his shell.

Then there was another story, it had drawings of a horned man, and I could only read the words separately, not even a sentence because it had a lot of burned marks. Perhaps the story was fiction, a mythical creature, or it was a metaphor for the main character’s wrath and resentments. Either way, I thought the story was something evil.

That was the time I suspected something different because he was too chatty in his notebook. I hadn’t seen him expressing different emotions aside from being quiet before either . Whenever we went to family events like reunions and Christmas gatherings, he was just alone in the corner, reading a magazine or any pocketbook he could borrow. After work, he always shut himself in his room, sat on the stool, and turned inward. He never joined us at the table, not once as far as I could remember, and I could only hear him clinking the dishes and scraping the utensils in the night when everyone was sleeping. 
Then I learned from asking my mother that my uncle used to  be an enthusiastic son. However, everything about him changed when lola forced him to stop continuing to high school; he was just thirteen at that time because he had to work to earn money. He was able to help his siblings, including mother, finish their degrees. Mama added that he was the smartest among the siblings but he was the eldest and should help the family. To say, his name was Marjun. The stories made sense. Uncle was always telling stories that related to his life, whether it was about his actual experiences or the life he wished to lead. It wasn't until I fully understood him that I began to sob. Without his writings in those notebooks, I couldn’t imagine how I would have perceived him. Maybe even now, I would still see him as just my strange, quiet uncle.

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Even though uncle and I never had meaningful conversations where we discussed our lives—never once did he ask about my school day, my time spent with friends, my chores at the church after Mass, my daily activities, my aspirations for the future, or just life in general—our bond was formed there. The kind of bond when he let me read a children's book and only spoke up when I mispronounced a word. When he let me sleep in his bed when lolo and lola weren’t home. When he asked me to clean his room for ten pesos. When he sharpened my pencil using a knife when the lead broke. When he requested me to sing “Gitara” by Parokya ni Edgar to help him fall asleep when he got drunk after drinking alone. And I wanted him to remain just my uncle, not a writer. But he was also a writer.

A writer who writes not just to shut himself in his room to create a narrative, but to discover a second self within him—a more true and authentic self hidden under layers of habits and doubts. If only I could turn back the time, I wouldn’t have read the notebook. The poignant feeling of finally understanding how my uncle wrote his stories lingered with me for years. Worse, I couldn’t see him and hug him tightly to express my empathy for what he’d been through. 

I had already written some stories during my early high school days, inspired by Stephen King's horror books because those were all I had aside from encyclopedias and dictionaries. I imitated the way he wrote, and I can still remember how I turned my dead dog, whom we suspected our neighbor had killed, into a zombie who then bit each member of the accused’s family. That was influenced by one of King’s famous books, “Pet Sematary”—a very western concept indeed. That was my outer self, who simply handled everyday tasks and met expectations. That was me who only wrote for the sake of my grade.

I never experienced shutting myself in my room to write a story about myself, about my life, about my experiences, of my own will. But there were times when my father scolded me out of the blue just because he was drunk, “wala kay pulos!”, and beat me like a ragdoll to vent his frustrations. I would then run into my room, holding my bruises on my face, cry silently, and write down all my resentments on an empty piece of paper. I might look at it with embarrassment afterward, but I didn’t know that was the first part of my writing journey as my true self.

From that point, I frequently shut myself away. I was battered by the hits and strikes that my father deemed "becoming a true man." I felt alone inside my room and continuously asked God why I had to endure such pain. It was with pen and paper that I found the narrative I yearned for. I discovered that I was not actually alone, for I had the words that came before me. I was surrounded by books, some of which I bought and others were gifted. One of them was titled 'The Shining,' a horror novel by Stephen King. I often found solace in the part where the character Danny fled from his abusive father, Jack Torrance, who wielded an ax in pursuit. Somehow, reading this scene stopped my tears; seeing Danny outsmart his father in the snow-covered maze brought me relief. I knew I couldn't replicate such feats, but through words, I crafted scenarios where I dodged my own father's blows—imagining having an eye in the back of my head, having the power to turn back time, or even having an invisible companion as my sidekick who could tell me what would happen every minute from the present time. Sometimes, I even replaced Danny with my name 'Biboy,' transforming him into a fearless child—the kind of behavior I wish I had, someone who stood up to his father instead of running. I just wouldn’t stop writing until I could finally leave my room. It was like I wrote a story as if it was another person’s story, and I read another person’s story as if it was mine.

I believe that writing has its deepest connection with the human experience. We possess the ability to articulate truths that are universally understood but often overlooked in the hustle and bustle of daily life. I began to create worlds from my imagination, drawing from my own experiences, including the pain and vulnerabilities. Some of these creations were sent to be published in our school paper, while others I submitted as my English projects. I did those because by sharing my own wounds and struggles, I am tapping into a collective human experience that others could relate to and comprehend.

But why do I choose to write? This has been a special question asked to writers. Well, I write because I’m hurt. I write because I don’t have the courage to tell what I feel to a person who wounds me. I write because I’m very angry. I write because it makes me happy. I write because I live in a patriarchal society. I write because I see children playing in the street and they remind me of my childhood. I write because I see a tree amidst the flood. I write because I want to share my experiences. I write because I want to be alone. I write because I know I’m not alone.

When I got into the Bachelor of Arts in English program, I thought I could finally write and express some of the feelings I kept inside. In our first Creative Writing class, CW100, our initial task was to write an essay but in a different way. We were asked to split each main point into five different emotions and blend them into one essay. It was hard for me because I didn't know about this kind of essay format. I thought there was only one way—formal and academic, with the usual introduction, body, and conclusion. Then there was the fiction writing in which I thought was to write a literal fiction story like the ones I used to read, with themes such as damsel in distress, superheroes with superpowers, magic and sorcery. I never thought ‘realistic fiction’ existed. Well, I wrote about my own experience, but it was just too mystical—I imagined my grandparents' burned house was caused by a supernatural being casting fire on it. There was also poetry where I mainly focused on finding perfect rhymes and didn't pay attention to other techniques that could make the poem magical or musical as a sea-gull, like alliteration and assonance, as Jose Garcia Villa wrote in his "Lyrics: II.”

I thought to myself, I never wrote these kinds of papers when I shut myself in my room. All I did was write and write until I reached that feeling when I’m confident to leave again. 

Transitioning from the STEM department in senior high school to a new department in college wasn't easy. However, my previous experiences prepared me, so I didn't enter the creative writing program completely unaware. Reading and writing weren't daunting tasks for me, thanks to my background in journalism and short story writing during high school. I had grown accustomed to reading and writing regularly as part of my practice. These habits didn't develop overnight; they stemmed from my upbringing behind closed doors. My father's strict rules kept me indoors, away from the other kids, so my companions were books, newspapers, and magazines—television was not a part of our household either. Even before, during my time at my grandparents' house, I found comfort in my uncle's educational books, which he had forgotten to return to his elementary school. The other children my age lived in the barrio, nearly a kilometer away, making those books my closest companions.

 

During our third year, when memoir was introduced to us, our professor Jhoanna Lynn Cruz said something unforgettable: 'Everything's a memoir.' This statement made me realize the power of our experiences. When we write sincerely, it's inevitable to infuse our own experiences into our work. As we shared and workshopped our papers with peers and professors, I began questioning why there's a need for a degree in creative writing. After all, writing is a skill we all possess; it's something we learn as we shut ourselves in our rooms and put pen to paper. However, I came to understand that while everyone can write, not everyone can write better. Uncle, for example, may have made spelling errors in his stories, but I believe that with a complete education, he could have been a successful author today.

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How I wished my grandparents’ old house hadn’t burned down. There were other notebooks that I wasn’t able to read, and I missed out on reading all of my uncle's stories. What I could remember clearly were the questions I asked my uncle when I was sitting a meter away, on his bed. “Why do you let the hare win?” As far as I could remember, the tortoise won the race.

“Why won’t you let the tortoise win the race?” Well, that was what my mother told me. “Why is the story so short?” If I’m not mistaken, it didn’t end directly.

After he finished writing, he told me something while he cleaned the table. I couldn’t remember the exact words, but he was saying something that the road towards the finish line for the hare and the tortoise was the same and it was impossible for the tortoise to win, but he could still finish the race if he chose to, or not and instead hid in his shell and just imagined if he won the race, or he could rant his sentiments about how unfair life was. It was then I understood when I read his notebook. I knew it was not a life-lesson story, but through that, I was able to read his feelings that he couldn't physically express, and I knew that I also have something in me that I’m only comfortable sharing through writing.

Uncle Junjun died on September 16, 2010. His last notebook, his only tangible memory, became a revelation for me. Through it, I discovered how writing from genuine emotions and personal experiences holds immense importance. It unveiled the true writer within me. If I had one wish, I'd want to talk to him and express my gratitude for being blessed with such a wonderful uncle.