I come home from the office after a hard day’s work. I long for the comfort of my bed, the breeze produced by the electric fan, stories courtesy of television, my brothers’ company, and dinner with my parents. I consider our home my safe zone from all the harsh realities of the battlefield of a young professional, a place where I can be my mere self.
But it’s gloomy when I get home—the spaces filled with vast darkness and packed with extreme quiet. I call out to my mother and tell her I’m home, and then my older brother breaks the news to me: Our power supply has been cut off. I let go a deep sigh. It flashes in my head that I forgot to pay our electricity bill, thus the disconnection.
It’s hard to grope in the dark. And it’s even harder when your mind is filled with random thoughts because of this unpleasant occurrence. My overthinking mode is activated. I am blaming myself for what has happened.
It’s been two years since I got my diploma and I made a promise that I won’t let my family chafe in the chains of poverty. I promised that we won’t be hungry again, that we won’t endure the pain of having none. I told myself I’d make sure that we’ll pay our debts, that other people won’t gossip about us anymore because of our unmet financial obligations to them. I told myself that I’d uplift my family’s standard of living—the dream of every other Filipino who lives within or below the poverty level.
But I find myself also pointing a finger at my parents because they let us get to this situation. I accept as true that they could have done something to find the P1,000 necessary to keep our power supply intact but that they failed to find a way. My parents are in their early 50s, and I think they’re still capable of earning a living, for our living. But I fervently wish that they can take a rest from searching the streets to ensure our simple survival.
My parents are not like those business tycoons who will pass on a factory of milk and honey to their child who completed his college degree. My parents don’t belong to the top 10, top 50, or even top 100. And they don’t own any of the famous business chains in the Philippines. They’re just ordinary people scraping by for petty cash: as in the Noel Cabangon song, “Kayod kabayo, kayod barya/Habol hininga, habol pera,” like many other Filipinos.
And like most Filipino parents, education is the only thing they can give their children.
Furthermore, I am dumping much of my annoyance on my present job situation—or to be precise, job situations. I am an employee of the government, specifically of two government institutions. I am a lecturer in a state university and at the same time a staff member of the province’s Human Resource Management Office.
Why am I working at these jobs? Because I would like to give back and serve the government. And also for the reason that I desire professional growth. But simply put, I need to earn enough to meet my family’s needs. Yes, I need to provide for our bread and butter, but it’s a fact that I am earning barely enough despite my two jobs. I am earning a minimum wage on an hourly basis, sometimes delayed, with no benefits and bonuses, no employee-employer status. I must be a proud civil servant still, like a great number of my countrymen.
I let go another sigh, this time as deep as a trench. Always, the blame must and will be placed on myself. This life that I am living now is my choice. I have had the opportunity to get stable employment in a private institution, but I chose to be where I am right now. I volunteered to live my passion and serve the nation. But I am not well-equipped to enter the battlefield. I didn’t anticipate that the game is as dirty as one can imagine. Indeed, survival of the fittest is the rule of thumb, and unfortunately, I am one of the weaklings.
Perhaps I pursued my passion too soon; perhaps I can serve my homeland in other ways.
I am unsure in this immense darkness, though. It makes me feel uncertain yet determined, terrified but somehow perky, melancholy but still hopeful.
So I cut out all the young-adult stuff. I enjoy my parents’ stories of my and my brothers’ childhood. I laugh out loud at my brothers’ shadow plays. I appreciate the stars, the moon, the cold wind. Most important, I reconnect with the One who can command “Let there be light” in a snap.
Who knows, maybe He’s going to throw me a surprise?
Jeremiah Paul Silvestre, 22, is a lecturer at Tarlac State University.